Ruled

by Anne Marsh

  “So you’re here entirely as my bodyguard? To protect me?” I take a moment to imagine Rev as my bodyguard, pressing me beneath or behind his big body at the first hint of danger. Taking the Colombian business seriously is hard because I’m not sure I’ve ever met somebody from Colombia, let alone a somebody who engages in illegal drug-running and wants to maim or kill me. The only danger right now is to my panties and that’s all Rev’s fault.

  “Entirely?” He looks amused. “Let’s give it 30 percent, okay?”

  “I only merit a 30 percent effort?”

  “No.” The man moves. God, he has great moves. He closes the space between us in two steps that are part swagger, part prowl, and that’s not even the best part. Nope. The RV is so small that now he’s pressed against me. He threads his fingers through mine (I’m in no mood to resist) and draws my hands over my head with one of his. Pretty sure he notices the shiver that rocks me with that move.

  “Ask me about the other 70 percent,” he whispers, mouth against my ear. “Ask nicely.”

  Holy. Shit.

  True confession time. “I’m not sure I’m capable of conversation right now.”

  His free hand finds my hip and his mouth moves over my ear—is he tasting me? Whatever he’s doing, I’m melting. “Thirty percent for the fucking Colombians because I promised to keep you safe and I never break a promise. The other 70 percent is my favorite part, though. You said I was supposed to chase you. You made it a fucking rule, babe.”

  “Those were dating rules,” I protest. Not hard, mind you, because who wouldn’t enjoy this?

  “This was a party. You’re dressed up. There’s beer and good times. Sounds date-worthy to me.”

  The party’s over but—details. I thread my fingers through his. We fit together, our fingers meshing like we’ve done this a million times before.

  Like we really do belong together.

  “Do you want it to count?”

  “If we were on a date, I’d want to kiss you good-night.”

  “Are you asking me if I kiss on the first date?”

  We’ve had dirty sex, but we haven’t had a date. Rev’s crooked grin reaches his eyes and makes me want to smile back. To nod my head and agree wholeheartedly with whatever he proposes. I can’t think when I’m around him—all I do is feel.

  Feel wonderful.

  Alive.

  On fire for him.

  He runs a finger over my bottom lip and I feel his touch everywhere, from my mouth to my pussy to parts in between that feel suspiciously like my heart.

  He’s the best kind of trouble, his fingers exploring my mouth, leaving shivers and heat where he touches. He doesn’t push, doesn’t hurry. Just takes his time as if we have hours, days, just plain forever to kiss.

  He sucks my finger into his mouth, his tongue exploring my skin. Licking, teasing, coaxing me into relaxing and letting go because the feelings fill me up until I forget where we are and all the reasons to slow this thing down still further.

  When he nips my bottom lip, I catch his lower lip between my own teeth and bite right back. Harder. The sensations threaten to drown me, sweeping over me in bright, hot waves of pleasure. He kisses me and kisses me, like he doesn’t want to lose the contact either, taking and then taking more. His hand settles on my thighs, his palms easing upward beneath my dress.

  And then he stops because, clearly, the man is a born tease. He turns his face until his cheek rests against mine, his face buried in my hair.

  “Go out with me.” I feel his question on my skin.

  “Kiss me again,” I counter.

  “Answer first.” He gives orders, but he also gives me what I need.

  He covers my mouth with his, his tongue parting my lips. The sweetest of pressures and he’s in, his tongue stroking mine as he goes as deep as he can. He tastes like the vanilla from the cupcake frosting he stole, like chocolate and all the things I shouldn’t crave. He’s a wild, wicked flavor, a million guilty calories and midnight cravings, and I won’t say no. This is just a kiss, but Rev is someone special. I can’t help but recognize the truth even as he slants his mouth deeper, taking more.

  When he lifts his head, my fingers are digging into his shoulders. He’s not close enough.

  “You got an answer for me, princess?”

  “Remind me of the question.”

  A look of smug contentment flashes over his face. He’s earned it.

  “Go out with me for real.” He cups my face in his hands and rests his forehead against mine. “Fucking dying here, Evie, so help me out.”

