Ruled

by Anne Marsh

  “I have a friend of yours here who wants your number,” I say carefully. Pretty sure this is the trouble he mentioned back at the lake.

  “Sure.” There’s enough background noise for me to be almost certain Rocker’s parked at a bar somewhere.

  “He says his name is Rev.”

  As my brother silently digests that revelation, Rev moves closer still and traces a finger over my ear. He smells good, although I wish I didn’t have a secret thing for leather and man. Plus, he has no business touching me. I shake my head as if he’s some kind of annoying gnat, but he just drops his fingers to my jaw and then plays with my hair as if I’m his own personal toy. Big fingers carefully untangle a snarl and smooth the strands down. I slap at his fingers with my free hand and he grins.

  Rocker promptly proves that his brotherly radar still works fine. “He right there?”

  “Couldn’t get much closer,” I tell him.

  “Rev’s not a nice guy,” he says slowly. “And I don’t want him around you.”

  News flash—I’ve already determined the not nice part for myself. In fact, it’s probably twelve inches long and located directly behind the zipper of his jeans. I look him up and down, or as much as I can since the man still has me pinned up against the RV. Somehow, I can’t work up any indignation. Later, I’ll regret letting him walk all over me in public view, but right now I’m enjoying the feel of his big, muscled body touching mine. It’s been way too long since I had someone just hold me.

  I focus on breathing in, hold for a count of three, and then out, because maybe then I won’t say something I shouldn’t. “Good to know, but I think he still wants to talk to you.”

  “He absolutely does, princess.” Rev plucks the phone out of my hand. While I’m trying to figure out how I feel about that, he and Rocker go back and forth on a possible get together. Rev doesn’t stop staring at me, either, one hand braced by my face and the other wrapped around my phone. The man’s a talented multitasker, because his fingers keep grazing my cheek, sending little skitters down my spine.

  Why am I standing here letting him take charge? Because you like it, my bad voice whispers (or shrieks gleefully in my head). Damn. It. I reach for his wrist as he signs off the call. I still can’t tell if he and Rocker are friends, if Rocker owes him money (which would be a bad idea), or if there’s something else entirely between them (which would be even worse). But there’s something. There’s definitely something.

  “Return my phone.”

  His face doesn’t reveal a flicker of emotion. Bet he could make a killing playing poker on the Strip. “This isn’t a democracy. You got a pen hiding in that dress, sunshine?”

  His gaze flicks over me. Maybe he’s looking for said pen—or maybe he just likes looking...at me. Shit. The hard-eyed steely-stare thing he’s got going on is not supposed to be a turn-on. My inner bad girl, however, won’t be shut down without a fight. She thinks we should jump him. Right here on the sunburned, stabby lawn works for that hussy. I opt for going on the defensive.

  “Don’t call me sunshine.”

  He shrugs. “You’re the one in the big yellow dress.”

  “Occupational hazard.” I yank a business card out of my cleavage and slap it in his empty palm. The move may not be the classiest, but the look on his face is worth it. Naturally, birthday parties for the two-to five-year-old crowd are not his territory. He’s undoubtedly more into murder and mayhem.

  “You want a princess to grace your next party? I make it happen. Forty dresses that drip sparkles, fairy wings, tiaras and enough faux glass slippers to shoe an entire beauty pageant—we’ll have a real good time. I promise.”

  He makes a rough sound. Can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or if I’ve actually managed to shock the big, bad biker. “Since when do princesses have wings?”

  Clearly, he has limited knowledge of five-year-old girls.

  “All the best princesses can fly,” I inform him. Unlike him, I have extensive knowledge of five-year-old girls, and their preference for fairy princesses have been made abundantly clear to me. Ergo, I’ve responded to my market demands (and hey, I like wings and sparkles, too).

  This time, he definitely snorts. “Why don’t you fly your ass on inside that RV and grab a pen?”

  I don’t have to think about that “request” too hard. The man needs to work on his manners.

  I don’t budge. “Rocker’s not your number-one fan.”

