by Cat Porter
Miller’s hand fluttered across his chest in response to my tickling touch. I bit my lower lip to suppress the giggle that rose in my throat. He let out a heavy sigh and twisted onto his stomach.
And then I saw it.
Ripples of pain tore through my gut.
It had to be an illusion. A cosmic joke.
But it wasn’t.
My throat constricted. That ancient, wild thing inside me shifted and cut loose. That primitive beast that had taken me years to leash and constrain shimmered before me again in all its hideous glory.
No. No. NO.
Tattooed on Miller’s back was the logo that had been forever burned into my brain, branded on my heart, and scorched onto my soul from a very young age. I struggled for air. My bleary eyes took in the familiar lines of the skull with one eye socket enlarged, and a great star glowing its fiendish light from its blackened hollow. The leering skull was framed by that indelible name.
The One-Eyed Jacks Motorcycle Club
South Dakota
My stomach caved in as if I had been punched, my mouth went dry, and icy darts shot down my spine.
“Holy shit,” my voice broke. I clenched my jaw to stem the sour tide that rose in my throat.
“Get gone!”
My eyes widened as a voice from my past, from inside the deepest recesses of my soul, resounded in my brain and pummeled through my chest.
“Get gone now, sweetheart!”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. “‘Miller,’ my ass,” I whispered to myself.
We’d even had the goddamn Harley conversation, and he didn’t mention he rode, or that he had a bike. He didn’t even use it to get down my pants. Now that was impressive, Mr. Miller, or whatever your road name was. I sure was easy, wasn’t I?
I gritted my teeth. Of course, this was all my fault. As if I hadn’t known when I first laid eyes on him: Here was biker material, here was rough, rugged American man. This was the kind of man I hadn’t let myself get close to in years. Was the attraction so overwhelming that I kicked all my logic out the door at the sight of him? Was I so much in denial about what made me tick? Obviously, the answer to those questions was a resounding yes.
My eyes fell on the eagle ring on his finger. I knew I’d seen that very same ring before on someone else in the good old days. My instinct had warned me last night, but I had brushed it off in the name of hot sex. Such an idiot. I had plummeted headlong into the very thing I had wanted above all else to avoid.
I had to get out of here. I had to get away from him. I eased up off the mattress and twisted my hair into a messy knot securing it with a band.
There had been a sign at the entrance of the bar that declared “No Colors.” Any bikers who entered had to cover or remove their colors, the leather vests they always wore with their club patches, or not wear jackets that were marked with the same identifying patches. Dead Ringer’s Roadhouse was a decades old landmark on this stretch of the highway. Plenty of riders passed through here, and the owner wanted to avoid any trouble.
Therefore Miller had himself covered up. But he was driving a cage—a vehicle, not a bike. He must have been making a delivery or a pickup somewhere under the radar. If you were in a cage you weren’t supposed to wear your colors, mandatory gear on your bike.
Miller had probably stopped at the bar to take a leak and get a drink on his way home or on his way out. No, if he had time to spare to get laid he must have been on his way home to Meager. He had even pointed out his truck to me last night as we crossed through the parking lot on the way to the motel. I had actually smiled at the sight of his black GMC.
“Get gone now.”
I stuffed my duffel bag with the makeup, face cleanser, body lotion, deodorant, and perfume that I had scattered on the small bathroom counter. I dashed to my jeans that lay twisted on the floor and yanked them up my legs, not even bothering to look for my missing panties. My bra poked out from under Miller’s jeans, and I snatched it up and hooked it on. . .that I couldn’t do without. I nabbed my socks and boots and shoved them on. My crumpled T-shirt reeked of last night’s indulgences. I shoved it in my bag and plucked a fresh one, stretching it over my head and through my arms.
The heel of my boot stepped on something unusually thick, and my gaze darted down. A black leather vest with the club’s logo on it and a variety of patches was stuffed inside his black hoodie.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Part of a silver and black patch glared at me. I could barely make out the words “Road Captain.”
He had most definitely been under the radar last night. If he had only unzipped that hoodie in the bar, if I had seen even a hint of his colors, I would have run like hell on the spot. But no, I had to kiss him back, I had to suck on his beautiful tongue, I had to push my tits into his chest.
Stupid.
I bit down on my trembling lip as I slowly zipped my duffel bag closed. I nabbed my car keys, the room key, slipped on my old leather jacket, and swung my large studded suede handbag over my shoulder. My fingers gripped the doorframe as I turned to take one last look at Miller. The incognito biker’s magnificent naked body lay face down on our snarled sheets. His sleek tattooed back rose with every deep and even breath of sleep. The hard angle of his lean jaw jutted forward on the smashed pillow, the lines of his intriguing face slack, his fingers curled around the edges of the pillowcase. The silver eagle ring glimmered in the soft pink glow of dawn sifting through the drapes.