  He’s never asked me for anything before. Told, yes. Ordered, absolutely. But asked? Never. I can’t help but wonder if he knows his thumb is stroking my skin.

  “One date,” he says. “A dozen. You don’t have to like me. Fuck, you don’t have to put out again. I just want the time. With you.”

  The lost look in his eyes makes something inside me turn over.

  “Yes,” I say, because I like that look. I like him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eve

  YOU KNOW WHEN you’re having a nightmare? How you try to wake yourself up and point out all the reasons to your sleeping self that the shit unfolding around you is dream rather than reality? And in the dream, you start by pinching and poking, and then you escalate to just standing there in front of the train or the psycho killer or whatever it is that’s trying to kill you? That’s kind of how my week goes. It’s a blur of birthday parties and business meetings, of increasingly demanding phone calls to ever-louder radio silence from Rocker. That’s the nightmare.

  But then there are the really sweet, also-can’t-be-real moments where Rev flexes his dating muscle. He’s always riding past or in the neighborhood when I’m out. He’s sticking to his promise to look out for me, and that’s more annoying-cute than anything. But we also go for coffee and I tease him about the barista checking him out. We spend an evening playing penny lines at a casino on the Strip, me perched on his lap as we fed the coins in together. When we win five bucks, Rev calls me his good luck charm and shares the luck—and the five bucks—with a homeless veteran panhandling outside. He gives good date—and he doesn’t rush me.

  The moments in between our dates and work are trickier, leaving way too much time for worrying about Rocker. I tell myself Rocker probably believes he has reasons for networking with the Colombian cartel. God, I hate even thinking about him as a drug dealer. Because if he’s selling drugs or in any way making it possible, he’s not just my little brother anymore. He’s a drug dealer.

  Since Rev’s accusations and my own suspicions aren’t indisputable fact, I reach out to Rocker. And yes, this means I call and text him in every free moment. I can tell from my phone when Rocker’s seen my texts, but he only answers one in ten. Tonight is apparently one of those buy-a-lottery-ticket exceptions and God’s in a good mood or looking out for big sisters, because when I look down at my phone, the line of bouncing dots means Rocker is typing.

  ROCKER: Where you at?

  ME: Home. We need to talk.

  ROCKER: You okay?

  ME: Dating a friend of yours

  ROCKER: ?

  ME: Try reading yr messages. Seeing yr friend Rev.

  I use the long pause that follows to shimmy into my pajamas. I might want to do some preemptive shopping before any sleepovers with Rev. My usual nightwear is a pair of yoga pants and an old University of Nevada T-shirt. Not precisely Sexyville and the man clearly likes his Victoria’s Secret.

  I try the T-shirt without the pants, but that doesn’t send the right message, either. I’ve been hesitant to tap Rev’s present, but I own no date-worthy underwear. My panties go under princess party dresses—and princesses are good girls.

  Eventually my phone buzzes again.

  ROCKER: Not xctly friends.

  ME: Give me mo
re words.

  ROCKER: Different club, k? And your boy’s trouble. Works as club enforcer. So keep your eyes open. Lemme know what you see. Inside intel on the MC good.

  ME: WTF? I look like Mata Hari to you?

  ROCKER: Got some serious shit going down. Need to know you’re safe.

  ME: You are a pain in my ass.

  ROCKER: Love you. Do it for me?

  ME: Love you too. Lemme know when you have time to talk?

  The roar of a Harley pulling into my driveway has never been so welcome. I need answers from Rocker, but I’m not sure I really want them. If everything was fine, if he wasn’t doing something he knew would worry me, he’d tease me about treating him like he’s five. He’d laugh, but he’d make sure I stopped worrying. Rocker’s good like that.

  He’s what family should be.

  We have each other’s back and we do it with love. No matter what’s happened or going down or screwed up, we love each other. That’s the ultimate rule and neither of us has ever broken it. Why would we? Love isn’t something you turn on or off.

  My phone buzzes again. This time, when I look down this time, I’ll have answers. Everything will be okay and I’ll go out front, get on Rev’s bike and tell him he was wrong about Rocker. Power of positive thinking for the win. But when I look down, I’ve got just one word.

  ROCKER: Later

  Chapter Twelve

  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 roug
h, 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.