Page 40 of Rider Daddies (Venom Vultures MC #6)

MELISSA

The best thing about working at the library is getting to bask in the peace and quiet. College is great, but it’s too rowdy, full of hormonal adolescents. I’m not about that life.

I push the returns cart down the aisle, slotting books back into their respective shelves.

Final exams for Animal Science are looming around the corner.

I can’t fail. Daddy doesn’t tell me much, other than to keep out of his office and the basement, but he does want me to secure a stable job that pays well.

So I decided from a young age that I’m going to be a vet.

I love animals. That might be a cliché reason as to why I want to be a vet, but it’s good money and I like the thought of saving animals.

I slot the final book back onto the shelf and wheel the empty cart back to reception.

Working at the library part-time is slow, but it offers many benefits. I get full access to the books, and can read them whenever I like. Behind the desk, I open one particular nonfiction work that I’ve been dying to get my hands on for some time, and start to read.

To be honest, I live the same life in the library as I do outside of it. Not much changes. The only difference is that I’m getting paid. Even when I leave this place, I’m in my college dorm reading, and when I’m not there, I’m at Daddy’s house doing the same.

Natasha, my roommate, says I need to get out more.

“College years are the best years of your life. Loosen up. Have a few drinks.”

But I think college years are the most important years of your life, not the best. The best years begin after college, when the hard work has all paid off.

I love Natasha, but we’re two totally different people. I think that’s why we get along so well. She’s the extrovert. I’m the introvert. She’s out at every given opportunity, getting under a guy she barely knows, and I’m in bed, pajamas on by nine.

It works well. Four days a week, I get the place to myself because she’s partying at a frat house. She gets in the next morning just as I’m leaving for my first lecture.

It’s the perfect setup.

“Come on,” she said to me just last night before heading out. “You’re a beautiful girl. You can get any guy you want. I’ve seen the way they look at you. You don’t even have to lift a finger.”

They only approach me because of the size of my chest.

But boys don’t faze me.

I could be thirty and still a virgin—I don’t care.

Daddy raised me, and he engrained it into me that work comes first.

Always.

His hard work is what got me into the best school. It’s what lets me choose the most expensive meal on the menu every time we go out for dinner.

Not so much now, but a few months ago, we’d go out for dinner every week. The whole thing used to cost him a fortune, but he could always afford it because he works hard, doing whatever he does.

If I want a house of my own one day, I have to get my head in the game and focus.

The door swings open, and I look up from my book to see three men stride into the building.

I have to give them a second glance. What are they wearing? Carefully, I peer from behind the computer monitor to look at them again, feeling the need to hide myself for some reason. They look dangerous. Like they shouldn’t be here.

Most people that come to the library are either students or old.

This isn’t the kind of demographic I’m used to seeing.

I just hope they don’t need my assistance. I don’t have any experience talking to bikers.

And that’s what they appear to be. They’re wearing leather vests and boots, and have tattoos all over their skin.

They disappear into the maze of bookshelves, so I let out a sigh of relief, glad they don’t need me for anything.

But I’m still curious.

Carefully, I rise from my seat and peer up over the counter.

They’re tall, their heads peeking up over the top of the bookshelves as they navigate through to the nonfiction section.

They all have gray hair. Lots of it. From a glance, they all look of a similar age to Daddy, except these guys look like they’ve aged better.

A lot better.

My heartbeat spikes for some reason.

Why I feel the need to creep around, watching them like some obsessive stalker, I have no idea. I think it’s because they’re dangerous. Or at least, people like them are supposed to be.

“…Grizzly will teach you the basics,” I overhear one of them say to another.

“But you’re best learning about this stuff yourself.

It shows willingness, and as a prospect, the quickest way to earn your badge is to show independence.

We’re a team, but also, the Prez is searching for people that are proactive. ”

“Yeah,” adds another voice. British?

I leave my desk and tiptoe toward the closest bookshelf to hear more of the conversation. Their voices make them sound like trouble, each of them dark in tone.

A knot forms in my stomach as I advance closer, peering around one of the shelves to glimpse them again. I don’t know why I’m so curious to see their faces.

“Thanks, guys,” says the third. “Appreciate the help.”

