Page 99 of Rider Daddies
“Face the music—your life is already down the drain.”
Not so cocky now.
Ash looks at me with venom in his eyes. Instead of trying to win the argument, he goes in for a cold, hard punch that knocks me straight to the ground.
There’s no way he’s winning this…
I try to stand myself back up but the pain is too great, throbbing. I take my hand away from the bridge of my nose where it hurts the most, and see blood.
Like, a lot.
I yell, because I’m pretty sure he’s just broken my nose.
Looking up, I see him standing over me. If I wasn’t looking at him for this length of time, I’d miss the micro expression of guilt that flashes across his eyes for a millisecond.
Instead of helping me up and taking me to the emergency room, he does what all kind, caring, nurturing big brothers do—he walks away.
And despite the pain, I burst into laughter. He got violent, which means I got into his head…
Which, in turn, means that I won.
“…Ryder?”
I unpinch my nose and turn to see Ash, Saint, and Lucia all looking at me. Their stares suggests that they’ve been anticipating my response for some time.
“What?” I reach for my mug of coffee.
“Do you think it’s worthwhile to kill Tristan?”
It’s a simple question, but it tugs at my brain.
We lose Lucia or the clubhouse. Which one hurts the most?
Answer—the first.
I wish I fucking knew why.
When you do a lot of the same thing, you become indifferent to the activity. Ash’s hobby was drinking on the couch—mine was fucking. For my entire fucking forty years of living, no strings were ever attached. It grew to become the only thing I excelled in—being an emotionless fucker who always got my desires satisfied.
I was never the guy who went to sleep dwelling on girls and relationships, unless it involved me imagining taking off their clothes.
But now I go to sleep at night, haunted by the picture of Lucia’s beautiful smile.
It’s the complete opposite of sex.
And I wish I fucking knew why.
I know that all three of us have claimed her, but it doesn’t help that Ash and Saint feel the same way toward what should rightfully be mine.
I turn to Lucia and study her pretty Italian face. Something unfamiliar twangs in my chest when I think about her being returned to Tristan.
He coaxed her into a relationship once…
I’m sure his master-manipulating mind will find a way to control her again.
“I think it’s worthwhile, yes,” I say. “We need to kill Tristan.”
“And the evidence?” Saint asks, cigarette back between his pursed lips. “What do we do when evidence of his death all points toward the clubhouse?”
