Wild Side

by Cynthia Ayman

  Wild Side

  Cynthia Ayman

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Note from the author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018 by Cynthia Ayman

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cynthia.Ayman1982@gmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Image used under license from Shutterstock.com

  Cover by Liduario Design

  To Danka, the bae to end all baes.

  You might never get the beauty of moonbows,

  but you understand everything that matters.

  Always.

  Chapter 1

  Abby

  Christina was right.

  There really is nothing more dangerous than a man with charm and tattooed arms.

  It’s not that I’m shallow, don’t get me wrong. I need a good personality, a decent IQ and, at the very least, a hint of humor to even entertain the possibility of a date.

  Well, that, or a hot body covered in tattoos, apparently. Because, hello, Mr. Hottie sitting on the other side of the bar, I would love a helping of that, with a little bit of whipped cream on the side.

  Yes. For your dick. What can I say? I’m feeling a little frisky, and I just know that licking every single inch of your ink-covered skin is going to fill me up like a Vegas buffet.

  Not that I’m positive about the tattoo thing, since the guy is still fully clothed - unfortunately. But his arms are visible, thanks to the white T-shirt that superbly showcases his biceps, and the crew neck is hinting that the tattoos don’t stop at the sleeves.

  The light might be dim inside the bar, but I can see that his hair is dark, his jaw strong with a manly scruff that I already imagine wreaking havoc between my legs. He’s having a beer, his hand seemingly large around the bottle and, when he takes a long pull, I’m instantly attracted to his lips. Full. Without the scruff, they might actually be too full, almost feminine. But with that five o’clock shadow? It works. It really works.

  Suddenly, agreeing to be the backup bridesmaid for my cousin’s wedding doesn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore. I mean, of course, my fifteen-year-old car breaking down in the middle of nowhere sucks. Ending up in this bar that seemed more than a little shady from the outside wasn’t my plan either. But there is a motel not far away, and the mechanic who rescued me with his tow truck assured me that Bertha would be ready to roll by tomorrow morning at the latest, leaving me plenty of time to make it to Sonoma for the four o’clock ceremony.

  It would be such a shame if I missed Cassie-the-bitch marrying Todd-the-knob, after all. And my mom would be all over my ass for the next year or two, something I’m definitely not looking forward to. She already has enough ammo with my love life - or lack thereof.

  It’s not that I love being single. I mean, I don’t mind it. I’d love to find someone who just… gets me. So far, it hasn’t happened, and I don’t feel desperate enough to settle down with the first decent guy who crosses my path. I’m twenty-eight, I have my own business, a few good friends, a cat, and the entire FRIENDS anthology, so life is pretty good, I would say. I could use a little more money, or at least enough to get a new car, but it’s in my plans for next year, right next to losing ten pounds.

  OK, fine… twenty. I just don’t like setting myself up for failure and, in my line of work, losing weight is freaking hard. I’m a baker. Which means my whole life is dedicated to cupcakes and pastries. I know. It sucks.

  I’m about to finish my white wine, my eyes now roaming over Mr. Hottie’s chest, when I finally notice that he’s not just wearing a white T-shirt.

  No. He has a vest over it. How did I not notice it before? I want to say the tattoos distracted me, but to be fair his face is quite handsome too. My poor brain probably wanted to spare me because… this is not just a vest.

  It’s black. Obviously leather. With patches.

  Holy mother of all Holy Grails, Mr. Hottie is a biker.

  I’m not positive my panties survived my discovery, so I shift on my chair, discreetly making sure that they are still attached to my butt. Still there. Good. I’m wearing a flowy skirt and even though I’m assaulted by mental pictures of us going at it against a wall, I also don’t want to risk flashing the two old dudes sitting on my left.

  I gulp down the last of my wine and reach inside my purse to grab my phone, because there is no way Val is going to believe me when I tell her I managed to find the one biker who doesn’t look like Bobby from Sons of Anarchy. Because, let’s be honest here, real bikers aren’t like Jax. Only in my favorite romance novels do they all look like they just escaped Magic Mike.

  Except, I’m wrong. Obviously, I’m wrong. I have the evidence right in front of me: I found the El Dorado.

  My teeth digging into my lower lip while I imagine him as my screensaver, I discreetly raise my iPhone, blessing its camera for still doing a good job despite the shitty light. It’s good that the bar is rather empty, and only the bartender, a guy named Wyatt, is there to observe me. He is eyeing me as he dries a glass, but I’ll never see him again and as long as Mr. Hottie doesn’t-

  Fuck.

  He does.

  He totally sees me. He is staring right at the camera.

  At first, it’s a blank look. Then a smirk lifts the corner of his lips as he cocks an eyebrow. Slowly.

