“Well, well, we have a feisty one here,” one of the men drawled. He was huge and tan with a bald head, reminding me a lot of ‘The Rock’ but a bit more rough round the edges. “No need for the sass darling, we just seen you are new in town and thought we would come and introduce ourselves, maybe we could buy you a drink, even that girly shit.” The Rock gestured to our cosmos.
“We are quite all right thank you, getting acquainted with the town’s friendly motorcycle gang isn’t really on our to do list, and I don’t drink hooch, Rambo, or whatever motor oil you think passes for alcohol.” Amy smiled sweetly. “You have a nice night now.” Acid dripped from her tone. She turned her head to me and remained picking at the remnants of her dinner, acting as if the four (albeit beautiful) brutes were not still standing right in front of our table, dripping testosterone all over the place.
During Amy and Dwayne’s (I christened him this) conversation, Cade’s eyes had been on me the whole time, registering my fidgety movements and panicked stare. A frown marred his attractive face. I could only stare back at him, feeling a strange mixture of attraction and fear.
“Gwen.” He spoke my name roughly and my pesky body reacted, the shivers returning.
“How do you know my name?” I squeaked, sounding like a scared child.
He continued to stare like I was some puzzle he couldn’t figure out. “Not much gets past me sweetheart, especially something like you.” His gaze pierced my skin. I wanted to squirm, the attraction between us palpable. I managed to regain my wits when my eyes caught the ‘Vice President’ badge on his cut.
“You’re a regular Sherlock Homes. If you would excuse us, I just lost my appetite,” I replied acidly and somewhat unsteadily got to my feet. Amy followed suit. I reached into my purse, grabbing what I knew was far too much and threw it on the table.
“Enjoy your night boys,” I muttered, before flipping my hair and doing my best (I’d had maybe one too many cosmos) to strut towards the door.
We made it to the parking lot and Amy was decidedly silent, either figuring out what kind of emotional state I was in and how to deal with me, or contemplating how hot all those men were. I was hoping for the latter. Unluckily for me she had about three less cosmos than I did.
“Well,” Amy started carefully while fishing for her keys. “That was an interesting end to the night. Bikers, who would have thought?”
“Yep, well this is America, there is probably some small time gang of ‘Sons of Anarchy’ wannabes in every hodunk town,” I replied, going for flippant.
Amy wasn’t buying it, giving me a look across the car.
“I’m fine okay Ames? I’m not going to have a fucking mental breakdown because some guys said three words to us, have some faith,” I snapped.
“Okay girl.” She unlocked the door and paused. “They were pretty fine.”
Now I was the one to give her a look.
“You know for bad ass low lives.” She carried on. “I would totally do Dwayne Johnson.”
My head snapped up. “Oh my god he seriously could be ‘The Rock’.”
We both burst out laughing, the tension from the exchange with the bikers disappearing.
I tossed and turned in bed, sleep eluding me. The meeting with the three sexy bikers, and one in particular, had brought up issues that were already simmering just below the surface. I grumbled, picking up my phone, 2.05am, great. Knowing I would never get to sleep, I threw back my covers and wrapped my kick ass silk kimono around my nightie clad body.
I crept downstairs as not to wake Amy, although I didn’t know why I bothered, that girl slept like the dead. I should know after trying to wake her up early every year for New York Fashion Week. I grabbed a soft afghan off the couch and poured myself a glass of wine, or happiness as I liked to think of it. I stepped out onto our porch, lighting the small lanterns that sat either side of the comfy porch chair. I sighed and snugged myself into the chair, nestling my glass of wine at my chest, taking small sips while getting lost in a daydream. A daydream about a certain sexy biker.
I imagined what my reaction would have been if I had not been royally fucked up by the prick whom I do not speak of. I definitely would not have dismissed him as coldly as I did at the restaurant; I would have certainly taken him up on his offer to help me with my bags when we first met. I more than likely would have had him in my bed once he stepped foot inside. I’m not some kind of harlot; the attraction between us was insane, way beyond normal, the kind of lust at first sight that I read about in my romance novels.
I wondered what he would be like in bed, would he take me rough and hard? Or slow, savoring every minute? I pictured him running his hands down my body, covering me with his huge muscles, dominating me. I slipped my hand between my legs, feeling wetness.
“A little late to be sitting out here on your own isn’t it?” A deep voice shocked me out of my sensual dream.
“Jesus Christ!” I yanked my hand out of my underwear, sitting up and sending my wine glass flying.
“No sweetheart, don’t think anyone has mistaken me for that do gooder before.” Cade moved onto my porch, hands in his pockets looking too good at this hour. What was I thinking? He was probably up to all sorts of dodgy shit, like casing the neighborhood.
“What the fuck are you doing on my porch at two in the morning?” I whispered angrily, hoping the commotion had not woken Amy — unless Cade was here to murder me, or kidnap me and sell me into white slavery then I hoped Amy was awake and in the process of calling the authorities.