Page 34 of Rider Daddies (Venom Vultures MC #6)

He’s still pressing the gas pedal down all the way, which isn’t helping matters, but I work with what I’ve got and continue keeping the car straight on the road as Tristan takes the bra away from his eyes.

A sentence I never thought I’d hear.

He succeeds…eventually.

“You’re not licensed to drive my car,” he says.

It’s pathetic, really. He and I both know that I was the better driver out of the two of us.

Keeping a firm hold on the steering wheel, I fight my way onto the driver’s seat. It helps that the seats are low, but it’s not wide enough to accommodate us both.

Tristan detangles the bra straps from his hands and places them back on the wheel. It’s his strength against mine, and unfortunately, he’s starting to win.

I grit my teeth.

He’s forcing one way, me another.

If all four hands come away, we’ll be upside down on the roadside, lucky to be alive.

But to win this and get Tristan away from me for good, I’m happy to take my chances.

A Harley catches up, settling outside of the passenger window. I make eye contact with Saint and shake my head, telling him not to get involved.

But he doesn’t understand.

He raises his boot and smashes the passenger-side window, glass shattering everywhere.

Another routine scream from Willow.

It was a terrible thing to do, but I’m surprised how well he kept his balance.

Tristan looks at Saint briefly. He grits his teeth, keeping a firm hold on the steering wheel, but still finds the time to shake his head and let out an unnecessary snort. “What do you see in them?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I don’t understand. They’re covered in ink and look like they should be retired.”

That’s a little bit extreme, but I get why Tristan is saying it—he’s jealous.

“We’re twice your age, boy, and still look twice as good as you,” Saint calls from outside the window. “Take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and consider plastic surgery. It’s the only hope you have.”

Tristan growls again, pouring all of his energy into making stupid animal noises.

While he’s pretending to howl at the full moon, I reclaim some of my strength and come up into a crouched position.

I bring my legs up and insert them into the driver’s footwell.

“Hold on, Willow,” I say.

Then, I slam on the brake sharply.

Tristan’s head thrashes back.

I look at the speedometer and see the dial sink down to forty miles an hour in the space of a few seconds.

“Don’t worry,” I say into Tristan’s ear, his head smashed back against the headrest. “I’ll be kind and put you out of your misery before you can register the whiplash.”

I make use of my adrenaline and haul Tristan aside. He lands askew over the middle compartment, one leg poking into the air, the other stretched out in front of him.

“Take a picture,” Willow says, laughing. “Send it to your work domain and watch it circulate.”

I chuckle for a moment, but not for too long.

I still have a task to complete.

I settle fully into the driver’s seat, ready to take control of the vehicle and end this once and for all. I step on the gas and continue driving down the road, letting Tristan get reacquainted with my bra.

Saint and Ryder appear on my left. I unlock the windows and slide them down, a thick gust of wind blowing in.

“Swing a U-turn,” Saint calls. “Let’s go back to the clubhouse. If you keep driving down this road, you’ll hit Vegas.”

“What are we gonna do back at the clubhouse? Drag Tristan inside so the rest of the members can have a good laugh?”

Ryder laughs. “That’s a good idea.”

“No!” I yell over the wind. “He can’t be anywhere near the clubhouse. We’re gonna get caught.”

“Do you have any other propositions?” Ryder asks.

“We need to kill him,” Saint says. “Otherwise the persistent bastard is gonna keep coming back. Next time it won’t be with your friend. It’ll be with his lifelong buddies who just so happen to be members of the FBI.”

“He needs to be killed, but in the right way.” I face the road in front of me.

That’s when a lightbulb pings on in my head.

It’s savage, and if performed wrong, could end in my own death, but it’s the only thing I’ve got.

“Willow, get out of the car.”

“No.”

I huff. We don’t have time for this.

“ Willow .”

“Why do you want me to get out of the car, Lucia?” She asks the question in a grave voice, like she already knows.

Of course she knows. Just because we ended our friendship, it doesn’t mean that she still can’t read my mind.

“I won’t ask you again. Would you like to join Tristan in the grave?”

“Lucia.” Enter Ash. His voice sounds so hard that I could touch it. “Don’t you dare.”

