Page 33 of Rider Daddies (Venom Vultures MC #6)

I exhale a weighty breath, nibbling on the corner of my lip. Willow’s betrayal was bigger than her hatred for math, and that speaks volumes…

But death?

Does she deserve to be killed?

It feels like Sophie’s choice.

Like the ultimate test.

How far does my bloodthirst stretch?

I look into Willow’s eyes and see the girl I was joined at the hip with, all throughout high school and college. There was a time when her eyes weren’t puffy and red, but alive. We shared so many good memories together, but she ruined all of them by stabbing me in the back.

But it was a stab that saved my ass.

A stab that brought me here, to the Venom Vultures clubhouse.

And if I didn’t interrupt their monthly party that night looking like a nightmare bride, I never would’ve met Ryder, Ash, and Saint.

I square my shoulders, turning to Tristan.

Game on.

Tristan needs to jump back into his brand spanking new Corvette and get out of here, but he’s too prideful to do that…

So it looks like I’m gonna have to spill some blood.

“Lucia?” Saint grabs my attention.

I see Ryder, standing next to him, subtly give his brother a headshake.

Ash stands solo, his supernatural blue eyes burning through my skull. He gives me the hardest stare yet. He knows what I’m thinking.

Somehow, he always knows what I’m thinking.

Which is why he looks anxious, high brow bone set higher than normal.

Tristan shifts his weight onto the other foot. “What’s it gonna be, Lucia? I don’t have all night. Are you going to come with me, or are you going to be burying your best friend tonight?”

“ Figlio di puttana ,” I mumble to myself, taking advantage of Tristan’s American ignorance.

Tristan has given me a choice, but I know him—failure to choose the right option will only lead to more chaos.

Killing Willow won’t stop him from pursuing me.

The man literally went all out to get me to love him for an entire year.

On top of that, he shook hands and secured employment with a sex trafficker, just to cage me up.

How is this man a lawyer again?

Words.

There’s a reason that this clubhouse was built miles away from civilization: People with words always win.

Ash raises his gun, cocking the muzzle toward Tristan.

“Don’t.” I give him my best stern look. If one of these guys kills Tristan, the club stands no chance. He already got the police onto us.

He set them on us to get me back.

When that failed, he paid us a visit himself.

Twice.

It’s too risky.

But also, dare I say romantic?

These guys have bigger hearts than they let on.

They’re willing to risk their home for me.

I rub the smile off my face—now’s not the time to get smitten, especially with Tristan present. Jealousy is dangerous when it’s felt by the wrong person, and the emotion might just be all the motivation Tristan needs to pull the trigger.

I keep still, silently weighing up my options. Tristan needs to be killed. He won’t stop stalking and pushing until he has what he wants.

Death is the only thing that will stop him.

“Lucia—”

“Fine,” I say, cutting him off.

There used to be a time when my name on his tongue used to melt my heart.

Now, it turns the organ cold.

I heave out a breath and take my first rigid step toward him. The satisfying smile on his face is irritating, like billions of ants are crawling under my skin, eating away at me slowly.

“Lucia?” Ryder calls. “Step back, what are you?—?”

Saint stabs his elbow into Ryder’s stomach, silencing him.

I keep quiet and get closer to Tristan.

Willow is crying, maybe even more than before.

“Good girl.”

I think that is the most foul thing I have ever heard come out of Tristan’s mouth, but at least he’s no longer holding Willow at gunpoint.

He slips the weapon back under his black blazer and looks at me with a keen look in his eye. The face of a man who has had his twisted desires met.

Before I have time to look back and give the boys a nod of reassurance, Tristan grabs me by the wrist and walks me away to his car.

“Willow,” he calls, his back turned toward her.

Willow trails after him, her feet scraping against the gritty sand as all three of us head toward our ride for the night.

It’s not all bad—at least I get front seat without having to call shotgun.

I thumb the button, hoping to roll down the window, but Tristan beats me to it, locking the feature before he even has time to jump into the driver’s side.

Being back in a car again has made me realize that I prefer motorcycles.

I also prefer my drivers to be a little rough around the edges, sweating gasoline and sin.

Twice my age, preferably, with moves in the bedroom.

The only thing Tristan knows how to do between the sheets is work up a sweat.

I belt up, not because I’m eager to get moving, but because Tristan is an anxious driver who swerves anytime another car gets too close.

God forbid the carbon-plated body gets crashed into.