  He grunts and returns his gaze to my phone. “He wants you safe. You should listen to him.”

  “You should know something about me,” I tell him.

  “What’s that, Evie?”

  “I’m not big on orders.”

  He actually winks at me. “Bet you’d feel differently in bed.”

  I really shouldn’t hit him, not when there’s a birthday party happening in the backyard behind us, but the urge is almost overwhelming. This man has no filter. “Do you have any idea how insulting you are?”

  He shrugs and texts something from my phone, before looking me in the eye. God, the man might be filterless, but he does have gorgeous eyes. “Put my number in your contacts.”

  Um. Okay. And perhaps hell will freeze over despite the record hundred-and-something-degrees Vegas weather. I reach for my phone, but he holds it just out of reach. “If I change my position on order-taking, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

  “Thought maybe we could get together sometime,” he says.

  Didn’t see that one coming.

  “You want to go out on a date with me?”

  “It’s a free country—you don’t have to say yes. Thought you might like a ride on my bike or a drink.”

  He wants to give. Me. A ride. My brain stutters. The bike parked by the curb is a big, death-defying, powerful menace. Black leather saddlebags hang off the side that I’d bet my sheet cake he doesn’t use to transport groceries or crap from a Target run. Riding anywhere with a strange man would be crazy.

  He has a friend with him, too, another man I’ve never met before. When I peer over Rev’s shoulders a little myopically (the best princesses don’t pair glasses with fairy wings and this particular princess has run out of disposable contacts), the guy offers me a slow grin and a little waggle of his fingers. He certainly makes pretty eye candy, but I prefer Mr. Tall, Dark and Grumpy.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s the dress, isn’t it?”

  He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “You think I’ve got a thing for sparkly shit?”

  There isn’t a man alive who looks rougher and fiercer than Rev. I’m trying to figure out a polite way to tell him so when he tucks the phone back inside my dress before I can so much as squeak out a protest. The backs of his fingers brush against the top of my boobs, issuing an invitation of their own.

  I have to be more cautious. From the rising volume of the squeals emanating from the backyard, cake consumption has concluded and the party will be wrapping up as the sugar highs hit, the early departers fleeing past my RV parked out front. Spotting the princess in an R-rated embrace with a biker would be bad for my business. You can’t be a dirty girl and host children’s birthday parties for a living. The moms will kill you. Fortunately, the moms aren’t mind readers. I’m only a party-perfect princess on the outside. Riding anywhere with Rev would be career suicide.

  My bad voice promptly weighs in. But only if you get caught.

  “I don’t do bikers.”

  Something flashes across Rev’s face. “You don’t get hurt on my watch. I promise.”

  “You’re not an ax murderer?”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wallet attached to his belt by a silver chain. Silently, he flips it open and holds it out so I can read his driver’s license. There’s a military ID underneath it, too, the kind of card that gets you into Nellis Air Force Base.

  “Your na
me isn’t Rev.” According to the State of Nevada’s laminated plastic, he’s one Jaxon Brady.

  “Road name,” he says tersely.

  I examine the license again. He’s also turning thirty-three in four weeks. I bet he won’t be booking a celebratory princess party.

  “Wow.” I hand back his wallet. “Former navy?”

  He nods, as if it’s no big deal. “SEAL. You’d be safe with me.”

  He’s not big on talking. Or negotiating, asking, or sweet-talking. I’ve always trusted my instincts, though, and right now they’re on board with Rev Brady. Completely, totally, 100 percent in favor of getting on this man’s bike and riding off with him. Somewhere. Wherever he wants to go. He’s big and strong and tempting. He’s fought for our country and kept everyone safe.

  How bad can he be?

  The little voice in my head pipes right up. How bad do you want him to be?

  That voice needs a gag.

  “Think about it,” he says and then he turns and saunters toward his bike. I stand there, watching his ass the whole way, and wondering why I don’t mind his attitude. He’s scary as shit. He’s not Mr. White Picket Fence and he’s not promising happily ever after, but the man has a fantastic butt and I’m lonely. That’s all it is. I need to get out more, need to make a point of seeing someone.

