His wide shoulders narrow to a tapered waist that disappears below his black low-rise jeans.
Arousal flutters low in my belly as I take him in and I want nothing more than for him to turn around so I can see what he looks like. There’s no doubt that he’s tall, at least six feet, maybe more, and his thick head of hair is dark so that just leaves…handsome. Is he handsome? Can he make every girls’ ideal man a reality and embody all three?
Another guy steps into the ring. He’s smaller than my mysterious stranger and judging by the reception to both men, it’s clear who the underdog is.
My breath hitches when the first guy turns around, eagerly anticipating his face, but it’s covered by a black bandana with a skull’s face in place of his own. A bandana I recognise and my heart thuds heavily against my rib cage.
Oh my god.
It’shim.
My mystery biker.
He’sa member of the MC.
The man closest to him whispers something in his ear and a few moments later, his eyes lift to find mine. My breath locks as he holds my gaze and for a moment it’s like we’re the only two people in the basement, the world around us fading to nothing.
“That guy has a death wish I swear,” Fi says, dragging my attention away. She leans in close to my ear so I can hear her. “Nobody walks out of the ring after going a couple rounds with Killian Hunt.”
Hearing that name is like being doused in a freezing bucket of ice cold water. “Wait.That’sKillian Hunt? The one with the bandana?”
“Yeah, why?”
It takes a moment for my mind to fully process what I’m seeing and what I’m hearing and when it finally sinks in, my stomach rolls with nausea.
“No reason,” I lie.
Her attention returns to the two men in the ring while over here, my mind is reeling.
Killian Hunt. The man I’ve barely been able to push from my mind for the better part of a week is KillianfuckingHunt?
I’ve never been able to put a face to the name, but I know enough to know Killian Hunt is a the worst for the worst, and a man that should have a sensible girl like me running for the hills.
I’ve heard the rumours, they’re rampant in towns this small, they give the old busy bodies with nothing better to talk about a topic of conversation over a cup of coffee.
A regular Don Juan who spreads more legs than angynecologist—a direct quote from Mrs. Sanders who owns the bakery in town.
A rebel without a cause who thinks he’s above the law.
An ex-con who spent the better part of a decade behind bars.
And the worst of all… He’s a murderer.
He reaches behind his head and unties the bandana and stuffs it into his back pocket.
Holy shit.
He’s the guy I bumped into on the sidewalk last week outside the tattoo shop. Realisation slaps me across the face like a wet fish.
Vivid Ink.
I bumped into him outside Vivid Ink, Killian’s place of business. It all makes sense and something turns sour in my stomach.
Trust the first guy I meet who even remotely interest me to be a both a renowned womaniser and a murderer.
I’m slammed out of my thoughts when the roar of the crowd fills my ears as Killian lands the first punch, the other guy stumbling over his feet, desperate to stay upright.
The crowd chants Killian’s name, the sound filling the room which only spurs him on. He hypes up the crowd, puffing out his chest like the fight is already won, all the while his opponent recovers.
