Page 27 of Rider Daddies (Venom Vultures MC #6)

LUCIA

I bring a steaming cup of coffee to my lips, taking a sip. I see now why technology here is so limited. Who needs to binge their favorite box sets and watch TV in the morning when the sunrises look like this ?

I lean over the veranda, wrists resting on the ledge.

To sum up yesterday in only one word would be like trying to explain death to the living.

One minute you’re killing a man. The next you’re orgasming into the night.

Three. Fucking. Times.

Did I get what I came for?

Yes.

A good rebound is all I wanted. Everybody knows that rebounding is one of the many stages of heartbreak.

But do I feel heartbroken?

No.

I went through a breakup at sixteen years old when I first moved to California. The relationship lasted four months and I was in agony. Like, unable to walk up the stairs because my heart felt so heavy.

This feels like a rebirth. I was sore when I woke up, but I rose with a spring in my step. The air this morning smells extra fragrant, and that was before I had my morning coffee.

You’re supposed to regret a rebound the second after it happens. Last night, I went to bed in high spirits like the cat that got the cream—literally.

And…maybe I even got more.

The brothers didn’t have to put their awkwardness aside and tuck me into bed last night, but they did it anyway.

The only thing about all of this that hurts like a bitch is the red-raw tattoo on my ass cheek.

My pinging phone disrupts me from my thoughts.

Mother dearest.

Mamma: When will you be home?

It’s a repeat of the message she sent last night.

I stare at the screen, irritating my already very ruined lips by chewing on them.

Home. What is that supposed to mean? For a while, I considered Italy home, until I realized there was nobody in the country that I wanted to see.

At seventeen years old, I made peace with calling California home. I had my so-called best friend, Willow. I had Tristan.

Mamma is the only one left in the state that I care about.

To make this even more of a mindfuck, if I left the desert today , I’d be sad. My logic is: Why end a good thing when it’s just beginning?

And if that’s not a big enough reason, I also have blood on my hands.

I should be scrubbing my hands screaming, Out, damned spot! like a modern Lady Macbeth. Instead, I’m basking in the morning sun like a cat and drinking coffee at my own leisure.

I’m a murderer, but I see my actions as justifiable.

Perverted sex traffickers deserve death.

Manual should be thanking me that I thrust that knife into his chest and killed him in an instant.

I could’ve gone all in and made him repent for his sins in other terrible ways…

which is what the brothers would’ve done if they got there first.

If I catch Tristan, I’ll be sure to get more creative with the knife.

The next sip of coffee turns sour on my tongue.

Where the fuck is he? His absence is taunting me, not breaking my heart the way it’s supposed to.

For coaxing me into a relationship and almost a marriage, I’ll chop up his body one limb at a time and make him watch as I send each part through the mincer.

But the chances of that happening are very slim.

Has he gone back to California? To the law firm?

Is he telling all of my ex-colleagues that I killed a guy, making sure to leave out the sex ring part?

I study the sunrise as if it’s gonna magically answer all of my questions. In the motel, Tristan found it hilarious that I thought our relationship was formed because of the sex trafficking.

He was saying it in a way that made it sound like it wasn’t about the sex trafficking.

But what else could it have been about?

Love?

Pfft. Next question. I don’t exactly have much experience in that department, but there’s nothing romantic about forcing somebody into marriage.

Whatever twisted motives that boy has, I can guarantee they didn’t end when Manual’s life did. If he can spend a full year manipulating me into a relationship, the bastado can do anything.

Which leads me to think: What if Manual was never the biggest threat?

I turn back to my phone and reread the message from Mamma, imagining her Sicilian lilt.

Me: I’m not sure yet. I’m at a desert retreat having the time of my life.

“Time of your life?!” comes a voice from behind me.

I tuck the phone away, snapping around to look at Ash. “That’s rude.”

“Leave the premises if you want to send a text message without somebody looking over your shoulder.” He looks back down to where the phone was. “But judging from that message, you don’t want to leave.”

Ash’s eyes are a new kind of blue today, shining in the morning light like two sapphires.

That face, oh my god.

His eye contact is even stronger in the bedroom.

Now that we’ve broken the tension, I’m seeing him in a different light. I know him more.

Last night, his weathered hands were on a voyage around my body, exploring every inch of my skin. I felt small, but in a good way. Protected.

