CHAPTER THREE

Unblinking, I stared at the desktop monitor in front of me, at the e-mail attachment I’d just opened, and skimmed over the title:

“Animal Rights Activists Protest the Excessive Use of Leather at Biker Rally in Los Angeles.”

Shaking my head, I snorted softly. You could take the girl out of the motorcycle club, but she’ll never outrun those damn Harley pipes. It wasn’t just ZZ that was a constant reminder, it was the loud yet sexy rumble of every passing motorcycle. My world always seemed to stop as the beautiful machine whooshed through my life, no matter what I was doing—eating, talking, immersed in my smart phone—I always paused to watch as it flew by, and stared as it disappeared. But unlike everybody else, who might give a quick glance and then immediately go back to what they’d been doing, unaware that they’d just witnessed the ultimate freedom, a way to fly without wings, I would stare long after the bike had vanished, remembering what it felt like to be on the back of a bike, holding tight to a man.

Wishing, aching, wanting to be somewhere else, someone else. And yet, at the same time, hating myself because I knew, deep down, I’d never truly belonged in that life.

Sighing, I slumped down in my desk chair, closed my eyes, and tried to remind myself that I’d dodged a bullet. That if I hadn’t had my heart broken at such a young age, who knows how I would have ended up. In all likelihood, I’d be a Hell’s Horsemen club whore just like my mother had been. As it was, I was already the next best thing.

True, ZZ no longer wore his cut. He always ditched his bike before he got back in town, something that made me infinitely curious about what he was doing when he was away, why he needed to stay so inconspicuous, and he didn’t talk about the club other than short, clipped statements regarding Deuce. But he was still ZZ. A face, a name, a man I associated with my childhood, with my mother and all her pain.

“Jeez, Teg, you look like you just swallowed a dick.”

My eyes flew open and met with the denim-clad curvy backside that had propped itself on the corner of my desk.

“’Sup girl.”

Hayley was the closest thing I had to a best friend. We met my junior year in college during a rally protesting cosmetic testing on animals, and had become inseparable. We didn’t hang out as much as we used to anymore, mostly because she’d gotten married recently, but we still managed to get together at least once a week.

“Who let you in here?” I teased. “Where’s security?”

“Yes!” Hayley exclaimed dramatically, opening her arms wide and made an all-encompassing gesture to the small one-room office staffed with the twelve people that made up The San Franciscan Jurisdiction, all seated inside their personally decorated cubicles.

“Someone needs to be protecting all you up-and-coming Pulitzer Prize winners from the hit men hired to off you once your big exposé goes live on human sex slave trafficking, and our dear, sweet politicians that support it!”

“Damn straight!” someone called out. “Fuck the government!”

“‘If you tremble indignation at every injustice,’” Hayley yelled back, quoting Che Guevara, “‘then you are a comrade of mine!’”

Two cubicles in front of me, our sports editor, Christian, jumped up on his desk and thrust his clenched fist in the air. “‘I prefer to die standing!’” he bellowed, also quoting the infamous rebel leader, “‘rather than live on my knees!’”

“Viva La Revolución!” came an answering yell.

“Look what you did,” I said, giggling. “Now they’ll never shut up.”

Hayley waved me off and, placing her palm halfway across my desk, leaned in. Sweeping her long, pink-streaked blonde hair over her shoulder, she laughed. “Girl, I haven’t seen you in forever and I’m demanding you come to dinner tonight.”

Smiling, I rolled my eyes. “We saw each other last week.”

Shaking her head, she waved away my statement. “Last week,” she repeated. “Forever ago. So, dinner. Tonight. And please tell me ZZ is out of town.”

I grimaced. Hayley didn’t like ZZ; actually, no one I associated with on a regular basis in San Francisco liked ZZ. Either he intimidated them or just plain pissed them off. For the most part he liked his solitude, but every now and then he liked to play, only his version of playing was a little hard-core for some of my more happy-go-lucky friends.

Playing to them meant a small party, music, clinking beers and passing green.

Playing to ZZ meant wall-to-wall bodies, eardrum-blasting music, hard-core drinking, blowing lines, and fucking whatever he bumped up against. Or at least it used to, since he was apparently only fucking me now.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that so instead of dwelling on it, I pushed it aside and focused on Hayley.

“No, he’s home,” I said.

“Well,” she said slowly. “It just so happens that I’m having a small dinner party tonight and I think you should come, minus the brooding, anti-social biker who’s always bogarting all of your time.”

