Page 2 of Edge (Redline Kings MC #4)
EDGE
S he froze in front of me, big eyes staring up like she wasn’t sure if she should bolt or beg for forgiveness. And fuck me, the sight hit harder than any high-speed crash I’d ever taken.
Heat shot through my veins so fast it left me reeling.
My cock was already hard, straining against my jeans like it had been waiting for her all my life.
Images slammed through my head uninvited—her sprawled beneath me on tangled sheets, her pretty mouth wrapped around me, her hips grinding down as she rode me raw.
A filthy reel of possibilities my brain hadn’t played in years.
Because there’d been no desire for it. Not really. Not since the club and the races consumed everything. I didn’t have any interest in a one-night stand, and there hadn’t been a woman who’d made me consider more than that. Until her.
She was gorgeous in the kind of way that made the air shift around her.
Young—twenty, maybe—but with a face that looked like it had been drawn with care.
Bow-shaped lips, pink and lush, made to be kissed until swollen.
Nose upturned just enough to give her that celestial innocence, the kind that begged to be ruined.
Her brown hair was mussed from the fall, strands curling around her lightly tanned face.
And her eyes—fuck—Prussian blue, sharp and startling, like they could cut me in half if I stared too long.
She was average height and average weight—except nothing was average about her. Every line, every freckle, every inch pulled at me with the force of a damn riptide.
And her scent. I caught it before she spoke, soft and clean but with something sweet underneath, like sunshine layered over sin. A contradiction that made sense in my bones. That crash hadn’t been an accident. It was fate doing me a favor.
She swallowed hard, her lips parting. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, voice husky on the edges.
“I didn’t see the raccoon until it was too late, then the bag slid, and—” Her gaze cut to the Harley, then back to me, panic and mortification wrestling behind those blue eyes.
“Please don’t be mad. I’ll figure out a way to pay for whatever?—”
The apology spilled out of her awkward and fast, like she expected me to roar and break her in half for scuffing chrome. But instead of anger, something else clawed up my chest. Something wicked. And hungry.
I leaned one palm on the handlebar of my bike and bent closer, letting the grin come slow and wicked because it made her breath catch.
“Mad? Baby, if I knew crashing into me would put you on your knees, I’d have parked here sooner.
” I tipped my head toward the café door.
“You want to make it right, buy me a coffee.”
Her eyelashes fluttered. “A coffee?”
“Hot. Strong.” I let my gaze skate over her mouth and back up. “Black. Like my sense of humor.”
The laugh escaped her before she could strangle it. “I can do coffee.”
She gathered the strap of that overstuffed tote and nodded toward the door, then glanced back at her mangled bike.
My smile turned crooked. “Wouldn’t worry about it, baby. Doubt anyone is gonna run off with your ride.”
A soft sigh escaped her pretty lips, and her shoulders drooped. It caused a burning in my chest that I didn’t like. I’d have to figure out a way to fix this shit for her.
Inside, The Drift Café wrapped itself around us: old wood floors scarred with years of boots and boardwalk sand, chalkboard menu scribbled in white, the hiss of the steamer and the soft chime of plates.
A couple of customers lounged on stools at the counter.
One of my brothers, Jax—broad-shouldered, tattooed, blond hair shoved under a backward ball cap, and black-rimmed glasses that somehow made him look more dangerous—lifted his chin when he clocked me, then did a double take at the girl at my side.
“We’ll sit over there.” I steered us toward a small two-top by the window, hooking a chair out with my boot and holding it for her. She hesitated, then sat, fingers smoothing her shirt as if her hands needed something to do or they might give away how rattled she was.
Too late, baby. My cock twitched at the sight of her pink cheeks and trembling fingers. I fucking loved knowing I was affecting her because she was certainly knocking me off my feet—metaphorically.
“What’s your poison?” I asked.
“Latte.” Then she added, “With cinnamon. And, uh…two sugars.”
“Simple,” I said, although nothing about her could be described that way.
I went to the counter and ordered. Jax was studying me with a speculative eye, then he glanced past me and broke into a grin I ignored.
Rea, the server, slid the drinks across the counter a minute later—mine black and mean, my girl’s crowned with foam dusted in cinnamon like the top of a snickerdoodle.
When I set it in front of her, she touched the warm mug and smiled. “Thank you. Although I suppose I should’ve been the one to pay.”
