“Just tired, I guess.”
I don’t believe her. “Or nervous we’re hooking up?”
“Is that what we’re doing, Eagle? I thought we were . . .”
“I’m going to fuck you, Serafina. Unless you’re ready for that, maybe you shouldn’t show up.” If I’m going to even consider spending more than a night with this girl, she needs to hear the truth, no matter how offensive or brutal it is.
“We can’t just be friends?” she asks.
“Friends?”What the fuck?“I don’t need any more friends, Serafina. I need your body and that hot fucking mouth all over me.”
“Jesus,” she whispers.
“Hard for you to swallow?”
“You have a filthy mouth, Eagle.”
“I do—and right now, you’re making me think about things I shouldn’t. Live with it. You’re gorgeous and I want you in my bed.”
She gives me a hollow, nervous laugh in response.
“You actually thought we were just going to hang out? Eat some sushi, watch some chick flicks, and talk all night?”
“Is that so hard to do?”
“Um . . . Fuck yeah it is. I’m a biker, Serafina, not some guy you met in college or at a café. You want to spend time with me, leave your good-girl expectations at home.”
“All right,” she says. “Check your phone after I hang up.”
Before I can say anything, she disconnects and my phone chirps, alerting me I have a new text. I open it up, there’s an attachment. A topless picture of Serafina holding a sign that saysI WANT TO FUCK YOU, EAGLE.Heat spirals up my body. Those tits are perfect. And . . . I hear the rumble of multiple bikes drive up outside and stash the cell in my vest pocket as I walk back to the main room of the bar.
I eyeball Cannon, our master-of-arms, gesturing for him to stand by the front door. Regular bikers are welcome here, as long as they show respect to me and my brothers. Seconds later, six guys in leather enter the bar. They’re RUBS, wannabe bikers who likely ride crotch rockets—the kind of bikes one percenters hate. I hurry to the front door. Several of them look shitfaced. Cannon stops them and asks for ID.
“Do I look under twenty-one?” the first one slurs.
I signal Aunt Birdie to turn the jukebox down so I can hear everything.
“Show me your driver’s license or get out,” Cannon says.
The front guy twists around and whispers something to his friends. They all laugh.
Our members are spread out across the room, ready to strike on command.
The little prick finally sighs and takes out his wallet. Then he shoves his ID in Cannon’s face. “Is that good enough?”
On high alert now, I close the distance between me and the assholes at the door and look outside. I laugh at the rice rockets parked on the far corner of the lot. Just as I guessed—rich urban bikers from the city who want to come down here and raise hell.
“This is an alcohol-restricted ID,” Cannon says. “You can’t come in here. Move on.” He hands the card back to the little prick.
“What?” He snags it out of Cannon’s hand and studies the ID. “We just left Vernon’s down the street.”
“Then go the fuck back there,” Cannon growls.
Fisting my hands at my sides, I can see what’s coming.
When the little bastard shoves his finger in Cannon’s chest, it’s on, big time. I snap into action, grabbing the offender by the scruff of his neck and dragging him outside. He flails around and tries to twist free from my grasp. No chance. I’m in control.
“Let me go!”
