Rev
WHEN I PULL UP for our date, Evie flies out the door of her house. I swing off my bike and intercept her coming down the path. Pretty sure that’s in the dating rulebook, but I just want an excuse to put my hands on her. Her jeans hug her ass and legs, the faded denim disappearing into a pair of boots that are perfect spank bank material. They lace up her calves, the tall heel giving her step a sexy swing. The fitted pink T-shirt cupping her tits is even better, as is the ponytail I could fist while I drill into her. Hold her still for my kiss.
Christ.
I’m supposed to be dating her, not mentally stripping her on the sidewalk.
“Hey.” I cup her elbows, drawing her close. Brush a kiss over her mouth.
“Rev.” Her smile makes me feel like I just won gold in the world’s biggest competition. I do a quick sanity check, and spot the brown leather jacket dangling from her fingers. Good. Don’t want her getting chewed up on the road.
“Come on.” I curl my fingers around hers and tug her toward my bike. Even as a preacher’s kid, I got more than my share of girls growing up, but we weren’t in it for the long haul. I was the king of fun and sex, but that was as far as it went. Kind of like taking the bike from one side of town to the other, when this thing with Evie is more long-distance haul, the best kind of ride on the highway where I can open it up and just ride wherever the road leads.
I pop a helmet on her head and straddle the bike. She swings on behind me like she’s been doing that all her life. Her legs grip my hips, her pussy tucked against my ass. She slides her arms around my stomach, linking her fingers just above my belt buckle. Heading back inside her place sounds better and better. Instead, I take us to the Strip. Figure she’s never ridden down it on the back of a bike.
First time I’ve ever been glad for traffic, too. The Strip’s jammed with cars and those vans with the twelve-foot dirty pictures of women inviting guys to call now for the ultimate party. Surprised the T&A display doesn’t cause more accidents, frankly. When the lights change, we wait for the crowds of sightseeing, gambling, drunk-ass people to cross.
She admires the view and I admire her. Figure it’s a fair trade. Whenever she shifts to look at something new, her tits skim my back. You know those little brush things percussionists use on their cymbals? She plays me just like that. Each time I feel Evie against me, soft and gentle, I get harder and the urge to toss all my plans—for protecting her and the club’s interests—grows stronger. I mean, fuck—we’re surrounded by hotels with rooms for rent. Not like I’m not gonna get ideas about Evie, a bed and a few hours of alone time.
But that’s not what she wants. I mean, I could talk her into it. Slide my hand back between us and stroke her through her jeans until she’s squirming and begging for it. Evie’s hot and she’s lonely. It would feel really good too until it was over. And then what? Shit would get awkward.
She makes another happy noise and does more squirming. My dick’s about to bust out of my jeans, so I look around, desperate for a distraction. We’re idling in traffic right in front of Paris Las Vegas. Not content with little French bistros, the developers decided to recreate the entire Eiffel Tower. It soars above us like some big French dick. At night, it’s lit up and the view from the top rocks. Went up there once and watched the fountains at the Bellagio shoot off.
“You ever been to France?” That’s me. King of the fucking small talk.
I feel her shake her head. “I’d like to go. And you?”
“Never.” I fight the urge to head straight to the airport. Airlines never fill all of their seats. Bet we could be on a flight headed to France before tomorrow. Instead, I take us out to Red Rock. They’ve got a thirteen-mile scenic drive that I think she’ll like. It’s not the most romantic shit in the world, but riding’s who I am. It’s what I do.
We spend a couple of hours exploring the rock formations. The sun goes down late in the summer, so we’ve still got more shadows than dark when we head back. Although the road’s been more or less empty the last hour or so, there’s an SUV coming up fast behind us now, one of those big, black numbers you see in the movies or in the hands of the Feds. Probably just some suburban wannabe who likes driving the biggest goddamned thing in the parking lot, but I don’t like its speed. I consider pulling my gun, but this is my fucking date. Reaching between us to grab my piece won’t endear me to Evie. So I ride, watching our company in my mirror.
The SUV gains.
I could cut across the sand right now, but that’s not a smooth ride.
“Think we might have company,” I tell her.
Of course she twists, scouting for trouble. Bastards know we know they’re there now. The SUV responds by accelerating until they’re riding my ass. Don’t think they’re actually out for blood, because we’re an easy target out here. Question is what they do want.
That’s when the second SUV crests a small rise in the road in front of us. Fuck. That’s not good. Looks like they have a plan after all. I should have kept the club’s eyes on Evie, but I wanted this date with her. Didn’t want to share her, but full coverage would have been good now.
