Chapter One
Bikers party with the fire of nonconformity all the time. Rebellion. Mayhem. That’s kind of our thing. While I enjoy living outside the box of civilized society, as much as any biker, even I can’t see a damsel in distress and turn my back.
Both the upstate and downstate New York charters of the Lost Kings MC took the long ride down to San Antonio. We met up with two clubs we’re friendly with on the way and are all staying at a ranch outside the city.
The older brothers—ones tied down with old ladies and kids—including my club president, are somewhere behind us. Sparky, Jigsaw, and I pulled ahead of the happy family pack to explore. We’re charging down the narrow concrete path of the Riverwalk along the San Antonio River when I stop and hold out my arms, blocking my biker brothers, Jigsaw and Sparky, from taking another step. “What the fuck’s that guy doing?”
Straight ahead and to the right, one of the walkways over the river is empty, except for some douchewaffle with a digital camera and a girl.
Sparky may be high-as-fuck, but he zeroes in on the scene in front of us fast. “Damn. Girl’s dress is see-through.”
Okay, maybe he didn’t grasp the problem.
Yeah, Texas sun is no joke. Every inch of the girl’s curvy figure is visible under the thin white dress. That’s not what stopped me. Grade A tits and ass are pretty much ava
ilable to me whenever I want ’em.
The jackass with the camera yells out, “Arch your back!”
“He has her move back another inch, she’s going in the water,” Jigsaw says, nailing the issue.
The girl hesitates and glances over her shoulder, giving me a glimpse of sun-touched cheeks and rose-red lips. “I can’t swim.” Nervous laughter follows her words.
Her companion rolls his eyes. “You’re fine.” He waves his hand in the air. “Besides, it’s like ten feet deep.”
“What an asshole,” I mutter.
“Actually,” Sparky says. “It’s probably only two to four feet deep in this location.”
As the last word leaves his mouth, the girl lets out a short yelp and tumbles backwards off the concrete bridge. Her brief scream is cut off by a loud splash.
“Shit.” I push past Jiggy and Sparky, moving closer to the water. My gaze snaps to the guy peering over the edge. Isn’t he going to go in after his girl?
“Brad!” she screams and flails her arms, gasping. “Help!”
“Come on, babe, it’s not even that deep. Just walk to the edge.” He points to the side we’re standing on and laughs.
What an asshole.
Up ahead, a pair of bicycle cops seem to have taken notice of the situation.
Either it’s deeper than the creep realizes, or the girl’s too scared to listen. She keeps flailing and yelling in the water.
“That water’s filthy. She’s gonna catch beaver fever,” Sparky says.
“I’m catching beaver fever right here. You can see her nipples through her wet dress,” Jigsaw says.
“You’re an asshole.” I shrug off my cut and slap it against his chest. “Hold that.” I smack Sparky’s arm. “Don’t let that douchebag get away. I want to have a word with him.”
“Rooster, you fuckin’ nuts?” Jigsaw says.
I’m already jumping into the river to go after the girl, so I ignore the question.
The water only comes up to my waist. Smells like shit and fuel oil. I reach the girl in a few quick strides. Poor thing’s still thrashing and sputtering. It’s cute, really.
“Calm down.” I slip my arms under her and lift her in the air. “I gotcha, darlin’.”
“What the? Oh!” She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face against my chest, making it easier to carry her to the side, where my brothers are waiting and laughing their fool asses off.
“Help me, dick,” I snap at Jigsaw.
He gives me a what-the-fuck look and holds out a hand to the scared girl. She ignores him and tightens her hold on me. “Sweetheart, I gotta get us out of the water.” I don’t like the way the cops are eyeing me. I swear to fuck if one of ’em gives me a ticket, they’re gettin’ a throat-punch in return.
Hesitantly, she touches her toes to the sidewalk, and Jigsaw helps her stand. I haul myself out of the water, shaking hell only knows what kind of filth off me. My water-logged jeans and boots cling in an especially uncomfortable way in the humid summer air.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I ask.
“Shelby. Thank you,” she whispers in a sweet southern drawl that perks my dick right up. Don’t often hear twang like that in upstate New York.
Her scared eyes peek up at me and widen. Three six-foot-plus bikers crowding her would be too much for anyone. “Back off,” I mutter to Sparky and Jigsaw.
“Shelby! Are you okay?” the photographer yells.
The asshole already earned a beating from me for letting his girl fall in the water and doing nothing to help her. But when he pushes Jigsaw out of the way to reach for her, he’s risking death.
“Excuse you,” Jigsaw says in the same tone of voice a serial killer might say, “Your liver will taste good with red wine and potatoes.”
He didn’t get the road name Jigsaw by accident.
