Flipping my head up right after blow drying it, dark brown curls fall to my breast with trundles framing my sharp face. “Rock Star” by Post Malone plays from the speakers inside the walls of my room. My pulse drumming to the beat as I stare at my reflection with a lost gaze. Fisting my lipstick, I drag the fire engine red across my lips, my eyes never leaving my reflection in the mirror. I pucker my lips and place the lid on the sinful lipstick. My black garter and thong the only thing on my body, I turn on the pads of my feet and leave my bathroom walking into my large closet. Trailing my fingers along the material of the expensive clothes hanging from hangers. Some still have tags on them even. I find a tight lacy black dress in the black section-yes, I organize my clothes by color-and pull it from the rack. I slip the material over my body, the dress hugging my figure like we’re made for one another. My heart beats rapidly, my body clammy since I declared this night, the night. The one night that every girl over thinks about. Who will be the lucky one to take her virginity? Will it hurt? Should I be on top or bottom? Will I fall in love?

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and tell myself this is no big deal. This is just like work, just another contract… only this is one I’m voiding and making sure it is burned beyond reconciling.

I’m fucking shit up tonight.

Opening my eyes, my heart beats a little slower, at least at a pace I can breathe normally. In my shoe closet, I grab my thigh high boots, I’ve only worn them once. I saw them in a shop in New York and thought they were so erotic looking I had to have them. I wore them in the hotel room, and that was it. I was saving them for a special guy one day.

I guess that day will have to be today.

Slipping my foot into one leather boot, I feel like Cinderella’s twisted sister. Her mission of sex and sin on her mind rather than finding her one true love. I zip the last boot up, the sound of the zipper making my spine prickle with goosebumps.

No matter what I tell myself, tonight is not going to be easy and I know that. The whole ‘no strings attached, and it’s just sex and nothing more’ routine is for pros. I’ve seen enough movies to know it’s not going to be easy for me to give my innocence to someone and just walk away with empty feelings.

Grabbing a blue jean jacket sitting on a bench in my closet, I toss it over my shoulder and inhale a shaky breath. One that is confident, and vexed.

I can do this. I have to do this.

Leaving my room, the click of my heels on the polished floor echo behind me as I make my way through the mansion. The sound resembling a ticking watch counting down the days I’m expected to walk down the aisle with Veer.

Passing the antique mirror in the hallway, the smell of my Gucci perfume leaving a trail of forbidden sin in my wake, I glance at it from the corner of my eye. I look like someone else and feel like someone else.

Down the stairs, the front door in sight, my mother walks out of the study with a perplexed look on her face. I don’t stop to talk to her, I keep my feet moving.

“Simone?” my mother calls after me as I pass her. “Simone Ray!” Ignoring her, I toss my hair over my shoulder, ignore the guilt in my stomach and stay focused on the mission at hand.

“Where are you going? What are you wearing?”

“Don’t wait up!” I say, but I can’t hear myself say it. All I can think about is the blood pounding through my veins like a toxic drug. Drowning my pure blood and replacing it with something darker and foreign.

This is my one night out, and I’m going to fucking ruin everything Veer might see in a Ray.

I’m breaking all the rules of being a lady, tonight.

* * *

I drive two hours away just to make sure Dad’s men won’t find me. I’m sure they are trying to track me as we speak, freaking out about my sudden defiant behavior. I pulled the GPS hidden in the car air freshener attached to the vent and toss it out of the window halfway down the driveway.

Pulling my phone out I search for bars in the area, looking at ratings and reviews.

“Post Trip?” I nibble on the tip of my nail, looking at the thumbnail picture of the bar. I guess it’s okay as far as bars go.

Sighing, I set the GPS on my phone to the location. My hands white-knuckling the steering wheel, my heart drumming in my chest like a circle of Indian’s chanting their ultimate sacrifice.

Pulling into the gravel parking lot, my tires crunch into the little rocks until I park.

Ducking my head, looking through the windshield I size the place up.