“Enlighten me. Where are we going?” I ask.

“Home sweet home,” Tristan says, starting up the engine. “The house has been empty without you.”

Bright lights suddenly flicker on. Craning my neck to look through the rearview mirror, I see my three saviors behind me finally doing what I have always wanted them to do—work as a team.

They line up on their motorcycles, getting ready to chase.

And it is on.

Tristan notes them as well, but this doesn’t faze him. He slams his foot on the gas, jerking me forward, and we’re off, sailing through the desert, quickly reaching a hundred miles an hour.

One good thing has come out of this—Willow has stopped crying. She sits in the back completely frozen, her eyes wide with horror as she holds on to the seat in front of her for dear life.

This is the first time Tristan doesn’t seem bothered about keeping his car in pristine condition. The car speeds over undulations as we cruise through the desert, the hood scraping against tarmac as Tristan takes the next dip in the road too fast.

And the boys are right behind.

I glance over my shoulder, grimacing. They need to stay out of this. How do they expect me to make a life out here if there’s no clubhouse?

The engine grumbles as the car reaches maximum speed. I turn back around and face the front. My pulse is drumming so erratically in my neck that I don’t know how long I can function like this.

A cardiac arrest is possible.

But I’ll only be able to rest in peace when I know that Tristan is doing the same.

I can kill another person and get away with it.

Tristan might be more involved in public affairs and have more of a name than Manual ever did, but that’s not going to stop me from killing a man who deserves death just the same.

I look out of the back window and see them catching up.

I can’t get them in trouble. If anyone’s gonna kill Tristan, it’s me.

Talk about a satisfying kill. He stole my life.

In return? I steal his.

I slip a hand under my white tee and blindly search for the catch of my bra.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking off my bra.”

Tristan tears his eyes away from the road for just a second as if to clarify my response. “Why?” he stutters.

“You should try and wear a push-up all day and see how it makes you feel.”

“It’s unnecessary.”

There’s my billionth reason as to why this man is terrible for me. The only time he cares about me getting naked is when I’m undressing in front of a man who isn’t him.

I unhook the bra and slide it out from under my tank top, laying it out in my hands. It’d be a fine bra to die in—red lace with pink frills around the edges.

It’s also a shame that I’m using it as a prop to distract Tristan from the road, since flashing my breasts isn’t going to work with him.

I was half hoping to save this bra for the boys, but to be honest, they’d probably be too aggressive and rip it off.

“What are you?—?”

I fit the bra over his eyes, fixing the straps behind his ears as you would a pair of glasses. And then I secure the garment around the back of his head by quickly rehooking the clasps.

“Lucia!”

He takes one hand from the steering wheel to fight off the bra.

If he wasn’t driving the vehicle, I’d be belly-laughing. The sight of him trying and failing to wrestle a bra away from his eyes is quite something.

I catch the hand that’s flaying in midair, tugging him away from the driver’s side.

I save the car from veering off the road with a last-minute steer, the wheels screeching against the road as I bring the vehicle back to center.

Willow screams.

“You want to murder all of us?” Tristan shouts.

“Just you.”

He growls, tugging the bra off his head.

And if I wasn’t one step ahead, he would succeed.

I rehook the bra around his head on the tightest setting. “Is this turning you on?”

“What the fuck, Lucia?”

“Do you still want us to marry? To live out the rest of our lives together?”

He doesn’t respond to that question. Instead, he goes in again for attempt number two.

“How many bras have you taken off in your lifetime?” I chuckle. “My money’s on zero.”

I can confirm that he never took my bra off.

I don’t think he fucking knows how.

At the end of the day, this bastardo doesn’t get turned on when a naked woman is in front of him. He gets hard when he’s exercising control. When he has me wrapped around his finger.

When he has me all to himself.

Now that he’s distracted, I reach over and press his seatbelt buckle, releasing the strap. It snaps back, causing Willow to release another scream.

I look back at her. “Less of the sound effects, please. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“How about less of the trying to get us all killed?”

Ah, so she does speak.

“You can thank me when this is all over.” I ignore whatever comes out of Willow’s mouth next and focus on yanking Tristan out of his seat.

When I’ve semi-accomplished that, I take over the wheel and fight to get one of my legs in the driver footwell.

Tristan kicks and shoves like a child who isn’t getting his own way, booting my leg, trying to get me to put it back in my own footwell.