As scary as Jigsaw can be, this is my show. That’s my girl. I fished her out of the water, I get to keep her. At least for a little while. Bumping Jigsaw out of the way, I step up to this Brad asshole.
“Now’s the time for you to disappear.” My voice is full of cold menace meant to scare the piss out of him.
He cowers and looks around me, reaching for the girl.
Hell fucking no. “You don’t listen very well, Brad.”
“Got a hearing problem?” Sparky asks.
I chuckle, but it’s more hollow and evil than humorous.
“Shelby, come on,” Brad whispers, as if I’m not standing right in front of him. “Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter Two
The three bikers in front of me exude danger.
Exude. That’s a good one. What rhymes with it? If my notebook and pencil weren’t at the bottom of the river, I’d write that down to figure out later.
Back to the bikers. I’m not in danger. Not at the moment, anyway. My lazy photographer boyfriend who couldn’t be bothered to help me when I fell in the canal? He’s definitely in danger.
Do I feel bad about that?
Not really.
Not when I’m soaked to the skin in slimy, smelly water. Dress ruined. Hair destroyed.
This is what I get for being cheap. Brad insisted his photos would be just as good as a professional photographer. Like an idiot, I agreed. Even though I’m scared of heights, I followed his directions. I thought it would be a cool photo.
“The fuck’s wrong with you, man?” my tall, bearded savior shouts at Brad. He pushes into Brad’s space, shoving him back with just the threat of his big, muscled body.
“You okay?” the tall, scruffy biker next to me asks. The way his gaze roams over my wet dress reminds me that the thin fabric is clinging to me in the most obscene way. I’m probably giving everyone in the area a good show. Uncomfortable, I cross my arms over my chest.
“Here.” He shrugs off his black leather vest and yanks off his faded blue T-shirt. I’m so stunned stupid staring at the colorful ink penetrating every inch of his lean, muscled frame that I don’t immediately grasp the shirt.
“Huh?” Brilliant, Shelby.
The thunder of who knows how many motorcycles passing over the street above us shakes the ground.
The corner of the biker’s lip curls. “The rest of our club’s not far behind. One of the girls might have something you can wear, but put that on for now.”
“Right. Thank you.”
Heat blooms over my cheeks. This is mortifying. The last thing I needed today. I find my way into the soft, warm shirt, noting the pungent stench of marijuana. Under that, there’s a faint hint of leather and gasoline.
I finally pull the shirt into place and smile up at him. “Thank you.”
He’s slipped his black leather vest back on, and his gaze is trained on his biker friend who’s two seconds from shoving Brad into the river.
“He your boyfriend?”
“Not anymore,” I mumble.
The two remaining bikers share a look, and the one who helped us out of the water smiles down at me. There’s a loud splash, and Brad goes into the river. My hero tosses the digital camera at me. “You need those shots?” he asks.
Holy crap. I can’t believe he thought of that when I didn’t. I quickly flip open the camera and yank out the SD card. I paid for it, so I don’t suffer a lick of guilt. The camera, however, isn’t mine, so I set it on the sidewalk next to where Brad’s pulling himself out of the river.
“Not so funny now, is it?” I ask.
“Bitch,” Brad grumbles.
I’m fixin’ to pitch one hell of a hissy fit when Brad lunges at my hero. The two bikers next to me laugh. “Not too bright, is he?” one of them says.
“Not really.”
“You need a ride, sugar?” the taller biker asks. He smiles down at me again, and this time, I notice the faint, jagged scar running down his forehead to the bridge of his nose. He catches my stare, and his friendly expression turns hard.
“I think if anyone’s giving her a ride, it’s Rooster,” the biker who donated his
shirt to me says.
“Rooster?” That’s my hero’s name?
Wait a second, what’s this guy trying to say? They’re calling dibs on me?
I don’t have a chance to ask. Brad charges Rooster again and gets knocked to the ground with a bone-jarring thud.
Two cops pull up on their bicycles and rush over. One grabs Rooster and throws him to the ground. “We won’t tolerate your biker attitude,” he growls at Rooster.
Rooster laughs.
The scarred biker is fixin’ to launch himself at the cops when Rooster turns his head. “Don’t, Jiggy.”
“Jiggy?” I mutter.
“Jigsaw.” The biker who gave me his shirt points to his friend then touches his own chest. “Sparky.”
“Interesting names.”
He grins at me then turns toward the cops. “Why you hassling us? This dickweed practically threw the young lady in the river. We were helping her out.”
“Yeah, right.” One of the cops turns and stares at me. “Shelby? Shelby Morgan?”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“You famous, sweetheart?” Jigsaw asks.
The cop holds out his hand like he’s calling over a reluctant cat. “Miss. Step over here, please.”
I glance up at Sparky and Jigsaw. “I’m fine where I am.”