  Someone else.

  Anyone else.

  There are absolutely, positively no bikers anywhere in my future.

  Chapter Four

  Eve

  THE CARNIVAL MUSIC vibrates through every inch of my body, and I lose myself in the beat. I love everything about hitting the Strip, from getting dolled up to the pulse-pounding, searing rhythm of the clubs. Everybody’s equal on the dance floor, all part of the same moving, gyrating body. On the Strip, you end up packed too close to even tell who can dance and who’s merely enthusiastic. It’s exactly what I need, my happy place where I can let go and all that matters is finding my next breath and the rhythm.

  Unlike my day-job wear, my dress tonight barely skims my butt. Sequins cover the short pink tank dress and whenever the lights hit me, I light the place up. Over the top? Check. Girly as hell? Check, check. The first stop on tonight’s girls’ night out is Circus Circus and Samantha and I have already hit the Midway and gone two rounds on the roller coaster. I’m barefoot because I kicked off my shoes as soon as we scored a table, and right now it’s officially fun time. And while I usually keep busy, busy, busy, it feels good to have some time off. Tonight I can let go and enjoy life. Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about the bills, the taxes and the fourteen hundred other items on my to-do list.

  I could start with that man headed toward our table. He’s good-looking, he’s definitely friendly and he’s managed to hunt down a cocktail waitress with a tray of drinks.

  Jack. His name is Jack. I’m too old or too tired—too something—because I have to fight the urge to write his name on my hand lest I forget it. I’d been hoping he’d rate higher on the droolworthy factor.

  “I told you he was even cuter in person,” Samantha crows as she catches me watching Jack. Unlike so many dating app pictures, he actually looks like the picture I picked out on my phone at the lake. Turns out, the six intervening days have not been enough time to rediscover my libido. I’ve done some solo workouts in bed, but a few self-induced orgasms haven’t made me hungrier for one-on-one action. Guess it was like hoping running a mile would prepare me for the marathon—so I shouldn’t feel so disappointed.

  Jack is a good-looking guy and he has lovely manners as promised. He looks really nice in his jeans and a blue button-up shirt, too. He’s a vice president of something at one of the casinos, which means that not only is he pretty on the outside, but he’s gainfully employed and scores frequent free drinks. The man is total keeper material, which is exactly what I told Samantha I wanted.

  This is torture.

  I don’t care if Jack never finds our table again, and that’s just not right. He’s so perfect on paper, and yet there’s not a single spark of chemistry between us. There’s nothing horribly, wonderfully electric, no sparks. I should try harder. Hell, the sparks between that biker and me were enough to start a forest fire or some other kind of world-ending conflagration and my libido needs a good talking-to. No bikers.

  “Wasn’t sure what you’d like,” Mr. I’m Perfect On Paper says, tipping the waitress generously after she sets the drinks down on the table. “So I got a bunch of stuff. You can try it all or go for the fallback beer.”

  God. Could he be more thoughtful?

  He gestures toward the row of drinks and I grab the first drink I touch. The crap in the glass is frozen and sweet, some kind of adult slushie. Okay. That’s a departure from my usual beer, but I definitely want to try new things. I want to dance, to grind against Jack and to discover he’s my Mr. Right. I’m so ready to get right on that happily ever after. Get married, start a family, do things right. Jack ticks all the boxes. He’s absolutely perfect. I knock back the first inch of my drink, trying to ignore the way it suddenly tastes too sweet.

  Jack slides an arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his side. He goes for the beer, and we stand there all couple-like for a long moment, watching Samantha bob and weave across the casino floor to greet someone she knows. It feels as if we’ve been married for ten years already and not in a good way.

  Run away, my bad voice whispers.

  Not listening.

  “Let’s dance.” I slip out of his hold. The bar and burger joint has live music tonight, and a group of people are already dancing. I grab his hand, threading my fingers through his. He lets me tug him out into the heart of the dance floor, following my lead effortlessly. Maybe it’s a sign that I’ve found a man who can take direction? Jack even turns out to be a decent dancer. We dance a few faster songs, and then sway slowly in place when the band drops a romantic number on us. This is perfect. Still, when the band segues into a faster song, I pop out of his hold.