One of them nods. And then they start making their way back to reception.

Shit.

Heart spiking even more, I rush back toward the desk, not wanting to be caught spying.

That’s when I crash into the returns cart, not looking where I’m going.

Fuck!

Pain pulsates through my shin. I stifle a wince and limp the rest of the way back to reception, gripping the desk as I sink back into my seat.

Close call.

They appear from behind the bookshelves just as I make it back, and now they’re approaching me.

Fabulous.

I swallow the lump in my throat, composing myself. Suddenly aware that my hair is all over the place, I comb a hand through it as they make their way over, using the black monitor screen as a mirror to hastily fix up my appearance.

“Are you okay?” asks the British one. He stands on the right.

I look up, hoping the embarrassment hasn’t heated my cheeks too much. “Oh. Yeah.”

“We heard a crash,” says the one on the left.

“It was nothing.”

Am I okay?

No. Definitely not.

First up, I’m pretty sure I damaged my leg. Secondly, I’m alone with three motorcyclists who look like they could kill me with their bare hands.

I don’t know why this excites me so much.

They’re all very handsome, around Daddy’s age, give or take a few years.

The one on the right is the British one.

He has a mustache that hasn’t turned completely gray yet.

Under the leather vest, he’s shirtless, so it’s a struggle to keep my eyes up when I see hard muscle peeking through.

He wears blue-wash jeans and a slanted smile, green eyes trailing up and down my body like I’m a cake he’s desperate to devour.

His gaze lingers at my breasts for a while.

Then, there’s the one in the middle. He’s the one holding the book.

He’s the palest out of all of them and has freckles dotted around his nose.

Maybe he was ginger before he turned gray.

Fine lines enhance his facial features, and he watches me with a pleasant smile, like he’s got all the time in the world.

The one on the left wears full leather. I don’t notice the gold tooth until he smiles.

But he doesn’t smile for long, soon returning back to his stoic self.

He has incredible bone structure, dark gray stubble contouring his cheekbones.

I don’t quite know what to make of him. I think that’s why he intimidates me the most.

“Just this one, please.” The one in the middle hands over the book.

Fuck, his voice is so rich and deep, the southern drawl a nice touch.

“Of course.”

A shiver runs up my spine as I take the book from him, our hands brushing.

“Do you, um, have a lib…library card?”

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The British one slides a card across the desk, the slanted smile widening.

I swipe it up with trembling fingers.

Harley Davidson Illustrated Guidebook.

Interesting.

Wiggling the mouse to revive the computer, I scan the card and then the book, fingers slipping over the keys. The name on the card comes up as Greg Finch. Huh. The name seems too ordinary for a guy with a gold tooth.

“All done. You have two months to return it,” I say, sheepishly handing the book back to the middle guy. Normally, when I’m processing borrowed books, I’m more conversational, but now I make sure to keep my words short and to the point.

It’s embarrassing that I stuttered the first time. I don’t want to trip up on my words again.

I hand back the library card, the strong smell of gasoline wafting into my nose.

It’s that kind of smell you want to smell, but can’t—it’s harmful.

“Thank you,” I say, expecting them to go now.

“No,” says the British one. “Thank you .”

Six eyes watch me.

I don’t know what to do.

“Um…”

The British one then brings his attention below the counter to the flat surface that visitors use to sign out borrowed books. No one’s required to do that anymore since we computerized the system, but my boss hasn’t got rid of it yet.

He concentrates there, writing something down.

“It’s okay. You no longer need to?—”

BAP!

My voice is cut off by the shutting of a book.

“I’d like to return this one too, whilst we’re at it,” he says, handing over another book.

The Devil’s Advocate by Iain Morley.

I’m no lawyer, but I do know that this book is all about criminal law and the justice system. Interesting.

Gingerly, I take the book from the British biker’s hands. He seems like the unpredictable one out of them all, that sly grin giving me goose bumps.

Tingles run up my spine again as his hands brush over mine.

Was that deliberate, or am I thinking too deep into this?

“Uh, no problem.” I cringe at how delayed my response is, re-swiping the library card to process the return.

Do all three of them share one library card?

That goes against policy.

I’m in no state to challenge them, though, given that they’re all three times my size.

Double my age too.