  His eyes are dark too, from what I can see. Because, yes, I’m zooming in. He already saw me anyway, and I’m not leaving this bar without proof. I just spotted the sexual equivalent of Bigfoot, for God’s sake. I’ll just pretend I’m checking to see if I don’t have anything between my teeth. I give my phone one of those fake, stiff toothy grins we usually only make when we suspect our spinach salad might have caused a dental disaster. I must look a little silly but better that than him knowing I’m playing paparazzi.

  It’s a good plan, and it works too.

  Until the flash goes off.

  Chapter 2

  Abby

  “What do you mean, you ran away?!” Val screeches in my ear.

  I roll my eyes. “What the hell were you expecting me to do? He literally saw me, hell, the entire bar and its five patrons saw me taking his picture like a creep. Of course, I ran away!”

  “But he could have been your first one-night stand, Abby!”

  “Oh yeah. Because the super-hot biker would totally be down with little old me,” I snort as I sit down on the bed. “It’s just too bad he will never see my squirrel pajamas, I’m sure that would be enough to have him fall at my feet and go down on me
all night long.”

  “You do know that one-night stands involve ripping clothes off each other, not excusing yourself to change into your PJ’s in the bathroom, right?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “I just can’t believe it. He looks so hot. Did you see his bike?”

  “I think so. There was one on the parking lot, at least.”

  “How was it?”

  “Big enough to be bent over it comfortably,” I admit with a sigh. Not that I’ve been thinking about it. Of course not. I’m not a perv.

  Fine. I also took a picture of the bike, sue me.

  “Oh my God,” Val whines. “You know it’s my number one fantasy.”

  “It’s every woman’s number one fantasy. That or a firefighter with a big hose.”

  “At least this little trip will have been worth it.”

  “Definitely. Highlight of the entire weekend, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Damn, Abby. A biker.”

  “I know, I know. I let my entire gender down with that one.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, good luck tomorrow and fingers crossed you don’t end up with Todd-the-knob’s little brother.”

  I groan and hang up, knowing that, with my luck, the annoying kid is exactly who I’m going to be paired with. Yet, as I start switching channels on the television, my mind drifts off to a man who is definitely not a kid, and I can’t help but think that Val is right. I might have very well screwed up my one and only chance of a night of wild kinky sex with a biker. It’s not like there were a lot of other women in the bar, and bikers are supposed to be horny all the time according to the scientifically acclaimed Randy Bastards MC series.

  God, I wish I had brought my vibrator.

  The knock on my door startles me even though Mick, the mechanic, called earlier to say he would bring my car back. I must be slower to gather my bearings than I thought because a deep, grave voice shouts, “Miss Jones, I’m bringing your car back.”

  Uh? Mick didn’t sound like that at all. But then again, there were several men working in the garage from what I saw.

  Still. My mom didn’t raise an idiot. I leave the safety chain on to peek and, sure enough, my loyal Bertha is parked right in front of my room.

  And Mr. Hottie himself is holding out my keys with a smirk that tells me he knew exactly who he was bringing the car back to.

  Fuck.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I pissed off a biker. He’s part of a gang and I probably broke some code and he’s going to kill me then cut me into tiny pieces, and my cat is going to die because no one will feed him.

  “Miss Jones?” he asks again while I just stare at him, thinking that, really, Doodle doesn’t deserve to die that way. He’s a good cat. He’s afraid of spiders, but he’s a good kitty.

  “I’ll delete it,” I say in a small voice. “I mean, them. I’ll delete them.”

  He pauses then, his mouth twitching as if he’s trying to keep a smile at bay. “You took more than one picture?”

  “I… your bike, I think. The big black thing? I… well. You have a big machine.”

  “That I do.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about his bike.

  It’s still somewhat light outside. It’s early October, and the days are long enough that the night hasn’t fallen yet. He is only a couple feet away from me and, even though he is going to murder me slowly but surely, I can’t help but notice that he is even more attractive than I thought. His eyes are brown, a rich, chocolate-y brown, and his nose seems to have been broken in the past. He has a thin scar running on the side of his forehead and he is tall. As tall as my dad, who is six foot one. I can also see that the T-shirt is tight around his torso, and I’m pretty sure he has a six-pack. If I die, at least the view will be nice.

  “You’re not Mick,” I eventually say, still partly protected by the door. He’s not trying to make me open it, I notice oddly.

  Of course not. He doesn’t need to. He probably has a gun and a silencer and-

  “I’m glad you can see the difference between us.”

  It would be hard not to. Mick is probably in his fifties, early sixties and looks like a rough version of Santa Claus, one who likes spiked eggnogs with a joint on the side.

  “I co-own the workshop. We don’t have a lot of attractive brunettes needing a tow around here. I figured you were my little paparazzi and thought maybe I should offer you the chance to get a decent shot. The lighting at The Hoose is shit.”

  “It really is,” I find myself agreeing as I finally gather enough courage to open the door. I take a deep breath, hoping like hell that I won’t regret my decision, and I’m surprised when he automatically takes a step back as if sensing I might not be comfortable with him so close to me.

