Page 6 of Ruined By King

Curiosity. That's all.

At Tucson, the lie got harder to sell. I found reasons to walk past their camp — stupid reasons, paper-thin excuses that wouldn't fool a child. I wanted another look. I wanted to see if he'd notice me again, if that heat was still there or if I'd imagined the whole thing.

He noticed. He always noticed.

And tonight... tonight he stopped pretending too.

I take a breath. Then another. My hands are still trembling against the chrome, and I curl them into fists, willing myself to get it together. I'm Rocky's daughter. I've been around dangerous men my whole life. I don't fall apart because one of them looked at me like he wanted to eat me alive.

Except I've never felt like this before. Not once. Not ever.

The walk back to my father's camp feels like miles. Every step is an effort, my body fighting me the whole way, wanting to turn around and go back to that food truck and see if he's still there. Waiting for me. Wanting me.

I don't give a shit about the reasons.

God, I'm in trouble.

The Road Kings camp is loud and rowdy when I finally get there, my father holding court near a cluster of bikes while his brothers pass around a bottle of whiskey. He's laughing at something one of them said, his head thrown back, and he doesn't even glance up when I approach.

That's my father. I exist when it's convenient, and the rest of the time I might as well be furniture.

Usually, that bothers me. Tonight, I'm grateful for it.

I find a spot at the edge of the group and try to blend in, grabbing a beer I don't want just to have something to do with my hands. Tina, one of the old ladies, appears at my elbow a few minutes later, her eyes too sharp.

"You okay? You look flushed."

"It's warm out here."

"Babe, it's like sixty degrees."

"Then I'm coming down with something." I take a sip of the beer, barely tasting it. "I'm fine. Just tired."

She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it slide. That's the thing about Tina — she knows when not to push. She drifts back to her conversation with one of the other girlfriends, and I'm left standing there with my lukewarm beer and my racing thoughts.

I try to pay attention to the conversations swirling around me. I laugh when everyone else laughs. I nod at the right moments. But the whole time, my skin feels too tight, like I've outgrown my own body. I can feel the ghost of King's proximity, the heat of him when he stepped close. The way he looked at me, like I was something he wanted to claim.

Saw something I wanted to taste.

His words echo through me, and I have to clench my thighs together against the pulse of heat they trigger. This is insane. I'm standing ten feet from my father, surrounded by his club, and I'm getting wet thinking about the president of a rival MC.

I need to move. Need to get away from here before I do something that gives me away.

"I need to find a bathroom," I mutter to no one in particular.

No one responds. No one cares.

I slip away from the group and head toward the back of the rally grounds, away from the stage and the fire pits and the thick press of bodies. There's a row of porta-potties near the tree line, but I walk past them, deeper into the shadows where the noise fades and the string lights don't reach.

I just need a minute. Just need to breathe, to think, to get my head on straight before I go back and keep pretending everything's normal.

The shadows are quieter here. Darker. A few bikes are parked in a haphazard row, chrome catching the distant firelight, but there's no one around. I stop near a massive Harley and press my hands against my face, willing my heart to slow down.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I talked to him, it got a little intense, and now it's over. I'll go back to my father's camp, get through the rest of the night, and forget any of this ever⁠—

"You're not very good at staying away."

I spin around, my heart slamming into my throat.