Page 1 of Bad News Babe

WEST “FLASH” MERCER, AKA THE HOTTER BROTHER

The only girl to evertruly wind me up was a foxy redhead I saw five years ago on Main Street in my hometown of Tumbling Rock.

I’d been riding around on my newer hog in between running errands for the Rawkfist Motorcycle Club. Back then, I was a prospect still proving my testicular fortitude. I only supervised the legal side of our business.

As a kid, I always figured getting patched into the club would involve me simply showing up. My uncle—Court “Boy Scout” Bayer—is the president. My uncle—Donovan “Bacon” Mooney—is the vice president. My pa—Emmett “Twinkie” Mercer—is the sergeant-at-arms. My peepaw—Jared “Stache” Sheerer—is a founding member. Plus, I’m a big guy with mad fighting skills and a willingness to break shit on people who wrong the club. Why wouldn’t they want me as part of the next generation of Tumbling Rock bikers?

“Earn shit or eat shit,” Pa-Emmett told me back then.

“Well, I’m not eating my own turds, man. That’s just dumb.”

My ma—a luminous blonde named Poppy who wields so much snark she sometimes rolls her eyes derisively at her own heartful comments—was totally on my side regarding my easy entry into the club.

“Just let West have whatever he wants. Hasn’t our firstborn suffered enough by living in your impressive shadow, Emmett?”

“No,” he said and smacked her ass.

Ma shoved him instantly, leading me to drop everything and race out of the room to avoid witnessing how babies are made.

So, I had to work my way into the club like a common chump. Prospect errands were what I was up to when I spotted the gloriously beautiful redhead standing at the street corner.

I’ll always remember how she wore an orange-white-and-black striped tank top, faded denim shorts, and flip-flops. Despite a straw cowboy hat protecting her fair skin from the summer sun, her cheeks were bright pink. When I rolled up to the smoking-hot babe, I couldn’t tell the color of her eyes since she was wearing black plastic sunglasses.

“I’m West Mercer,” I told her and flashed my best smile.

Women normally get sticky sweet for me. I’m built big and intimidating like my dad but inherited my mama’s pretty blond hair and blue eyes. Shit, I’ve been wooing girls since the first day of kindergarten. In high school, I never suffered a lonely weekend. Not once did I settle for a girlfriend when I could instead date everyone else’s.

I fully expected the redheaded goddess to swoon. Hell, I assumed her knees would buckle, forcing me to sweep her into my arms and ride off into the sunset. She was too beautiful to belong to anyone else. I’d honest-to-goodness found my dream girl!

Rather than drop to her knees and thank the universe for bringing us together, she muttered, “I don’t care.”

“About what?” I asked, still smiling in a way even old women get lightheaded over.

“About your name.”

“You oughta.”

Fishing around in her rainbow-mesh bag, she grumbled, “But I don’t.”

“Well, don’t you worry. I’ve got other qualities besides knowing my name.”

“I don’t care about them, either.”

“Are you of the girl-on-girl variety?”

“No, I like men,” she said, lifting her gaze to watch me from behind her sunglasses. “But not your type, so ride away, beefcake bitch. Find a woman worthy of your Hollywood smile and Playgirl body. I’ll have none of it.”

Time stood still as I sat on my hog and watched her waiting for someone. I’d never been shot down before. Didn’t even get told no by that pregnant woman who wasn’t showing yet but was on her way to the altar. Yeah, even she thought I was worth a ride.

“Wait, babe, what’s your name?” I asked, regaining my Mercer mojo. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Don’t bring our feet into this,” she griped and shoved her hands into her back pockets, making her sweet tits more impressive. “Now, buzz off.”

“No, but—” I mumbled, unsure how to handle her rejection.

“But what?”

“But I want to know your name.”

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