  He hands me the keys, his eyes seeking mine. They’re warm, warmer than I would have thought for a biker, and I instantly reach out to take the keys from his hand. “How much do I owe you? I’m afraid I might not have enough cash with me, but there’s an ATM at the front desk, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes.”

  He shakes his head. “It was just the battery. We didn’t have a spare one for you, but we recharged it. You should be fine for a few days but it’s an old one, so maybe consider changing it. Hell… you should consider changing the entire car.”

  “It’s in my plans,” I murmur. “You still spent some time on it. I should pay you.”

  “Let’s say it was included in the towing fee.” He winks at me and I swear my toes react. They literally curl.

  “Well, then… thank you.” I stare at him stupidly, wondering if I should say something else because he’s not moving. Not that I want him to move. The guy is hot, and I wouldn’t mind gazing at him for an hour or two.

  He looks at me too, his head slightly cocked to the side as if he’s trying to figure me out. Why, I don’t know. I’m a simple girl, with simple desires. For instance, right now, I just want to sprawl in a lounge chair while he takes his shirt off and does manly things in my garden.

  Since I live in a small apartment with just a balcony, I’m obviously not talking about a backyard, by the way.

  “Wanna go for a ride?” he asks suddenly.

  Oh. Silly me. He wants me to test-drive my car to make sure everything is OK. “No. I trust you. I mean, it worked fine when you drove it, right?”

  He gives me a smile. “I didn’t mean in your car.”

  I swoon a little.

  My hot biker has dimples, and I could weep because it’s just not fair. The guy is the whole package.

  He probably has a small dick, a voice whispers in my head, and I find myself nodding in agreement. Yeah. There has to be a catch. There always is.

  “Perfect. Let’s go,” he says, and it catches me off guard.

  Wait. I didn’t say yes. Did I? Crap. I nodded. “I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out, trying to gain enough time to come up with a better excuse than “I’d love to, but I have to wash my hair.”

  “It’s Apa.”

  Apa? What kind of name is that?

  I frown at him because hell, he’s ruining my fantasies. I can’t picture myself screaming “Apa!” at the top of my lungs. I just can’t. That’s just not an orgasm-providing name.

  “It’s my road name,” he explains patiently as if he’s used to people asking questions about it.

  “Apa?”

  “Apa.”

  “O… kay then. Nice to meet you, Apa. My name is-”

  “Abigail Jones. I know.”

  “Abby,” I correct automatically.

  “Abby,” he repeats, and I swear my name rolls on his tongue like he is savoring a glass of Pinot Noir.

  It takes me a few seconds to stop wondering how it would sound if he whispered it mid-climax. I fan myself at the mental picture it creates, and he looks at me with a small smile again. Right. We were talking, and he offered to take me on a ride. I lower my hand and take a deep breath, preparing myself to turn down the hottest guy on Earth. Wait, no, not on Earth. Thor is
real, his name is Chris Hemsworth, and he is from Australia, which is definitely on Earth. Hottest guy in Edmond, California, then. “Listen, I can’t go on a ride with you. I don’t even know you.”

  “I figured you’d say that. Have you had dinner?”

  “No. I was going to order a pizza.”

  “Can I take you out instead? We can get to know each other then.” He gives me another of his dimpled smiles, and I can’t help but narrow my eyes at him. Why does he want to have dinner with me? He doesn’t even know me. I’m not a troll, but I’m not Sofia Vergara either. I’m obviously just stopping for the night, and I doubt he has a hard time dating with the way he looks.

  “I don’t want to be suspicious but… why?”

  He exhales slowly then shoves his hands in his pockets. “I wanted to offer you a drink earlier, but you flew out the door so fast I didn’t have the time. When Mick told me about the cute brunette whose car had broken down, I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence. I took it as a sign.” He pauses then with a teasing grin. “I mean a second sign. Not as good as the one your flash made when it lit up the entire bar, but still a decent one.”

  OK. Bikers are not supposed to be cute. I’m not really sure what to do with him. I’m also not sure I am not dreaming because this? This doesn’t happen in real life. At least not to girls like me. I’m not one to throw caution to the wind and find myself in a situation where I could have dinner with a guy I literally never met before.

  I’m about to listen to my chicken-self when Val’s voice echoes through my head. This is your chance, she is hissing. Do it for the womankind. Also take notes. Maybe a few pics. A sketch on a napkin works, too. Even in my head she is insistent and doesn’t leave me much of a choice.

  “I’m taking my car,” I say before I can change my mind. I might be willing to take one for the team but I’m not stupid enough to have no way back to the safety of my motel if things go south.

  He nods and lifts his hands in a soothing motion, as if to say “I’m not expecting anything.”

  Which, again, doesn’t make sense. All my stranger danger alarm bells should be ringing at the moment. But they’re not.