“Shit may get rocky,” I warn her. “Need you to hang on tight and do whatever I say, you hear me? Not the time for any independent bullshit.”
God bless her, Evie threads her fingers through my belt and her grip on my legs tightens.
Thirty seconds later, the first shot rings out, kicking up gravel two feet to the right of the bike. Evie screams a curse into my ear and her hands almost cut me in half. Good girl.
In order to fire back, I’ll have to slow down, reach behind me and free my piece. Not like it’s rocket science, but I don’t know how Evie’s gonna react. I’m licensed to conceal-carry, but there’s some shit we haven’t talked about yet. Right now, my safest bet is to ride like hell and get her under cover. I double-check the fuel tank, but it’s not a long ride—just a hard one.
The fuckers in the SUV behind us pop off another series of shots. Can’t tell if they’re missing on purpose or just that bad.
“Hold on,” I bark and hang a hard right. We fly off the road, the bike’s front end slamming down into a sand wash. I throttle back as much as I can because the desert’s not a hospitality suite and a flat tire or a hidden rock now would kill us. Hell, a tip-over wouldn’t be better—the shooter could pick us off from the shoulder. The scenery snaps past us in a wild rush, sand kicking up as we tear through the mesquite. Low-hanging branches slap at us as I weave through the rough, aiming for the rocky canyons. As soon as we’re under cover, I kill the motor. Highway’s a good mile behind us, and it’s practically silent.
Evie hasn’t let go once.
I reach around between us and slip my gun free.
I scoop her up and drag her into my lap. “You okay?” Since I really need to know the answer to that, seems like the right place to start.
“No.” She makes a little hiccupping sound. Shit. Is she crying? I don’t want to take my eyes off the road, because those SUV-driving bastards may be coming after us, but is she hurt? I didn’t feel her take a hit, but anything’s possible.
Fuck it.
“Where are you hurt?” I pat her down, not waiting for her answer. She looks fine. No visible entrance or exit wounds. No blood. She’s just pale, those goddamned tears spilling down her cheeks and punching a hole in me.
“Somebody tried to kill us.”
In her nice, safe, normal world, people don’t gun for other people. They probably say please and thank you all the time, too, go to church on Sundays and feed the homeless. My world—Rocker’s world—is different.
She burrows her face into my chest and I ignore the spreading damp patch. The SUV’s stopped on the shoulder. Nobody gets out, however, and a couple of minutes later, it pulls back onto the highway, headed toward Vegas.
Thank fuck when she lifts her head, she’s not crying anymore. “Were those Colombians?”
Since no one stopped and made introductions, there’s no way to know. It’s entirely possible that her fuckwit brother has pissed off multiple groups of people—or that they were gunning for me.
“Definite possibility,” I bite out before I can lift her off the bike, take her to the ground and get inside her. We’re in the desert, for Christ’s sake, and shit’s happened that she’s upset about. I should not be thinking about pushing her shirt up, her jeans down, and ripping her panties off.
I’m a biker, not a fucking psychologist. Evie’s face twists and she bites down on her lower lip hard enough to bleed. Hearing your shit’s gone south isn’t good news, so there’s probably something else I’m supposed to say here, but all I can think is what the fuck was Rocker thinking? Her brother should have known this would hurt her. All I can do is pat her back like an idiot, making sure my body’s between hers and anyone coming at us.
“Pretty sure that was someone making a point. I think we should head back,” I say slowly. Don’t want to scare her more, but we’re not in a great position here. I text my president because he needs to know what’s up. Hawke promises to send some brothers to check out Evie’s place. Good. No point in riding into an ambush. I fire off a couple more texts while I’m at it, because you can never have too much security.
“What did Rocker get himself into?”
We’ve gone over this once before, but she wasn’t ready to listen. Now, she is. That’s the power of show-and-tell for you, ladies and gentlemen.
“Bad shit.” I shrug. “Moving product isn’t the safest thing, but there are better and worse ways to do it. He’s definitely picked the worse way.”
Too blunt? Too bad. Lying gets people killed and she deserves the truth.
“There’s no way for you to get him out of this?” She stares at me as if I’m some kind of superhero, and for her, I’d like to be.
“Not sure,” I admit. “Gonna find out for you, okay? Just give me a little time, Evie.”
“He might die,” she says way too softly.
Not much I can say, because it’s the truth. Her brother has a goddamned death wish.