Raquel
About two months ago…
“ARE YOU READY?” Sierra, my best friend and roommate, bellowed up the stairs of the townhouse we shared.
“Give me a sec!” I called back as I unplugged my curling iron, hearing her footsteps as she rushed upstairs.
She peeked her head into my bathroom. “Come on, slowpoke. I want to get my drink on.”
I chuckled. “Keep your panties on, I’m coming.”
“I’m not wearing panties.”
“Gross, Sierra, I didnotneed to know that.”
My bestie wore a black leather mini skirt, knee-high boots, and a tight pink, deep V-neck t-shirt that hugged every curve. I was dressed a little more conservatively in a pair of dark skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and a Harley-Davidson t-shirt that hid my squishy bits nicely.
We were heading to Smiley’s in Colorado Springs, a notorious biker bar on the edge of town. My brother happened to be the president of the Dogs of Fire MC in Savannah, so I was pretty familiar with the establishment and who frequented it. The building welcomed everyone, and it was considered sacred, neutral ground, so the bikers tended to behave themselves.
“I’m hoping to find me a sexy biker to fuck me against the wall,” Sierra said.
“Sierra!” I admonished. “You promised you’d be good.”
She grinned. “Oh, I plan to be.”
I rolled my eyes. “Good lord, woman, behave.”
“No. What does your brother say?”
“Well behaved women don’t get shit done,” I said, sliding lipgloss onto my lips.
She sighed. “I wish Tristan was single.”
I smiled. “A lot of people do.”
Tristan was my older, half-brother. His father had married my mother a few years after his first wife, Tristan’s mom, died. I was just as close, if not closer, to him than my full-blooded younger brothers, and he was often my rock when I needed someone to lean on.
“Are you sure he’s committed to Olivia?”
I laughed. “Honey, not even Liv can run from Tristan, and believe me, she’s tried. He is totally devoted to her.”
Sierra sighed. “I want a man like that.”
“You’ll find one,” I said.
“Brando’s legal now, right?” she asked.
“If you mean, legal to drink, yes. He’s twenty-one.”
“Corwin’s prettier though.”
“Down tiger, he’s only nineteen.”
“Damn,” she hissed, and I smiled.
Both my baby brothers were already heartbreakers, but she was right. Corwin had model good looks, where Brando was more rugged. But, really, the difference was whether you liked Ashton Kutcher more than Channing Tatum. Corwin was lean and tall, whereas Brando was still tall but built like a brick shithouse.
“Does Tristan know you’re going to Smiley’s without ‘protection’?” she asked.