Post Trip is a one-story brick building with a small patio on the left. It has the usual bar lights hanging in the windows displaying different beer brands, and there’s people standing outside casually laughing to one another as they smoke.

Tossing the keys into my purse, I climb out of my BMW and sashay toward the entry. I’m a little surprised there’s nobody at the door to check my ID or anything so I just slip inside

This must be a very low-key place if nobody is here to say who can enter and not.

Once inside of the building the smell of beer, cologne, and a hint of peanuts fills the air. The lights are dimmed, and it’s foggy and thick from everyone’s hot breathing in such a small space. But more importantly, there’s a lot of guys here tonight.

Pushing my nerves to the side, I smile, and head to the bar to order a drink. I need something to loosen me up a little. I’m as tense as a mannequin, and my stomach is in knots at the thought of what I’m doing tonight.

Slipping onto the hard-wooden stool, a woman with black leather shorts, tattoos up and down her legs, takes drink orders behind the bar. Her long jet-black hair frames her pale face, and a skull necklace hangs between her breasts which are barely covered with a red corset.

Sliding to my side of the bar, she lifts her chin at me.

“What ya want, babe?”

I look around curious what everyone else is drinking.

“Do you have wine?”

She raises a brow as if to say, “do they look like have wine?”

“Um, two shots of tequila?”

Smacking her gum loudly, she grabs two shot glasses from under the counter, places them on the granite, and pours cheap tequila into them, spilling more onto the counter than in the glass.

“Fifteen bucks.” Her hand slaps the wet countertop.

Opening my purse, I hand her twenty.

“Keep the change.” I smile.

She fists the twenty, looking at me as if she’s waiting for me to change my mind. She must not get tipped much. Forcing a smile, I reach for my drinks and she finally steps to another customer. Downing one of the shot glasses, I clench my eyes as the burn slips down my throat.

Ugh, it’s like swallowing broken glass. Opening my eyes, I smack my tongue around, eyeing the next shot glass. I bet it’s just as bad. I toss it back, trying to hold my breath as I swallow the harsh liquid down. Coming up for air, I gasp and push the empty glasses back to the edge of the bar so they know I’m done with them.

Crossing my legs, I turn around on the stool to look around the place, curious who my mark may be. A tall blonde man with glasses dances on the dance floor. His sweater looks like something a golf enthusiast would wear, and those khakis are a major turn off. I scrunch my nose. No way.

My eyes slip across the space falling to a man who is bobbing his head in the corner next to the fake dusty plant. The strong silent type perhaps? He has dark spiky hair and a choker on. His tight black shirt that looks like spandex is stretching across his chest way to tightly, and his black jeans are way too baggy for my taste.

Blowing air through my cheeks, I turn around and twist the empty glasses on the counter the bartender has yet to pick up. What is my type exactly? Do I even have one? Maybe I’m being too picky.

You know when you feel someone staring at you even though you’re not looking, that sensation that almost burns? The hairs on the back of your neck might even stand?

I instantly have every one of those sensations, but the burning is so intense I think someone dubbed their cigarette out on the back of my neck, singeing the peach fuzz on the nape of my neck. Carefully, not too eager, I casually glance over my shoulder and my eyes instantly catch two men sitting in a u-shaped booth just behind me staring directly at me. Not just any men, but bikers. Hot as fuck bikers.

The one on the left has a young youthful soft face. Dark short hair, and various tattoos up his thick arms. The leather cut claiming his chest proudly makes me tuck my bottom lip between my teeth. His eyes dig into mine with hesitation before looking down at his beer and up at me again. It’s as if he is drawn to me but doesn’t want to be.

Lips parting, I draw in a deep breath and look to the other man in the booth. He’s Indian for sure; like me. His glowing skin tan and beautiful, his thick black hair pulled into a sexy bun fitting his rugged look. Sharp cheeks with delicious dark stubble color my cheeks red, warmth spreading down my body and swirling in areas that has me sweating. They’re so good-looking, too good-looking. Butterflies swim in my stomach, and I can’t stop the nervous laugh bubbling through my lips. He smirks in my direction, and my heart skips a beat.

