by Penny Reid
“It’s you.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the feminine voice, and then did a double take, flinching.
What the—?
The last person, the very last person I’d ever expect to be standing inside the Dragon Biker Bar, watching me like she knew me—or was looking for me?—was Diane Donner Sylvester, local businesswoman, socialite, and church-going glitterati.
What. The. Hell?
Her lips curved in a small smile and she waited, still watching, still looking up at me like we knew each other. For the record, we did not know each other. Everyone knew who she was, obviously. It was impossible to not know who Diane Donner Sylvester—wait, no. Just Donner. She’s divorced, or is about to be.
Eventually, because Diane Donner didn’t disappear after several seconds of confused staring, I said, “It’s me,” like an inane fool.
The woman blinked, rocking back on her heels, looking at the floor for a moment before taking a deep breath and lifting her chin, jaw set, eyes forward. I watched in complete disbelief as Diane Donner pulled off her jacket, revealing an outfit more commonly seen on teenagers going through a rebellious phase than a pillar of society and mother of two adult children.
Hanging the coat and a little purse on the back of the stool nearest to me, she smiled at Burro. “Good evening. What do y’all serve?”
“Whatever you want,” he said, openly gawking.
So was I.
And I made no attempt to hide my astonishment. Meanwhile, a shock of profound interest headed south. I stiffened, sobered by the stab of visceral attraction. Frowning, I searched the room, just to be sure she wasn’t a figment of my imagination and this wasn’t some joke. But no. Most eyes were on her. Well, technically, most eyes were on her body and most everyone seemed just as stunned as me.
Her sweet but firm voice said, “Let me think about it a minute.”
“Take your time,” came Burro’s bemused reply. “I got all night.”
I inhaled a deep breath, returning my attention to her, not quite sure what to make of the woman’s sudden presence here, at the Dragon Biker Bar. She was the implicit sovereign of Green Valley and top of the food chain, apparently out for a night with the bottom feeders. And—wait. Is that a . . . mini skirt? That’s a mini skirt.
Stifling a groan by gritting my teeth, I tore my gaze away. In my bafflement, I rubbed my eyes, but then abruptly stopped. This moment was akin to a dream I’d had too often, but we’d never been here and she’d never been dressed . . . like that.
“I thought I might find you here,” she muttered. To me.
I slid my eyes to her, wary for obvious reasons, and then to Burro. He’d mostly recovered and was now grinning in a toothy display at the woman, placing his hands wide on the bar top and trailing his eyes over her body admiringly.
Instinct had me snapping my fingers at him. “Hey. Burro. She’ll have what I’m having.”
“No, I won’t.” She said, all high and mighty, not looking at me. I studied her profile, still mired in my disbelief. Her cheeks were high in color, her lips fighting a smile. “I think I’ll have vodka. Neat. And two olives if you have them.”
Burro smirked and then bowed. “Of course, m’lady.”
She grinned at his slimy show of deference, which he returned with an appreciative raking of his eyes over her breasts. That was, until his attention came to me. I placed my hand on the back of Ms. Donner’s stool.
Don’t even fucking think about it.
Burro’s eyes dropped and he mumbled something about getting clean glasses from the back. Then he left because he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. I wasn’t sure what was happening, why she was here, or what she’d meant by, There you are, like she’d been looking for me in particular, but I would put my boot in Burro’s face before he laid a hand on her.
“What’s your name?” she asked, pulling me out of my violent thoughts.
Clearing my throat, I worked to keep my eyes forward. I failed. “You can call me Repo.”
Damn. Damn. This had been a crap year and the last thing we needed was this woman coming in here and stirring shit up. We didn’t need the attention. No one is going to touch her. No one. But that was easier said than done. I loved these guys like most folks loved their dogs. They were pack of good soldiers when it came to business, but they were also mostly feral otherwise and often chaotic.
