ABBIE
He's smoother than he looks. There's something about him that's absolutely compelling. Either that or I'm just easy to persuade. But when someone looks as good as King does in a pair of tight jeans, can you blame me for not putting up more of a fight? Sure, I was still pissed about the drugs he'd planted on me. But nothing had come of it and I wasn't in any trouble. Plus, he'd promised to make it all up to me. I was curious what that was going to look like.
I had no idea and though there was a piece of me that was hesitant, I was willing to give him the opportunity to try. I was intrigued and was allowing him to make good on that promise. I climbed onto the back of his motorcycle and wrapped my arms around him tightly.
His back was massive. Strong. Powerful. Yes, it was obvious he worked out when you looked at him, but touching him was an entirely different story. His body was harder, stronger, and more angular than I thought. Not that I'd spent a lot of time thinking about how his body might have felt. But there was no denying he was larger than life and, I had to admit, having my arms wrapped around his body, touching him like that – it was exciting. Not to mention the fact that the vibration from his bike that was reverberating between my legs – it made me slightly lightheaded.
King's good looks and the feelings that bike inspired – it was a deadly combination. It was even worse given that it had been way too long since I'd been with a man. Most of the men I interacted with on a daily basis were like Asher – weak, cowardly, passive. Too soft for me. They most definitely weren't my type.
But King wasn't my type either. He was at the completely opposite side of the spectrum. Too large, too rough around the edges, and far too dangerous. Very, very dangerous. The only positive was that he wasn't weak. He wasn't soft. And he wasn't passive. Hell no. There was nothing passive about this man. If anything, he came on a bit strong. Truthfully, he came on way too strong. Again, not usually my type.
As I rode on the back of his bike, with my arms around him and the wind whipping through my hair, I could almost forget about all of King's shortcomings. I could almost forget about all of the things about him that turned me off. His bike thundered as we drove down the coast, the view of the rocky shore on one side, tall trees on the other. In the middle of nowhere. Just him and me on the open road.
And I loved it. I loved every minute of it.
We pulled off on to a one-lane road, turning away from the coast and going inland. But we didn't go far. King pulled into a parking lot filled with bikes as gnarly as his. We parked and he helped me hop off the bike. I looked around at the grimy building and then turned my eyes to him.
“This is how you're going to make it up to me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “A biker bar?”
The building was a ramshackle old warehouse, or at least it appeared to be. It was dingy, dirty, and was out in the middle of almost nowhere. Sure, civilization was nearby, but we were surrounded by nature and trees – and were well off the open road. If he planned on killing me for tossing his drugs into the pool, this was probably a good place to do it.
The music coming out of the bar was loud – too loud for my liking – and we could hear it outside. Every note, every syllable of the lyrics – we could hear it perfectly clear. The front door swung open and two men walked out wearing jeans and leather vests – with no shirt beneath them. Their arms were covered in tattoos in designs that went down to their ripped chests.
They nodded at King knowingly. He nodded back at them.
“Be safe out there,” King said, watching the two men hop on the back of their Harleys.
“You too, King,” the older man said; he had greying hair and a grimy looking bandana wrapped around his head.
The other man turned to me and winked, giving me a salacious smile that made me feel very out of place.
King never answered my question, never told me how bringing me to this place was “making it all up to me.” Instead, he just walked toward the door, looking back at me as if to ask if I were coming or not. What choice did I have? I couldn't drive myself back home. It was a long walk and I wasn't sure I could catch a ride with anyone else – not anyone I trusted, that was.
With a sigh and a growing feeling of trepidation, I followed him inside. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and I fought hard not to gag when I walked in. It was the type of smell that would cling to my hair and clothes, making me feel dirty as soon as I stepped inside. I knew within a minute of being there that I was going to need a hot, hot shower. The music was louder and way more obnoxious inside than it had been in the parking lot. It was so loud, I could feel the bass vibrating in my bones and it nearly made my eardrums burst. Music I'd never heard before in my life – and not music I'd voluntarily listen to. It was some sort of hard rock and wasn't my type of music, so I wouldn't know who the band was. But it sounded a lot more like screaming than it did music to me.
The place was dimly lit and, when I stepped inside, I saw men dominated it, each one giving me a look as we walked by. Everyone waved or nodded at King, greeting him and chatting him up while giving him a smile and a knowing look when they saw me standing next to him. No one asked for my name, though. Nobody even talked to me. Not a single one of them seemed to care all that much. But the way they looked at me made me feel dirty. My shirt was somewhat low-cut and I caught a few men staring at my cleavage. Yanking it up as high as it would go, I tried my best to hide it away. Still, they gawked at me, lust heavy in their eyes.