I waved off her comment as I dropped into the chair opposite and stretched my legs out until my boot brushed her sandal. I didn’t move it. “Tell me your name.”
She blinked, as though she’d forgotten I didn’t know it. “Callie.”
“Edge,” I returned.
“Is that your real name?” She tilted her head, eyes curious now, less wary.
“It’s the one that matters.” That was true for almost everyone, and since I didn’t know Callie, it should have been the same. But for some reason, telling her to call me by my MC road name didn’t sit well with me, and I wasn’t sure what that meant.
She considered that, then took a sip of her drink. Foam kissed her upper lip, and my hand twitched with the need to touch her. Then she swiped it clean with her tongue, and the urge got worse.
“So, Edge,” she said, with a small smile, “do you always shake down innocent cyclists for coffee after they…uh…murder your motorcycle with their bike?”
“My bike’s fine. Your tote got the worst of it. Paperback assault is a serious crime, though. We might have to take you in.”
Her eyebrows jumped. “To where?”
I let the grin tilt. “Jail’s full. I’ll have to make do with dinner sometime.”
Callie stared at me over the rim of her mug like she wasn’t sure whether I’d just made a joke or a promise. “You move fast.”
“Only when it counts.”
“What if I say I don’t go to dinner with strangers who could bench-press me?”
I winked. “Then we can skip dinner, and you can watch me bench-press you.”
Her mouth parted for a second, then a laugh broke free, surprised and bright. She tried to squelch it with a sip, but the sound stayed, humming between us like the afterglow from the rumble of a perfectly tuned engine. She set the mug down, tracing the handle with a fingertip.
“You're new to Crossbend.”
It wasn’t a question. She gave herself away with how she watched the room, as though the town was a puzzle she was learning to solve. Plus, there wasn’t anything that happened—or any people who moved into or even passed through this area—without the Redline Kings knowing about it.
“Yeah, I’ve only been here a couple of weeks,” she admitted. “I moved here to work with my aunt at Bookshell Cove. She owns it.”
I mentally grinned, thinking about the owner, Gloria Landry. She was in her fifties, half my size, and looked a fuck of a lot less intimidating. But from the moment she’d met my brother, Kane, and me she’d treated us like she’d raised us.
For a moment, I wondered if she’d object to her obviously innocent and sweet niece being pursued by me. However, the moment didn’t last because I was used to going after what I wanted, and I’d never had much of a conscience. Probably why I sometimes straddled the line between crazy and sane.
“Explains the paperbacks,” I teased. “The elbow grease too. Your palms okay?”
I reached across the table, catching one of her hands gently. A shallow scrape reddened the heel. No blood, but I was sure it stung like hell.
“It’s nothing.” She tried to pull back, but I didn’t let her. I turned her wrist, my thumb skimming over the tender skin at the base. Her pulse jumped, and mine did the same.
“You always downplay pain?” I asked with a crooked smile.
“You always interrogate girls you barely know?” Her snippy tone was fucking adorable.
“Only the ones who crash into my Harley and then offer to bribe me with a latte.”
Her mouth dropped open. “The coffee was your idea!”
“Fair enough.” I laughed as I slowly released her hand, feeling the reluctance in my fingers as they slid against her soft skin. In an effort to distract myself before I hauled her onto my lap and kissed her, I changed the subject. “You like it here?”
Her gaze slid to the window to stare at the blue dusk, a slice of moon, and the café sign reflected backward.
“It feels like…if I breathe deep enough, maybe I won’t hear my parents lecturing me.” She wrinkled her nose. “That sounds terrible. They’re not awful. I love them. It’s just…they had plans for me that weren’t mine.”
I sipped my coffee and let the silence sit a beat. “Doing what you want isn’t a crime.”
“Tell that to my mom.” She smiled faintly, then glanced at my cut, as if noticing it for the first time. The Redline Kings rocker caught the light. “You’re with the motorcycle club that practically owns this town.”
I couldn’t read her tone.
“Vice president,” I replied, studying her reaction.
She didn’t flinch or freeze. But there was tension in her shoulders as she reached for a sugar packet, tore it open, and tipped the grains into the foam with a focus that told me her hands still wanted something to do. I was pleased that she hadn’t bolted. Brave little thing.
“Thank you for not yelling at me in the street,” she finally murmured.
“You were already punishing yourself.” I shrugged. “Didn’t look like you needed my help.”