Lula
Given what Raff told me about Zayn, I’d gone with a general ‘sexy’ vibe for my dress. But with a classy edge. Tight, black, a little sparkly, but no tits hanging out, no worries about flashing the whole bar if I raised my arms over my head.
For my hair, I went with natural. Partly because it felt more appropriate than a slick-back bun. But also partly because I liked how much Raff seemed to like it.
I packed all my remaining jewelry for the road trip—too paranoid to leave anything worthwhile behind in a motel room—so I slipped on some small, chunky gold hoops and an understated gold necklace. Then I applied my makeup, spritzed on some perfume, slipped into the new heels I bought which I knew were going to leave blisters if I stood for too long, then made my way toward the door.
I’d just stepped into the hall upstairs when I heard the chorus of male voices.
Among them, my mind seemed to immediately isolate Raff. But there were maybe three others.
The sister club bikers.
I was only halfway down the steps when a tall, wide, bearded guy—bringing serious lumberjack vibes—spotted me and inclined his chin.
Seeing that, the others turned.
There was a guy in all black, with dark hair, gauged ears, and a quiet air about him.
And then there was another guy—younger, tattooed, easy smile—who sort of reminded me a bit of Raff.
Then, of course, there was Raff himself.
Gone was his usual uniform of jeans and tees (or board shorts and tank tops). In its place was a pair of pressed black slacks, a tucked-in black button-up, and loafers. All of it was well-tailored—not too loose, not too long.
His messy hair was slicked back.
There was an expensive-looking white gold watch on his wrist.
Desire was a punch to the gut, making me want to fold forward to ease the impact.
My feet refused to move as his gaze raked over me, taking me in while I stayed transfixed by his transformation.
Raff moved forward, offering a hand that I was helpless to take since I no longer trusted my feet not to trip over themselves and send me face-planting onto the landing.
At the touch, a sizzle coursed up my arm, wrapped around my throat, and settled in my chest, my stomach, lower.
“You clean up nice,” I said, my voice just for the two of us as my feet hit the lower level.
“You walked in here, and I forgot my own fucking name,” he murmured back, his voice soft.
My belly flipped.
“Guys, this is Lula,” he called to the group. “Lula, this lumberjack here is York. The guy with the gauges is Velle. And that is Dixon Cider.”
I almost choked on my spit.
“What?” I looked between the two men, searching for a hint of a smirk, some sign that he was joking.
Because who names a child Dixon Cider?
“I got a brother named Caymen.”
“No, you don’t.”
“He does,” Raff confirmed. “No need for road names with real names like that.”
“Looks like the car just pulled up.”