  “Little girls’ room,” I tell him and he nods.

  I make a pit stop at our table for my shoes, which turns out to be the best decision I’ve made all night. The bathrooms are at the end of a narrow, dirty, dark hallway. Every time I pick my feet up, a sticky, crunching sound assaults my ears and I make a mental note to Lysol the bottom of my shoes when I get home. I do my business as quickly as I can, wash my hands and exit. Clearly, the casino wants its ladies out on the main floor or knocking back drinks at the bar, because absolutely nothing about the grimy, dark facilities encourages you to linger. This place has a pee-and-get-the-hell-out vibe.

  When I come out, turns out the night has at least one surprise in store for me. Rev is leaning against the wall opposite the door, beer bottle held loosely in his hand. He raises the bottle in a silent salute when he sees me. He doesn’t look surprised to see me, although I hadn’t pegged him for the club scene. When he takes a swallow from the longneck, the muscles in his throat working, I start wondering what he’d taste like.

  “Hey,” he says, and my feet immediately cease their forward momentum. I have no idea how he does that to me.

  “Hey yourself.” I gesture toward him. “You waiting for someone or do you regularly stake out the women’s room?”

  We’ve only met once before, but somehow I already know he’s not the kind of guy who holds his girl’s purse while she pees. Plus, I was the only gal in the restroom, so I’ve kind of already answered my question.

  A slow smile touches his face. “Saw you out there on the dance floor. Bought you a beer.” He starts to hand me the second beer bottle and then pauses. “You like that lime crap?”

  I make a face before I can stop myself. “Not really.”

  “Good call.” He flicks the offending lime toward a nearby trash can and then swipes his thumb over the mouth of the bottle before passing it to me. “Gotcha covered.”

  Free b
eer is always good, right? We drink in strangely companionable silence for a moment.

  “You come here often?” I joke lamely when the whole not-speaking thing starts to feel uncomfortable.

  He bumps my shoulder companionably with his, gesturing toward the dance floor with his bottle. “Worse places to hang out.”

  “True,” I agree. “But I hadn’t pegged you for a clubber.”

  He takes another swallow of his beer. “I like watching.”

  He’d said he’d spotted me on the dance floor earlier—did he watch me? Did he like what he saw? Is that what this beer is about, or is he still trying to track down Rocker and he figures buttering me up is a shortcut? Since there’s no way to know for certain, I decide to just enjoy the scenery for now because looking at Rev is pretty darn awesome. I let my gaze trail the length of his body, taking him all in—and there’s lots to admire. His faded jeans hug powerful thighs and the T-shirt beneath his leather vest outlines a chest that promises to be downright perfect. Whatever the man does with his free time, he doesn’t sit around on his ass all day. His big body radiates power, deadly but relaxed enough for now that I don’t sprint for the dance floor or the safety in numbers it offers—which makes me as stupid as the slowest gazelle in the pack, because Rev is a predator and we both know it.

  About three inches from the bottom of my beer, the band starts in on one of my favorite songs, making my feet itch to be out there on the dance floor. A lazy smile tugs at the corner of Rev’s mouth. Whatever he is tonight, he’s in no rush and somehow I’m in no hurry to return to Jack, either. When my buzz dies down, this will probably worry me.

  His shoulder bumps mine gently. “You in a dancing mood tonight, princess?”

  “You dance?” Shoot. I sound breathless.

  He takes another swig from his bottle. “Do I look like I dance?”

  “Uh—no?” I inspect him again, looking for any reason to say yes. “But you’ve got two feet, right? It’s not hard.”

  He looks down at me, reaching out to circle my wrist with his fingers. Heat shoots through me. Jack and Samantha probably think I’ve fallen in or gotten lost, and yet I don’t want to move away from Rev. Of course, he’s hot and I’m buzzing, but even so I know that standing here with him is a bad idea.