There were a few women were in the bar, as well. Not many, but a few. Like the guys in the bar, the women looked a bit rough around the edges, too. The women I did see all looked incredibly alike – they were all bleached blondes with ripped bodies. They were covered in tattoos, downing whiskey with the guys and giving me weird looks. They knew I didn't belong every bit as much as the guys who were leering at me. And a few of them looked me up and down with a sneer. It seemed pretty obvious they were jealous. Maybe because of my looks, or perhaps because of my vicinity to King – someone they seemed to know well and someone, a few of those bleached blondes, looked like they wanted to get to know a whole lot better.
King slid into a corner booth, patting the seat next to him. I sat down, but didn't slide right up next to him like he'd hoped. Instead, I kept a couple of feet of distance between us.
“What is this place?” I asked, yelling to make myself heard over the noise. “And why did you bring me here?”
King waved down the bartender, motioning for him to bring us some drinks. He never asked me what I wanted, just ordered for me. Which I thought was rude, pretentious, and obnoxious as hell.
“It's my bar,” he said coolly, leaning back in the booth, turning those cool blue eyes to me.
“What do you mean your bar? Like the bar you hang out in?” I asked.
The bartender dropped off two beers, gave King a nod, me a lustful leer. “Hey, man,” he said, rolling up his sleeves and showcasing arms covered in tattoos. I could only make out a few of the pictures – some skulls, a half-naked woman and some writing I couldn't make out. “So who's your lady friend?”
“This is Abbie,” King said, popping the top of the beer off with his hand before handing it to me. “She's a friend of mine.”
I snorted at that, making both King and the bartender stare at me.
“Sorry, it's just – well, I wouldn't exactly call us friends. Would you?”
“Then what would you call us?” King said, opening his beer the same way and taking a nice, long chug off his bottle.
To be honest, I really didn't know. Did you often climb on the back of a guy's motorcycle if he weren’t your friend? I guess I did. But I still wouldn't necessarily call King a friend of mine. I racked my brain but couldn't figure out how best to describe him.
I shrugged. “I don't know what I'd call you, but a friend? That's stretching it a bit.”
King brushed it off. “This is Raven,” he said, motioning to the bartender with the tatted up arms.
Raven had jet-black hair that went down to his waist. He was pretty. But he'd probably be stunningly gorgeous if it wasn't for the scars dotting his face. He'd had a rough life, it was pretty clearly written all of over him.
“Nice to meet you, Raven,” I said. “May I ask – is that your real name or just a nickname?”
“It's as real a name as I need, babygirl,” he said, winking at me. “Anyway, I'm gonna leave you two alone, but let me know if you need anything. I'll be right over there.”
Raven walked away, leaving us alone. I held the beer in my hand, pretending to read the label. I was doing everything I could to avoid looking at King – my friend. I wasn't much of a beer drinker, but I took a sip anyway just to give myself something to do. Disgusting. Tasted like horse piss. But I didn't think this was the type of place you could order a martini in, much less a Cosmo, so it would have to do.
“So your bar? What did you mean by that?” I asked again, staring at the bottle in my hand to avoid meeting his gaze.
“I own it,” he said. “It's my bar, like I said.”
“You own this place?” I asked, looking around, taking it all in for the first time.
But as I turned to look at King, trying to think of what else I could talk about, he planted his lips firmly against mine, kissing me. My head spun as his tongue forced its way into my mouth. His hands held onto my face, pulling me into him. Shock sent a surge of adrenaline through me. I couldn't believe he was kissing me – and yet I didn't find myself pulling away.
It had been so long since someone had kissed me like that – it really took me by surprise. With my long string of non-relationships with wishy-washy men who really had no idea what they were doing, King was a surprise. A very pleasant surprise. He was bold. Daring. Not afraid to go after what he wanted. And I felt my body responding to that.
In that moment, I felt like we were not in a bar, but were far away from everyone else. My head was spinning with the all of the sensory input that suddenly seemed so completely overwhelming – the sound of the music, the noise of the people around us, King's hand holding my face against his, kissing me with everything he had. The taste of his lips, the way he nibbled my lips and almost made it feel like it might bleed. All of it was too much for me, and briefly, I forgot how to breathe.
My heart beat heavily in my chest and my skin felt like it was on fire. The longer he kissed me, the more his tongue danced in my mouth, the harder and faster my heart beat – the harder it was to pull away and stop everything. King had to have felt it. He had to have known I wanted this. Which meant I was in big, big trouble.
The last thing you should give a man like King is power over you. And as he kissed me, he knew he had just that.