That’s the funny thing about sleeping with vigilantes—they make you feel at ease. As long as you’re on the right side of them, you can count on them to protect you.

I step toward him. The sunrise is so yesterday. Now, my attention is on Ash. More specifically, his abs. I see bronzed ripples of muscle peaking through the gown that he hasn’t even bothered to fasten around his waist.

I’m sure he’s done that on purpose, the same way I didn’t wear a bra this morning.

I saw the desperation on their faces last night the second my breasts were on display. All six eyes were on my hard nipples.

I lick my lips, tasting remnants of last night.

The fire feels just as hot as it was last night…maybe even hotter now that I know what Ash and his two Magic Mike brothers are capable of doing in the bedroom.

“How’s your tattoo?”

“It hurts,” I say. “But in a good kind of way.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Fuck me. This man could call me a bitch and I’d still be desperate to take off his clothes.

The spark is supposed to disappear the next day. Why is it stronger?

“Have you all made up?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Ash directs his answer at my breasts. “We haven’t really spoken…about…” He trails off. He tips his head to the sky and thinks.

I was holding on to consciousness by only a thread last night, but I still know what I saw. Their brotherly feud dissipated the second Saint entered me.

Ryder and Ash were flabbergasted.

Tristan could’ve attacked and they wouldn’t have noticed.

I saw the look in their eyes…

Saw the big deals in their pants…

They were watching Saint fuck me the same way you’d expect a test subject to watch their hypnotist. Nothing else in the world mattered.

Ash takes his eyes from the heavens and does something a hookup isn’t licensed to do. He puts his arm around my waist.

My initial reaction is to flinch and move away, but it feels oddly comforting.

It’s something Tristan used to do a lot. If there was an opportunity to hold my hand or snake an arm around me, he took it.

The gesture is exactly the same.

But the feeling is entirely different.

Bar work is kind of amazing.

And I’m not just saying that because my boss has electric-blue eyes and the body of a Roman gladiator. I say it because it’s easy and fun, and doesn’t require you to have a “work voice” that you must use for nine hours a day in order to be taken seriously.

I wear push-up bras and teeny denim shorts, and have never been more respected in my life. I think that has something to do with being claimed by the head chiefs of fun, but I’ll take what I can get.

I’m slower on the tequila tonight, given that it caused me to word-vomit my entire life’s story to my three claimers yesterday.

I still don’t know if I can trust them…

But I don’t really care. They took sexual gratification to a whole new level last night. The tattoo on my ass is sore, my pussy wrecked, but it was all worth it.

And I’d do it all over again.

That’s if the brothers can overcome their complex egos and sort out their differences.

Reality must’ve hit them like a truck today.

I sling the towel over my shoulder and lean over the bar, watching them. None of them are working, as usual. Tonight, the fine lines around their brows are deeper than normal. There’s also been a lot of finger-pointing and whispered angst.

And it’s making me hot.

The kind of hot that makes me want to take off my clothes and jump into bed.

I swallow the feeling before it gets the better of me and get back to work, serving drinks to bikers waiting to be served.

Underneath all of the sexual attraction and hot flushes, there’s a stubborn ache in my stomach that won’t vanish. And it’s becoming harder to ignore. I can indulge in kinky biker fetishes until my heart’s content, but all I’m doing is placing a Band-Aid over the bigger problem.

Tristan.

My life could be on the line.

I can’t go back home to California. It could be suicide. Tristan might be waiting to throw me into another trafficking ring.

I set down the glass in my hand before I end up smashing it to pieces.

I should’ve killed Tristan as well as Manual. He’s still out there like a spider, waiting for somebody to walk into one of his webs. He’s a practicing lawyer. He has all of my personal information.

And he knows that I murdered his valued business partner…or whatever fucked-up alliance the two of them had.

This could be bad.

I’m not just at the clubhouse for a good time anymore.

What if I’m here for a long time?

What if staying here is my only choice, and I never get to see Mamma again?

My throat feels like it’s closing up. I tug on my neck, trying to open up the airways, but it only makes the claustrophobia worse.

I abandon the bar, taking the busy evening to my advantage to sneak outside. The cold air hits my skin in an instant, but it’s not enough to erase the anxious thoughts.

I fucking killed somebody.

And I enjoyed it.