Page 46 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

MARCY

I should’ve known better than to expect my father to remember my twenty-third birthday.

But somehow, like a goddamn idiot, I still held onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—he’d acknowledge it. That maybe this year, I wouldn’t just be a political pawn, an extension of his perfectly curated life. Instead, I got a cold, irritated look when I reminded him what day it was.

“Your birthday? And?” He sighed, already done with the conversation. “Marcy, do you think I have time for this nonsense right now? The last thing I need is you throwing some childish tantrum because I forgot to buy you a cake.”

That stung, but I bit my tongue. I should’ve walked away. But then he really dug the knife in.

“Honestly, you should be thanking me for not reminding everyone. Do you want reporters talking about your weight instead of my campaign? Jesus, Marcy. The camera already adds ten pounds. How many more are you trying to give it?” He huffed.

“And maybe if you spent less time sulking and more time at the gym, you wouldn’t be so damn sensitive about it. ”

I don’t even remember storming out after that. It’s all a blur of white-hot rage, the slamming of doors, and the overwhelming pressure in my chest as I tried not to break down in front of him.

Now, I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard, my hands are numb, my vision blurring from the tears I swore I wouldn’t cry.

The rain comes down harder, a relentless drumbeat against the windshield, matching the erratic rhythm of my pulse.

My breath hitches as I drag the sleeve of my sweater across my wet cheeks, gripping the wheel tighter.

My father’s words are still slicing through me, cruel and unshakable, but I swallow the sobs crawling up my throat.

I don’t see the deer until it’s too late. A flash of brown in my peripheral vision.

My heart lurches as instinct takes over. I jerk the wheel to the right, my tires screaming against the slick pavement.

The world tilts. The car fishtails violently, spinning out of control, and my body slams against the seatbelt as my shoulder crashes into the door. The wheel is wrenched from my grip, and all I can do is brace .

The headlights flicker, illuminating the massive tree rushing toward me.

“Oh, shit?—!”

I wrench the wheel again, desperate to stop the inevitable impact. The tires skid off the road, slamming into the muddy shoulder with a bone-rattling jolt. The car bucks and lurches, and for one terrifying second, I think I’m going to flip?—

Then, with a deafening bang , the dashboard lights flicker and die.

The engine sputters once. Twice.

And then, silence.

I sit there, chest heaving, hands shaking, fingers locked around the useless steering wheel. The only sounds are the rain hammering against the roof and my own ragged breathing.

The smell of burnt rubber and something acrid fills the cabin.

I try to start the car. Nothing.

I try again.

Dead.

I let my head fall back against the seat, closing my eyes.

Happy. Fucking. Birthday.

My campaign is more important than your birthday.

Stop being selfish. We all agreed that me getting the office should take priority.

The words replay in my head like a broken record, each syllable digging deeper, etching themselves into my skull. My father has never once treated me like a priority. Why the hell did I think this year would be any different?

I let my head fall back against the seat, exhaling a shaky breath as fresh tears burn their way down my cheeks. Outside, the rain pounds against the car, drowning out everything except the sound of my own misery.

In a fancy ballroom across town, my parents are schmoozing their way through another charity function, playing the part of the perfect power couple. My mother had texted me earlier, reminding me to “be good” and “keep up with your father’s expectations.”

Expectations. Right. Because nothing says “happy family” like being emotionally steamrolled into submission. She didn’t even ask if I was okay with the way I stormed out of the apartment, or even where I was right now.

My mother loves nothing more than keeping up with appearances. She couldn’t care less about me.

I close my eyes, trying to will away the sting in my chest. Just a minute. Just one minute of peace.

I have no idea how long I sit there, trapped in my own pity party, before I feel it—this strange, prickling sensation crawling down my spine.

Like I’m being watched.

My eyes snap open.

And— holy mother of hell —someone is peering down at me through the window.

I shriek so loud that I nearly punch myself in the face. My entire body jerks, and in my flailing panic, I slam my knee into the dashboard. Pain shoots up my leg as I grab wildly for my phone—except my phone is dead, because of course it is.

I whip back toward the window, preparing to unleash the loudest, most bloodcurdling scream of my life?—

And then I really look at him.

