Page 4 of Triplets for the Rival MC

“It’s Tori,” I say, pulling my hand from his as if scalded. I feel clearer now that I have broken the contact, as if lifting a spell. “Only my father calls me Victoria.”

He nods. “Tori,” he says, tasting the words and giving weight to my name, breathing life into it. “I’m Flint, President of the Ghost Riders MC.” He places a hand on his chest, then points to the others and introduces them. “This is Hunter, my enforcer and road captain.”

He points to the second-tallest man, only an inch or so shorter than him. Hunter removes his balaclava. He, too, is attractive, but in a harsher way. His features are sharp and angular, his icy blue eyes cool and calculating. He shrugs off his jacket.

“Finally, it was hot as balls in this,” he grumbles, running his hand over his short hair, a military style cut. I realize that not only did he need to conceal his face, but he was also hiding a mass of intricate tattoos that snake around his arms and down his chest. I wonder how many more tattoos he has hidden. He looks at me with laser focus, striding over to me, standing just a little too close for comfort. I feel flustered by the proximity, even more so than when Flint shook my hand. Hunter isn’t touching me, yet I feel his eyes on me like a caress.

“Welcome, princess,” he purrs, holding out his hand. I hesitate, scared that if I touch him, I’ll lose myself somehow. “I don’t bite,” he says, “Not unless you ask me nicely.” His words are so sexually charged that I stop short of reacting like some scandalized virgin and clutching my pearls. He’s trying to get a reaction from me, and I’m giving him exactly what he wants.

“Bite me,” I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

His eyes glint with mischief, and he chuckles, low and wicked. He grabs my hand and pulls it to his mouth, scraping his teeth along the back of my hand in a gentle, playful bite that connects to my very core and dampens my panties. His tongue darts out, sending ripples of electricity throughout my body. Holy heck, what was that? I should yank my hand away and yet…

“Hunter,” Flint warns, his voice low and commanding. Just the tone of his voice is enough to let Hunter know he’s ordering him to stop, and Hunter releases me with a wicked smile, sauntering across the room to lean against the wall, watching me like a cat with a mouse.

The third man has removed his balaclava during the commotion. At this point, I shouldn’t be surprised that he, too, is attractive, but in a more wholesome way. Kind of like the boy next door. Assuming the boy next door was a Californian surfer. His dirty blonde hair has flecks of gray and auburn that glint in the light. It’s styled in that effortlessly messy way that some men seem to pull off without doing anything. Long lashes, the kind that women envy and are wasted on men, frame his kind, hazel eyes. He has a short, neatly trimmed beard that I have the strange urge to stroke my fingers through. “I’m Cyrus,” he says. His voice is almost melodic, less gruff and abrupt than his counterparts. “I’m sorry. For everything,” he clarifies as he holds out his hand.

He’s the first one to apologize to me, and the gentlest, which somehow serves to make me feel wretched all over again, and to my horror, tears spring to my eyes. I blink them away and shake his warm, calloused hand. “Thank you.”

“Cyrus is my VP,” Flint clarifies.

I’m surprised to hear he’s the vice president. My father would never make his second a man whose first impression he makes is one of gentleness. Kindness is weakness, is one of his favorite sayings. I nod but don’t respond. What am I meant to say? Nice to meet you? That hardly feels appropriate, given the circumstances. I want to ask what our next move is, what happens now, but I don’t. Years of being ignored and sitting silently watching in the wings hold my tongue.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. Come on, let’s go upstairs, we can show you around and discuss our plan there,” Flint offers.

Gratitude wraps its arms around me. I wasn’t looking forward to the idea of staying in this room any longer, not when I had imagined I would never leave it when we first entered. I gladly follow Flint’s lead. I’m acutely conscious of Hunter walking behind me, his eyes burning into the back of my head. I try to think of witty remarks I could say, but god knows how he might react. His unpredictability and intensity make me nervous, but not necessarily in a bad way. Something about the way he looks at me makes me feel like he might even find me attractive—a strange but not unwelcome feeling. I’m sure he’s just messing with me, though.

The bar matches the picture I’d painted in my head earlier from the sounds emanating from it. Rather than looking like a biker bar, it’s got more of a sports bar or pub feel to it. There’s red leather booths and barstools, and a pool table in one corner. A large, wooden bar, scarred and stained, each one telling a story, dominates the room. The place is busy, filled with people laughing and drinking amicably. There are more women here than at my father’s club. And though I can see lots of barely dressed young club bunnies present, there are also more women who I suspect could be members in their own right, wearing the club’s insignia jackets.

“Are women allowed to join the Ghost Riders?” I ask Flint curiously.

A slight furrow of confusion laces across his brow. “They’re wearing property cuts,” he replies.

“Property?” I ask. Despite growing up surrounded by my father’s men I never really saw the dynamics of the club.

“It’s more like protection rather than ownership. The old ladies wear them, though it’s not compulsory. When a woman wears a Ghost Riders property vest then assholes know to stay away, or face the consequences,” Flint says without a trace of irony or pride, just humbly stating his opinion.

I glance at the women again. They have their heads held high and look invincible. I wonder for a moment what that feels like, and again I’m reminded of my father’s club and the way the old ladies were scared to open their mouths.

I’ve become acutely aware of the number of stares I’m attracting. It’s clear that people are curious about who I am. No one is openly hostile, and they clearly respect the guys enough not to ask unless introduced, but people are looking at us with naked curiosity as we make our way through the room. Out of nowhere, Hunter appears by my side, snaking his arm around my waist.

“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to wriggle free from his viselike grip.

“You want people not to stare or ask too many questions about you?” he asks, whispering in my ear, his breath tickling and making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I nod, not trusting myself to breathe, let alone speak. “Then play along,” he purrs, playfully nipping my ear and making me yelp.

Flint and Cyrus frown at him, but this time, Flint doesn’t order Hunter off. Yet I know instinctively that if I asked him to back off, Hunter would. Hunter guides me into a booth, climbing in and sitting beside me like a barrier between me and the rest of the bar. I realize that Hunter is right. Now that it appears as though I’m some sort of sexual conquest of his, I’m getting less curious glances. Though the club bunnies still shoot some jealous glances my way. People are accepting that I’m a nobody, just another girl that Hunter is hooking up with. I’m surprised that he was intuitive enough to pick up not only on my discomfort, but the reason for it. I’m not used to being the center of attention. Hunter throws a possessive arm around the back of the seat behind me. I want to say he doesn’t need to pretend, but I don’t.

“If you’re done marking your territory, Hunter, can we discuss business?” Cyrus says, his tone more irritated and snarky than I’ve yet heard.

Hunter smiles, flashing his canines. “Just giving us a cover, don’t want people to ask too many questions about our new friend, do we?”

“Tori might not want you pawing at her, did you consider that?” Cyrus snaps.

I’m grateful that he’s defending my honor and respecting me enough to give me a choice. However, I don’t want to cause a row, and I appreciate that Hunter was just trying to help. He might be acting arrogant and cocky about it, but, as far as I’m concerned, he noticed my discomfort and tried to make me feel better. “It’s okay,” I mumble, suddenly shy again.

Flint nods, satisfied, and Cyrus deflates a little, seemingly unhappy with the outcome but not pushing it further. Hunter smirks triumphantly. A woman comes over to take our orders, the guys all order beer, and I ask for iced tea.

Flint raises his eyebrow. “You don’t drink?”