“Sadie, are you able to pick Otis up from preschool today? I got caught up with some…things…and I’m not gonna be back until later. How does a hundred bucks an hour sound?”
“It sounds perfect, but it also sounds like too much. Are you okay?”
Burning alive in the Nevadan desert, waiting for one of the bikers who purchased me at an auction to give me a lift home.
“Yeah, I’m perfect,” I say in the most cheery voice possible. “Everything’s fine.”
“Okay,” Sadie says. “See you tonight.”
That’s one thing off my chest. I let out a relieved sigh and pocket my phone, only to see the holy trinity staring down at me from the veranda.
“Everything okay?” Skipper asks.
Why do they look so suspicious?
“Um, yes?” It comes out as a question. “Are you guys?”
“Did you tell anyone about us?” Vex asks.
“No.”
“Because you can’t,” Carter says.
There goes my freedom of speech.
“Technically, I can, unless you make me sign a nondisclosure in my own blood.”
Why is Vex raising an eyebrow like that could actually be a good idea?
Carter shakes his head and looks back at me. “That won’t be necessary. Your word is fine.” After staring at me for another beat, he steps down from the veranda and offers me a hand. “Come back inside.”
“How many times a day do you bikers contradict yourself? I’m not welcome here, remember?”
“We need eyes on the black car first. Only then, we’ll release you.”
“You’re making it sound like I’m your prisoner.”
“Whatever gets the juices flowing,” Skipper says. “We just need to eliminate the threat. Believe it or not, we don’t want anything happening to you.”
“How endearing.”
“You’re a beautiful girl,” Carter blurts out. “You’re lucky that Conrad O’Neill didn’t kidnap you in the parking lot when he approached you. You’d be worth something to quite a few men.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “And what am I worth to you?”
This is classic male behavior. Everybody wants the shiny toy, so they want it too.
Carter only outbidded the Irish at the auction because he saw that I was desirable to others. If nobody had put a bid on me,I can guarantee I wouldn’t be out in the desert getting sun damage.
In a way, I ought to thank Conrad O’Neill and his boys. If they didn’t see me as a valuable, shiny toy, I wouldn’t be sweating buckets in this season’s Isabel Marant.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since being here, it’s this—motorcycle clubs are masculinity on steroids. If you cram a hundred or so males with high testosterone levels into one small shack, you get chaos.
But I must admit, I like the chaos. My life has been the opposite for far too long. Pushing strollers through parks and attending mother-baby groups are fun for a time, but when I’m doing these activities, I see no men.
Zero.
And now all of a sudden, I find myself at the other end of the spectrum.