The rain-soaked man standing outside is massive.

Like, ridiculously massive. Broad shoulders, a thick, muscled frame, and arms that look like they could bench-press a truck.

His dark jacket clings to him, soaked through from the downpour, and even through the water streaking the glass, I can make out the silver streaks in his beard and hair.

He blinks at me, unimpressed.

I blink back, horrified.

He knocks once on the window, casual as hell, like he hasn’t just given me an entire heart attack. “You good in there, princess? Or do I need to call an ambulance for that dramatic reaction?”

I gape at him. Did he just… did he just sass me?!

Oh, hell no.

I snap out of my stunned silence, scowling at the mountain of a man standing outside my window. When he doesn’t give any indication to move, I reluctantly roll down my window.

“Dramatic reaction?” I sputter, still clutching my poor, abused knee. “I just woke up to a whole-ass stranger staring at me through my car window like a serial killer, and you think I’m being dramatic?”

He smirks. The bastard actually smirks.

“Didn’t mean to scare you. But to be fair, you’re parked in the middle of nowhere, in a dead car, during a storm. Not exactly a five-star security situation.” He tilts his head, rain dripping from the strands of silver in his hair. “And for the record, I’m not a serial killer. I’m Ryder.”

“Right. Because every serial killer would totally admit that,” I deadpan.

Ryder snorts, then gestures toward my car. “So, what’s the deal? You just enjoying the apocalypse vibes, or is your car actually dead?”

I groan and let my forehead drop onto the steering wheel. “It died. Because of course it did.”

“Battery?”

“The engine blew. The dashboard had a little light show before everything went dark.”

Ryder lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“Hey, I saved a deer’s life today,” I say. “I practically sacrificed my car.”

“Is that so?” Ryder says. There’s something about him that sends my stomach into knots, and not just because of how attractive he is. Is he really that attractive, or do I have a concussion?

I glare at him. “Why are you like this?”

“I’m a delight, princess.” He leans down closer to the window, crossing his arms over the edge of my door. “You gonna sit in here and sulk all night, or you want a ride somewhere warm and dry?”

I hesitate. Rational Marcy—the one who listens to crime podcasts and watches way too many murder documentaries—is screaming at me not to get into a vehicle with a stranger.

But the alternative is sitting here in a dead car, in the middle of a storm, until I either freeze to death or get eaten by a bear. And right now, both seem like viable options.

I eye the man warily. What does he want? No one just stops to help people for no reason, and I’m not about to be the dumb girl in the horror movie who hops into a stranger’s ride without asking questions.

“How do I know you won’t kill me?” I blurt out, crossing my arms over my chest.

Ryder exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it already. You were practically passed out there.”

Ryder watches my internal debate, his smirk fading into something more serious. “Look, there’s a bar not far from here. You can wait there while I call a tow for your car. Or you can stay here and keep sulking.” He shrugs. “Up to you.”

I glance outside. The storm hasn’t let up. If anything, the rain is coming down even harder, turning the road into a glistening river.

My car isn’t going anywhere. Neither am I.

I could sit here all night, soaking in my own misery, or I could take a risk and go with this guy.

I hesitate for another beat, but then reality kicks in. Do I really want to keep sitting here, having a breakdown like some tragic rom-com lead? Hell, no. I’m not some helpless little crybaby. And honestly? I could really use a drink.

“Fine,” I mutter, unbuckling my seatbelt.

Ryder doesn’t gloat. Just nods once and opens a massive black umbrella as he steps around to the driver’s side. “Come on, then.”

I take a deep breath, then step out. The rain immediately lashes against my skin, but Ryder angles the umbrella over both of us. Up close, he’s even bigger—broad chest, muscled arms, a presence that somehow makes me feel small and protected at the same time.

In the dim streetlight, I finally get a good look at him. The silver streaks in his beard, the lines of his face, the way his leather jacket clings to his broad shoulders. He’s rough around the edges, intimidating in a way that should make me second-guess this entire situation.

But then, he smiles.

It’s warm. Unexpected. The kind of smile that makes me feel, just for a second, like maybe the night isn’t a total disaster.

Maybe, just maybe, things are about to change.