Page 32 of Rider Daddies (Venom Vultures MC #6)

LUCIA

It feels like I’ve been living in limbo today.

Tristan will strike and I know it’s going to be bad.

Even though I want to, I know I shouldn’t underestimate a scrawny man in a suit, because when they wear a three-piece suit every day without fail, you know they mean business.

The CEO of the law firm didn’t appoint Tristan as senior management out of kindness. Tristan earned his place at the top. He works until he gets what he wants. Whether he’s doing it to earn more money or to feed his obsessive-stalker desires, he’s winning.

But not tonight.

Ryder, Ash, and Saint are twice his age. That puts him at a disadvantage. Physically, there’s no way he can win.

But superficiality always gets the better of everything.

Ash is right. Fake reality rules the world. All Tristan has to do is open his mouth to other deranged sinners like him, in order to save himself.

Physical advantage is nothing as long as law and order exists.

I take the cloth from my shoulder and wipe the bar clean, taking advantage of the empty bar to unpack my thoughts.

At the moment, there are so many that I don’t even see the point in thinking. All I want is for this to be over. For Tristan to experience loss for the first time in his life, and crumble.

I watch the clubhouse, my gaze bouncing from table to table.

From silver fox to silver fox.

I know I’m in good hands, but at the end of the day, the majority of the bikers here are all for themselves.

If the brothers and I told them that Tristan was returning to take me, they’d be in favor of handing me over.

I don’t have to read the code of conduct to know that protecting the club is their number one priority.

I catch Ryder looking stiff at the door…which is a first. He’s nervous about tonight. They all seem that way.

It’s endearing.

These men don’t stall in the face of death, but they can’t stop fidgeting tonight.

Saint stands behind the decks with a hard face, his back rigid between his shoulder blades. The music is playing quietly, the lyrics inaudible, but I know the tune. The chord progression of “Born to Be Wild” is so unique that I could pick it up from anywhere.

I take a breath to stabilize myself.

Tell me why the smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and alcohol feels like home? My body feels like it’s at peace.

Papa’s side of the family came from generational wealth, so our home back in Italy was dripping in luxury.

Each room was perfumed with organic fragrances that were supposed to help us “relax.” I slept under Egyptian cotton sheets every night, and when I wasn’t at boarding school, I spent the weekends in front of a giant flat-screen TV, laid out on a couch that felt like it was made from clouds and feathers.

Everything was about comfort.

But nothing compares to the Venom Vultures clubhouse.

I catch Ash collecting empty glasses. My heart stings. What if this is the last time I look over the bar and see their gorgeous faces?

They’ve made me feel more in two weeks than Tristan ever did in a year.

Stealing his Corvette, which—by the way—is still parked up outside of the clubhouse, was the best rash decision I’ve ever made.

“A pint, please,” says a female voice.

I expect to see a clubhouse whore wearing the same teeny denim shorts as me since it appears to be the uniform here.

Wrong.

“Oh my god, Willow?”

I hate myself for sounding so shell-shocked.

This bitch doesn’t deserve to catch me off guard. I don’t care if she did me the biggest favor on earth—she still did it behind my back.

I drop my voice an octave. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Willow doesn’t look pissed or sad. In fact, she doesn’t look anything. She stares at me with indifference.

And that only gets under my skin more.

It’s strange to see her like this. Her hair is always down, burned to a crisp by the same pair of straighteners she’s owned since Sophomore year.

It looks like she finally decided to ditch them.

“Now I see why you wear your hair down. It makes you look less like a boy.”

That might’ve been harsh, but I don’t take best friend betrayal lightly.

“I see you managed to scrub the dirt off your face,” I add.

Still no response.

I lean over the bar, arms crossed.

Did the guilt burn her vocal cords?

I sigh. “What are you doing here, Willow? Did Tristan drop you off?”

“We’re not together,” she says in the most plain-Jane voice ever.

Willow has never been a relationship kind of girl, so I didn’t expect her to announce exclusivity with Tristan.

Looking back, though, I should’ve expected the betrayal.

Willow liked to borrow my clothes and jewelry, so it doesn’t really surprise me that she “borrowed” my man too.

I can abstain from getting physical with her about that again, but if she intends to slide her tongue down one of the brothers’ throats, I might have to pay a visit to the ammo room.

“Anytime now would be great, Will.” I tilt my head. “What are you doing here? If you’re looking to steal something else of mine, I wish you good luck. The boys here are on the defense more times a day than you can pee.”