I shrugged. “He’s got a big dick, fucks like a slap-happy seal, and doesn’t talk very often. He’s pretty much perfect.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Teg, he’s mean and scary.”

My eyes crossed. It was laughable how “mean” and “scary” she thought ZZ was. God, if she ever met Deuce or Hawk or even Blue, as ancient as he was he could hold his own, she’d probably pee herself on sight.

“He’s moody,” I told her. “It’s different.”

“I bet all serial killers are moody,” she shot back. “It’s probably in their job description.”

Hayley didn’t realize how true her statement really was. There was no doubt in my mind the Hell’s Horsemen had taken plenty of people out over the years. Whereas none of the brothers had openly talked about their business in front of their wives and their kids, that hadn’t been the case with me. Like my mother, after my father had left for good, they were used to me hanging around the club. And either they didn’t notice me, or they considered me so incredibly insignificant they couldn’t have cared less how freely they spoke in front of me.

“Girl, you’re getting that ‘swallowed a dick’ look again.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Shut up.”

“Listen up, Teg,” Hayley said softly, leaning closer to me. “I get that your mom needs you and that you’re in a tough situation, but every time you go back there, to those people, you’re that much more miserable. As for ZZ, he’s not good for you either, slap-happy or not.”

She was right. Hell, she was always right. I was stuck inside a world I wanted nothing to do with but couldn’t seem to shake.

“Fuck it,” I muttered, shaking myself out of my depressing thoughts. “I’ll do dinner tonight. Without ZZ.”

Before I knew it, Hayley was on her feet, clapping her hands together excitedly. “Perfect!” she cried softly. Then she was halfway across the room, waving at me. “My place!” she called out. “Six o’clock! And dress to impress!”

It took a moment for her words to sink in, but when they did…

“Great,” I muttered, turning back to my computer. She was undoubtedly trying to set me up with one of her husband’s friends again. And while they were all nice guys, which seemed to be my biggest problem with them, they were pushovers, metrosexual girly men that did nothing for me except make me angry and want to slap them across the face with a lacy thong and ask them what they’d done with their balls.

A thin stack of papers appeared in my line of sight, blocking my gaze to my desktop’s keyboard. “Did you check this out yet?”

I glanced up at Malcolm, the managing editor of the small newspaper I worked for. He was short for a man, in his early thirties, kept his dark hair in a trendy faux-hawk, and wore Buddy Holly glasses. He’d also been trying to get in my pants from way back when I’d still been a lowly intern instead of the lowly copy editor I was today. But whatever, I loved my job, and I loved my coworkers far too much to let Malcolm, the horny hipster, bother me.

His unwanted attentions were infinitely preferable to horny bikers who were five times his size. Whereas a quick punch in the nuts or a restraining order would have Malcolm running for the hills, it would only encourage a certain other group of men I knew who would laugh their asses off if presented with a restraining order. And then fuck to death whoever had the audacity to get a restraining order in the first place.

One horny biker in particular came to mind.

The muscles in my legs tightened and, beneath my desk, my toes began to curl. Fucking hell, I was pathetic. It had been eight fucking years since that horrible night and even worse morning, yet my thoughts always led me back there…to him.

Cage.

Cage Fucking West.

What was it about being invited on the back of a bike that drove women crazy?

It was insulting.

Sexist.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

And it was hot as fuck.

“Tegen?”

My eyes flew open and I snatched the papers from Malcolm, leafed quickly through them, scanning over the articles inside.

“Yep,” I said, handing the pile back to him. “I put the final proofs in Mary’s drop box this morning.”

Nodding, Malcolm eyed me queerly. “Are you okay, Tegen? You seem…off.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, turning back to my computer, mentally berating myself for being so pathetic. I was a pathetic biker slut. Just like my mother.

No, I wasn’t like her. I’d taken off my rose-tinted glasses the very morning Cage had broken my heart.

I’d walked away.

I had walked away.

Me. I’d walked the fuck away.

And every visit home since, I’d made it my goal in life to ensure Cage never got close enough to hurt me again.

That was something.

Taking a deep breath, I leaned back in my chair and glanced up at the ceiling. Maybe whoever Hayley was going to try to set me up with tonight, I should give an actual chance. Maybe I needed a guy in my life who, no matter how many showers they took, didn't still reek of leather and exhaust fumes.

Maybe I needed…

Groaning, I slunk down in my desk chair and wondered if I could squeeze in a quick therapy session with my shrink before dinner. I’d even settle for over-the-phone head shrinkage.

Anything.

Something.

Fucking anything.