It didn’t matter if she was twenty or fifty, a socialite or a whore or both. Walking in here, looking as fine as she did was a language my brethren interpreted as a tacit invitation to do whatever the fuck they wanted. The hour may still have been early. The party hadn’t yet officially started. But when it did, Diane Donner needed to be long gone.
“Mr. Repo,” she said, testing my club name and looking at me like the word Repo had given her the answer to a long-pondered question. “Nice to meet you, I’m Diane.” She extended her hand.
I looked at it and then at her, glaring.
When I didn’t take her offering, her pretty smile grew tight and she withdrew her hand, using it to tuck a few waves of blonde hair behind her ear. She had it down tonight. She usually wore it up.
“I’ve never been inside here before, but I’ve driven past.” She glanced around us, her eyes never seeming to settle. “I always wondered what it was like. I guess now I know.”
“Lady, what are you doing here?” I asked the most obvious question, not caring I sounded argumentative. She shouldn’t be here. If she stayed, she’d be mistreated. And if she was mistreated, she’d go to the police. And if she went to the police, well that was a headache I didn’t have time for.
Diane Donner Sylvester gave me an inscrutable once over. “Getting a drink. What are you doing here?”
“A drink?” Slowly, cautiously, I settled on the stood next to hers, staring with open hostility, hoping to unnerve her.
I wanted to say, Leave. It’s not safe. Go. But we had too many eyes on us, too many ears listening for me to reason with her. Besides, knowing what I did about the woman, I doubted she’d listen to reason.
“Yes, a drink. That’s what I said.” She didn’t look at me this time, her voice had grown impatient, and she wore a frustrated frown. “Why? Is that hard to believe?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly, my attention focusing over her shoulder to Gears and Wolf. They—like most everyone else—were watching us, making no attempt to hide their curiosity or lewd, appreciative stares. I set my jaw, waiting until they noticed my fuck off face. A tightness, a discomfort wrapped itself around my chest and squeezed.
“Why?”
“Pardon?” My eyes came back to the woman next to me and I found hers searching my features, as though looking for something.
“Why is it so hard to believe I’m here for a drink? This is a bar, isn’t it?”
“You don’t belong here.”
She didn’t like my answer, I knew this for a fact because in the next moment her frown became a scowl, what looked like disappointment and irritation making her lovely blue eyes burn hot and angry. Damn, but she was sexy when she was angry, flushed and breathing hard.
“Well, Mr. Repo. You’re kind of ruining my night. So, if you don’t mind . . .” she flicked her wrist, as though dismissing me. And fuck me, her dismissiveness sent another shock of interest straight south.
I didn’t leave, I couldn’t. If I did, someone would take my place and that was unthinkable. Her being here might result in a headache for me, but it would result in a hell of a lot more for someone like her. Shame. Terror. Maybe scars.
Damn. It.
I used the ensuing silence to take a second look of the woman, this time slower, working through my options. If hostility wouldn’t drive her out, I had to find another way.
Her lips were painted bright pink, as were her fingernails, and if I could see her toes, I bet they’d match. Despite the freezing cold outside, she wore a low-cut black tank top. The neckline plunged deep enough that the edge of her pink lacy bra flirted with a
nyone looking. The tops of her tits were on display, round and pushed up like two scoops of peaches and vanilla ice cream.
I licked my lips.
“Aren’t you gone yet?” She crossed her legs, drawing my eyes there. She didn’t have long legs, but they were proportionate to her hourglass body and the black miniskirt rode high up her shapely thigh. Her shoes were also black and looked expensive, four inches at least with a pointed toe. I bet she wore them with business suits during the week and I couldn’t help but think I’d like to see that.
“Diane—”
“You can call me Ms. Donner.”
Her teasing tone had me lifting my eyes in surprise and I found her watching me, her face just slightly turned in my direction, her pink lips pressed together primly, but her gaze held a challenge.
A smile I couldn’t help tugged on my lips. “You’re in my bar. I’ll call you whatever I want.”
She swiveled in the stool to face me, her calves bumping against my knees. “Oh? Is that so?”
“That is so.”