“I’m not here to steal your clothes.”

God, she’s not biting at all.

Which is unlike her.

The main reason Willow and I became best friends in the first place was because we were both hot-headed fire signs with big mouths.

There’s only been two occasions when I have seen this girl mute.

The first: At my wedding.

The second: Now.

I extend my vision to Ryder and see him give me a nod.

English? Please? Someone?

Why has he let her in?

I look back at my ex best friend and see a tear slip from her eye.

I want to believe that it’s the guilt getting the best of her again, but the amount of tears that are soon falling down her cheeks has me thinking otherwise.

This seems more life-threatening than guilt.

“Willow? What’s the matter?”

The snapping of fingers has my attention at the door again. Ryder gives me a firm look, the kind of look that would have me wet through my panties if it wasn’t for Willow sobbing her rotten heart out in front of me.

A shadow enters the door, its body stepping in seconds later.

Tristan.

Oh, so we’re doing this now?

Also, if Tristan brought Willow here to play with me, he can get lost.

The chattering in the clubhouse starts to fade, domino-effect style. Heads turn one after the other until Tristan and Weeping Willow are the center of attention.

“We need to take this outside,” I hear Saint say to Ash as he steps toward the door. “We don’t need to do this here.”

This might be the first time in history that Ash has taken advice from somebody younger than him.

He thinks about it for a moment, and then nods his head, walking toward the front door.

“It’s okay, gentlemen, this isn’t anything to worry about.

We’ll take this outside and let you enjoy the rest of your evening. ”

I watch Willow’s face, trying to work out if she’s giving us the old crocodile tears. It’d be easier if she was, but it’s not in her character to fake.

She scored an F in drama for a reason.

“Come on,” I say, yanking on her shoulder to pull her outside. “Let’s deal with this away from everyone.”

“I’m sorry,” she manages to say.

It’s something, but it’s not enough.

Besides, I’m too distracted to accept her apology.

We can talk about this when Tristan drives away from here with his tail between his legs.

Tonight, the air is cold. As if to set the scene even more, a full moon shines down from the sky like a stage light.

Talk about a performance.

Tristan is wearing his best Tom Ford suit, all black like his heart. He catches my eye and gives me a familiar look.

Once upon a time, I used to love that look. It used to make me feel warm inside. It showed me that he cared, like I was seen and heard, and like I mattered in the world.

Even when we were in public, he made me feel like I was the only one for him, which felt like a wish come true, given that I thought all men had a built-in wandering eye as soon as their balls dropped.

It was special, but it was all a lie.

I look at Saint, Ash, and Ryder and see the truth: Three broken men who are still, years later, navigating their feelings around love and loss.

The only reason I see through their masks is because I’ve been wearing one myself.

“Okay.” Tristan clears his throat. “Let’s get this party started.”

It’s like I’m back at the law firm attending a team meeting. The difference this time is that he has a gun in his hand instead of a fountain pen.

“Oh my god!” The words slip out of my mouth, unwarranted.

Once again, I’m showing Willow that I care about her by reacting to Tristan as he holds her up at gunpoint. The gun comes to rest at the side of her face, the muzzle centimeters away from coming into contact with her temple.

I stand, shaking like a leaf as Willow sets a new record for the most tears cried in a day. They keep on rolling, sliding down her face with no end.

She starts to choke on her sobs, head ducked in an attempt to escape a fate I’m almost certain she’s not going to escape.

The best weapon Willow has is her mouth.

Like Tristan, she’s always had a clever way with words, but since her voice box is frazzled, I don’t think she’ll be able to sweet-talk her way out of death.

“Romantic,” I say, fighting to keep my nerves under control. “Take your date out into the desert and hold her at gunpoint.” I snort. “I thought that would be more of the bikers’ forte, but I stand corrected.”

The familiar look dies in Tristan’s eye, replaced by greed.

And that tells me all I need to know about this loser—the only person he truly loves, is himself.

“Willow is collateral.” Tristan tightens his grip on the gun. “You have a choice, Lucia. Come with me, or your best friend dies. Which one will it be?”

Oh, he’s a slimy little thing.

Ash, Ryder, and Saint stand, guns at the ready. They look at me like this is a no-brainer—I let Tristan kill the girl who betrayed me, and stay here at the clubhouse. Easy peasy.