That gorgeous hard ass my hands couldn’t get enough of last night mocked me now. The sleek, powerful body that had held me, moved inside me, and gave me so much pleasure for hours was now only an ominous presence and left me numb. I slumped against the doorjamb, my eyelids sank.
“Get gone,” I whispered.
I carefully turned the knob and pulled open the door, stepping out of the room into the cold cloudiness of a day that I had dreaded dawning for a long, long time.
Now it was here, and I had even more reasons to dread it.
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Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without these special people in my life. My deepest thanks and gratitude for your precious time, energy, and support. I love and cherish each of you.
Tina, working with you on this was, as ever, sublime. This one was hard. So hard. You pushed me off the right cliffs. Your instincts, your passion, your articulate precision were my beacon in the storm.
Jenn, thank you for your clarity and pure instincts, my dearest friend. You at my side and in my words means the world to me.
Lori, Lori, Lori for your design magic, for getting me from the get go, for all the laughs, for startling me with every piece of art you came up with after each of our brainstorming sessions. This was truly a collaboration, and a satisfying one, and I loved every minute of it.
Rachel, Alison, Needa, Jan, Lena for beta reading and giving me your time, precious insights, and the best pm’s and emails ever!
Penny for your vigilant proofreading and going over the action scenes with me step by step. Could not have done it without you.
Jan Hoodlum for giving me Turo’s Chicago and to Mindy Milner-Downey for your firearm insights. Thank you for these preciou
s details, my loves!
Alison for your support, enthusiasm, and efforts on my behalf halfway across the world. Love you, girlfriend!
Linda R. Russell and everyone at Foreword PR for having my back. One day, a real Starbucks together.
Bloggers who make the book world go around—we writers could not do this without you. In particular, iScream Books, The Book Bellas, Book Babes Unite, Dirty Book Girls, Totally Booked, Triple B, EDGy Reviews, LABB, Perusing Princesses, Schmexy Book Girls, That Transylvanian Chick Book Blog, Kinky Girls Book Obsessions, and so many more. And to the bookstagrammers on Instagram who create such beautiful images and share their book love. My deepest thanks for the astounding work you do.
My Cat Callers who cheer me on and kept the adrenaline flowing as I worked. I loved sharing Turo with you every step of the way— #TakeMeTuro ! Ellen, Kimber, Kandace, Korrie, MJ, Soulla, Cindy, Alissa, Sammy, JoJill—your enthusiasm and hearts are so bright, and I thank you for all the shout outs and for your friendship, most of all.
To all the wonderful fans, bloggers, and authors I met at RARE Berlin and London, and you, dear Amy Jennings! And to my fellow authors who inspire, support, answer my questions, and share, share, share, I thank you from my very full heart.
Special thanks to authors Willow Aster, Leylah Attar, Carian Cole, Autumn Jones Lake, Victoria Paige. To Katie Larsen for that sprint (my first!) that got my head and my revision straight, and to Karina Halle for our romantic suspense discussion in Seattle.
To actor Bill Kwikowski who blew my mind in his acting class when he declared he hated Shakespeare’s Hamlet. I’ve never forgotten it, nor the lessons I learned in his class which have informed my writing craft ever since.
To all my readers for sharing the book love, your personal notes, taking the time to leave reviews. Your enthusiasm and reader satisfaction mean everything to me. Thank you for loving my bruised characters and their difficult stories.
To my three children for believing in me. To my husband for insisting on Andros last August.
To my father who lit my heart on fire from an early age by sharing with me his love of travel and discovery, history, mythology, and suspenseful tales. You would’ve loved this one, Dad. This is the one you were waiting for.
And to Andros. Oh, how you bewitched me.
About the Author
Cat Porter was born and raised in New York City, but also spent a few years in Texas and Europe along the way, which made her as wanderlusty as her parents. As an introverted, only child, she had very big, but very secret dreams for herself. She graduated from Vassar College, was a struggling actress, an art gallery girl, special events planner, freelance writer, restaurant hostess, and had all sorts of other crazy jobs all hours of the day and night to help make those dreams come true. She has two children’s books traditionally published under her maiden name.
She now lives on a beach outside of Athens, Greece with her husband and three children, and freaks out regularly, still daydreams way too much, and now truly doesn’t give AF. She is addicted to reading, cafés on the beach, the Greek islands, Instagram, Pearl Jam, her husband’s homemade red wine, dark chocolate, and reallllllly good coffee. Writing has always kept her somewhat sane, extremely happy, and a productive member of society.
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