“And if you could call me anything, what would that be?” Diane Donner crossed her arms, her posture like that of a dancer, her back perfectly straight. The action pushed the swells of her breasts higher, showing me a little more of that lace bra, and my attention flicked there instinctively. Another shock of interest, this one more powerful and therefore unnerving, made concentrating difficult.
This was the very first time we’d spoken, but I’d seen this woman around town for years. For years. At Jess’s softball games, at the Piggly Wiggly, at the Church, downtown, the community center, once or twice at the Lodge when she’d been in her element. No matter the place, Diane Donner was in full command of herself as well as whatever room she entered. She was impressive, driven, brilliant, and assertive. And she was gorgeous. I mean, goddamn stunning. Always dolled up and dressed for the occasion in a way that screamed high maintenance, but so very worth it.
Which was why her choice in husband had never made sense.
Point was, this was a quality woman. Don’t misunderstand, there are many types of quality women. It was a spectrum, I reckoned. A recipe. This town had had its fair share, from the low maintenance, sweet natured kind like Bethany Winston and Janet James to the high maintenance, ambitious, cut-throat kind like Dolly Payton and Diane Donner, with the latter being precisely my type. Very, very much my type.
I, being an intelligent man, had learned to avoid my type decades ago.
Rubbing the beard on my chin, I considered this high-quality woman who checked all my boxes like she’d been custom ordered just for me. This was a respectable woman acting not at all respectable. Again, don’t misunderstand. I liked what she had on tonight. If we’d been alone instead of in this room with so many of my compatriots in crime, I’d have thoroughly enjoyed the moment. But with so many eyes looking their fill (and making plans should she lose interest in my company), I would’ve preferred her in a pantsuit and wool coat.
Furthermore, she was the mother of our most promising recruit in a decade. Thankfully, he was gone on assignment for a few weeks. He might be gone, but I didn’t want him hearing about this later. Not just that, but her daughter was involved with Cletus Winston, not someone I ever looked forward to tangling with, but who would definitely consider any interaction between me and Diane Donner a tangle.
So, what did I want to call her?
“How about . . .” Gorgeous.
“What?” she pressed when I didn’t finish the thought, scooting to the edge of her seat.
I poked my tongue at the corner of my mouth, admiring the color on hers. I couldn’t call her Gorgeous, not if I wanted her to leave soon. Which I did.
Her smile widened slowly, showcasing a row of perfect, pretty teeth, and she leaned forward, uncrossing her arms to place a hand on my thigh. “Don’t be shy.”
Despite myself, I chuckled. “I’m not shy.”
“You’re acting shy.” Her eyes danced.
Is Diane Donner. . . flirting? With me? The thought struck me as absurd, but it still struck me.
Half lidded, I gazed at her, irritated with myself for grinning, but unable to stop. She was. . . wish fulfilment. That’s what she was. A fantasy, like she’d stepped out of my dreams. And believe me, over the last twenty years, I’d had plenty. But I’d never made the mistake of entertaining any of them. I knew my place. Except, here she is. The noise of crude conversation around us faded, the smell of beer and smoke, the sight of my brothers.
I also leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, “I guess I’m a little shy.”
Now she laughed, looking delighted and her pleasure cast a spell. “Mr. Repo, what can I do to put you at ease? You know, contrary to what people say about me, I don’t bite.”
I clicked my tongue, acting mock disappointed. “That’s too bad.”
She laughed again, her hand moving up my leg. I glanced down at her pink fingernails on the black fabric. She had such small hands, and they looked soft, delicate. If this had truly been one of my fantasies, we’d be at an expensive restaurant, or a penthouse apartment. Not this shit bar surrounded by lost boys. You used to be a lost boy, not so long ago.
When I looked up, her eyes were on me and she held a drink. A large, sparkling clean glass of clear liquid with two olives on a toothpick. A toothpick was as fancy as Burro got. Usually, he offered a shot glass of dubious cleanliness, a bottle of cheap liquor, and that’s it.