Tossing my hair off my hot neck, I turn back around trying to act unaffected. They’re really cute, what do I do? Should I go over there? Wait and see if they come to me?

“Want two more?” the bartender suddenly asks standing in front of me. Looking down at the cracked counter I nod, my teeth biting my bottom lip nervously. I feel like an angel tempting the devil’s disciples. I should go over there. Wait, no, I’m already being easy tonight, I should at least make them come to me.

Instantly she refills my glasses, and then clears her throat. I lose my smile and look up, finding her waiting. Oh right, I have to pay her.

I give her another twenty, and reach for my drinks, needing them more than ever right now.

I glance over my shoulder to see if they’re still looking and notice the Indian one pointing at me as he talks, the younger biker staring at me with smoldering eyes.

I’m going over there.

Not sure if my heated cheeks are from the alcohol or the men behind, I don’t over think it and down the two shots of tequila. One after the other. My skin warms from the alcohol, and I feel brave. I decide I need to make a move. I need to get up and – and dance. Yeah, I’ll let my body language do the talking to these two men, because the only other thing I have to start a conversation is corny pick-up lines.

Besides, my mother said if a man can dance, then he’s good in bed and I’m about to put her words to the test tonight!

Moving my head back and forth, my hips start to sway to “Devil” by Shinedown. My hands slide up and down my curves, my head bobbing to the music. I can’t help but feel a little silly, I’ve never danced in front of anyone before. Hands in the air, I turn to face my two admirers curious if they’re still looking at me, only to find them both headed my way side by side. Their heads lowered, arms at their side, and eyes hooded. As if in slow motion the lights flicker, their wolfish eyes only on me. The crowd splits as if they fear these two men, and I never take my eyes off either of them as they descend toward me like two hungry wolves.

Closer now, I can see their patches on their leather cuts, they’re from different clubs. The Indian looking one is named Kane and is from a club called The Devil’s Dust here in California. The shorter Burnette biker is from a club based out of Las Vegas called Sin City Outlaws, and his name is Gatz.

These are my kind of men. Bad boys. I work with men like these all the time, and I know how to handle them. Never show fear and keep your chin high with confidence.

Kane reaches for me first, fisting me by the hips and pulling me flush with him in one swift move. His hard-warm body presses up against mine and my breathing shallows to near nothing.

“Hey sweetheart,” Kane whispers into my ear, and it sends a shiver down my body. His voice is deep, so sexy I want him to keep talking to me. Using his free hand, he gently grabs my wrist and lifts it to his neck before slowly sliding his knuckles down the back of my arm.

Each touch and caress, sends my toes curling into my boots in search of release.

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I start feeling good from the tequila shots. Hair in my face, lips parted, I grind myself on Kane’s knee to the beat of the rough music. My body’s alive, my nipples ache with excitement, my body slick with sweat, and my thong is soaked with arousal.

Gatz intertwines his fingers with the left hand of Kane’s on one of my hips and rubs his erection in a circular motion along my backside. Glancing over my shoulder at him, he runs his nose over my shoulder before biting down on the bare flesh. My head falls back, it feels so fucking good.

I’m sandwiched between two large bikers, that are grinding and dancing on each side of me. Moving my ass along one, I rub my heavy chest on the other. Their hands slide up and down my curves, with their legs in between mine. I don’t know where I begin and they end. It’s as if it’s just us three lost in a fog of lust and desire, the rest of the club faded and lost to the clouds of staring citizens. I feel beautiful, I feel wanted, and I never want it to end.

Pressed between two of the hottest men in the bar we dance on top of each other to the song “Bad Girlfriend” by Theory of A Deadman. Our eyes locked on one another, our bodies grinding and pulling each other as close as we can get without completely dry humping on the dance floor.

Kane leans down, his hot tongue flicking my earlobe. I moan at the wet contact, my nails digging into the skin of his neck. God, I want more. I need it, and now before I break my big toe from curling my toes in these boots for some kind of relief.

“You wanna get out of here?” Kane whispers.