“Willow, you need to get out,” I say, totally dismissing Ash’s comment. “If you want me to think about forgiving you, you’ll do as I say.”

I slow the vehicle, waiting for her to get her shit together and do as I say.

After giving her a moment to think about it, I hear the sound of the door cracking open. I slow down to a crawling speed as she exits the vehicle, leaving Tristan and me alone.

Some would call this a date.

Others a joyride.

Tristan brings himself back up, wincing. Maybe the whiplash will be good for him—knock the mental illness out of his brain.

It’s a shame he has to be like this.

If he was normal and less obsessive, he’d make a good boyfriend.

Not to me, of course, but I know there are lots of girls out there who are dying to meet their perfect lawyer boyfriend who dresses in suits every day… cough, cough— Willow.

“Why do you have to be like this, Lucia?”

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel in case he tries anything. “Is it off-putting?”

“You’re not the girl you once were.”

“So, why do you still want me?”

It’s a big question to ask an individual who’s being held hostage by their own sick thoughts, but if he can fight and win complicated cases in court, he can answer my one, simple question in the car.

“I love you.”

Isn’t that phrase supposed to be expressive?

Tristan says it in the most monotone voice ever.

Held hostage by his thoughts.

I look back into the rearview mirror and see the brothers keeping their distance, all still on their bikes, but crawling, waiting for something to happen.

I don’t need to see their faces to know they’re in some kind of dispute.

They point fingers at the Corvette. The abrasive way Ryder and Saint turn their heads to Ash also confirms my suspicions.

Ash back at it again, trying to keep the two youngsters in line.

He must know that this is the only way for us to win. Staging Tristan’s death to make all of this look like an accident is the only shot we have at keeping the clubhouse and me safe.

I’d be offended if the adrenaline wasn’t thumping through me like thunder.

I’ve killed.

I can do it again.

Except this time it isn’t as simple.

I sigh, tearing my gaze away from the mirror to face Tristan. He hasn’t noticed me looking yet, so I watch his face.

The frustration on his face isn’t real. None of this is real, not even to him.

In a relationship, you’re supposed to know everything about one another.

I knew nothing about the man except that he was charming, knew how to dress, and was good at his job.

His parents moved away, apparently. I never spoke to them and only saw one photo, taken from when Tristan was just an infant.

It makes me feel sorry for him…kinda.

The man stole my freedom and tried to control me. I was a Barbie to him. Something that he wanted to keep and possess, and have all to himself.

I clench my jaw, fighting to stop a tear from slipping out of my eye. God knows why I’m shedding tears for a man who wanted me so much that he tried to involve me in a sex trafficking ring.

The sensible thing to do would be to drive him to the nearest mental asylum and have them rewire his brain.

But I’m over being fucking sensible.

Tristan saw me kill Manual.

He’s also way too involved with the cops for my liking.

“You don’t love me,” I tell him.

“Yes I do.”

“No.” I tighten my hands around the steering wheel. “You think you do. But this isn’t love, Tristan.”

Why does it feel like I’m saying this to myself too?

Tristan wasn’t the only one who thought we were in love.

If I had never met the bikers, I’d still believe that what we had was real .

I bite my lip, focusing on the road ahead. Can you love someone after two weeks of knowing them?

What I have with the brothers is strange.

Every time I’m with them, my heart does this little lurch.

They don’t even have to say anything, don’t even have to do anything.

My opinion of them could never change. With them by my side, it feels like I could conquer the world.

Like I could go through a hurricane and still be standing on my own two feet.

I want to hate Tristan, but I fucking can’t.

I want to kill him, to end this once and for all, but he was still part of my journey and it feels rude to kill the man who encouraged me to reevaluate my whole outlook on life.

Maybe I should be thanking him.

The thought vanishes from my head when he pulls me away from the wheel to reclaim it.

It makes all of this easier that he’s back to his usual self, over the whiplash.

“Give me back my car.”

“In your dreams.” I boot him in the groin by accident which sends him flying back in pain.

But only for a few seconds.

“You’re coming back with me.” He drags me out of the seat, so I step on the brake again, hoping to induce another wave of terrible whiplash since he’s being naughty and not wearing his seat belt.

But the first round must’ve made him immune.

“They’ve turned you into a murderer.”