She took a gulp—not a sip, a gulp—watching me over the rim, her eyes warm with interest. “You know—” she licked her lips of the liquor, not flinching at the burn as she swallowed, which made me wonder if Burro had given her water instead of vodka or if she’d already been drinking before walking in “—I’ve always wondered something about you.”
“What’s that?” I leaned my elbow on the bar next to us, drawing my index finger along my bottom lip as I stared at hers, ignoring the voice in the back of my head screaming at me to get her out of the bar. She was already here, a rare opportunity, what could be the harm in another few minutes? Then, I’ll make her leave.
“I know who you are. I’ve seen you around town lots of times,” she said, angling her chin again. “I came in here tonight looking for you.”
“Is that so?” I inclined my head, surprised. Louisa, my daughter’s birth mother, had always said people like me were invisible to people like her, and her family, and the society she kept. People like Diane Donner, with her fine manners and big houses and legitimate bank accounts.
“That is so,” she said, parroting my earlier words, her gaze growing intense, determined. “You’re hard to ignore, Mr. Repo, even though you do your best to hide in plain sight. You’re too tall, your features too striking. And, you know, every time I see you, I wondered—” after a moment of hesitation, she used her grip on my thigh to leverage herself, leaning forward until her lips were against my ear “—I always wondered what it would be like to fuck you.”
Her words sent a spike of heat straight down my spine and I needed a moment. Automatically, my hand lifted and slid to the curve of her lower back, keeping her in place. My blood pumped hot and thick as the scent of her expensive perfume mixed with the meaning and implied invitation of her statement. She lifted just her head, her lips just two inches away, her eyes coming to mine and holding a prideful dare as she waited for me to respond.
I studied her, smelling no liquor on her breath. Her eyes were bright and she was steady. She looked sober, she was here for me, this was premeditated, and I’d be lying if I said every instinct didn’t tell me to toss her over my shoulder, take her to one of the rooms, and give her exactly what she was asking for. She was thirsty for my cock? I’d be happy to feed it to her all night.
Except . . .
Despite the thrill of such filthy words coming from her respectable mouth, despite the fact that this was a woman I’d often fantasized about and this moment was every one of those fantasies come true, better judgement had me pausing. Think
ing. Considering. Weighing.
I would have absolutely no regrets in the morning. I’d happily take this one night and I’d make damn sure she had no complaints. She’d roll out of here with a smile on her face.
But after leaving with a smile, I suspected this moment and everything that might come after would be a source of shame for her. Women like Diane weren’t raised to enjoy sex. They were raised feel shame if they did. Fact was, she probably came in the bar hoping for mistreatment, wanting to be used. Otherwise, why would she be here? Why seek out someone like me?
I wouldn’t mistreat her, ever. I’d be a gentle as a saint, a horny saint, but it wouldn’t matter. I’d be a dark stain on her glowing record of perfect choices. A regret. I’d sworn long ago to never be a regret for another woman ever again.
My tunnel vision receded as I shoved away the carnal longing she inspired. Our surrounding came into sharp focus once more. Gears still watched me—us. So did Catfish and Drill. In fact, most of my brethren were sneaking glances, some more obvious and bold with their inspections than others. Behind Diane, King and Grizz were checking out her ass, and Chuck seemed like he was working himself up to come over, should the lady shoot me down or vice versa.
Ultimately, I swallowed down temptation and guided her back to her stool as I stood. “Come on.” I grabbed her jacket and purse with one hand and her arm with the other.
She batted her eyelashes at me, excitement and a fair amount of fear sparking behind her eyes. “Where are we going?”
I bent close and said, “I’m taking you home.”
She stiffened immediately and hissed. “I don’t wish to go home.”
Diane twisted her arm out of my grip, her smile gone, and she picked up her drink again. I saw and felt the shift in the room, predators pressing closer.
I took her drink out of her grip, setting it down on the bar top and whispering in her ear harshly, “You need to leave. Now. I’ll walk you to your car.”