Page 220 of Devil’s Disciples

Confidence would.

He smelled like leather that had been sprinkled with a spritz of cologne twenty-four hours prior to his arrival. There was enough of a hint of the unidentifiable scent to do more than pique my interest. In fact, I wanted to inhale his aroma and somehow memorize it, recalling it at will any time I felt a desire to be aroused beyond comprehension.

His scent, manliness, and sheer presence had me an uncomfortable mess. Despite the dry desert’s one-hundred-and-eight-degree temperature, I was uncomfortably wet.

I was sure that most would find Porter intimidating. His muscular structure and massive size. The chiseled facial features. His high cheekbones, angular jaw, and the light scruff peppering his cheeks topped off his imposing presence.

I found him intoxicating.

His hazel eyes weren’t piercing or menacing. They were quite the opposite. If anything, they revealed all too much about him. When I peered into them, something unmistakable stared back at me.

Fear.

Seeing it let me know he was vulnerable. In my self-written guide to all things men, vulnerability was right up there with having a sense of humor, honesty, chiseled abdominal muscles, and a big ugly dick. Hot men who were vulnerable were exponentially hotter.

Therefore, Ghost Porter-Porter was en fuego.

“How’d you get the nickname Ghost?” I asked.

With his eyes fixed on the base of the bush, he slowly raised his left hand to chest height. He then balled it into a ham-sized fist.

The universal sign for shut up, Abby.

I looked at him – not hoping for a response – but expecting an explanation for why I needed to be quiet. Instead of speaking, he bent at the knees – slowly – until the leather-clad shoulders of his six-foot-plus frame were even with mine.

My eyes darted back and forth between him and the thorny bush that had become his object of desire. I saw nothing fascinating about it, only a few red berries and countless intimidating four-inch long thorns.

He remained statue-still, pointing the stick at the ground beneath the seemingly brittle branches. I searched the surrounding area and saw nothing more than sand, rocks, and an occasional twig. Convinced he’d become delirious from a combination of the brutal heat and blinding sun, I stood quietly and waited for him to collapse from heat exhaustion.

If he did crumble into a pile of dehydrated flesh, moving him would be out of the question. Unless he had water in saddlebags of his motorcycle, he’d die a slow, miserable death. The closest place to get a drink was miles away, and I’d be forced to walk through the blistering heat in search of relief. By the time I returned, the vultures would have every ounce of his two-hundred-plus-pound frame picked free of flesh.

I envisioned ripping a splined leaf from an agave cactus and squeezing the nectar onto his swollen tongue. After accepting a few drops of the bitter juice, he’d come back to life and look me in the eyes.

His sun-cracked lips would part, and he’d mouth the words thank you, Abby. Later he’d confide in me how he owed me his life. In true biker tradition, he’d show up at my home every Christmas with a fruit cake and a cheesy card, telling whoever happened to be visiting at the time about the day my problem-solving skills saved him from what was sure to be an untimely death.

While in my trance-like state, his right hand shot forward like a bolt of lightning. Startled, I jumped to the side. The rattling sound that followed gave hint as to what he’d been staring at while I became drunk with his scent and enamored by his looks.

“Holy crap!” I gasped. “Did you find one?”

“He’s under the stick,” he said, pointing toward the ground with his free hand. “Grab him behind the head.”

Holding a live rattlesnake sounded like a courageous idea. A brave stunt. Something I’d talk about for many years in the future. Heck, I’d planned on telling my grandchildren about it.

Frozen in place, I was hypnotized by the shaking tail of the venomous serpent. I stared at its angry body as it coiled around the stick like a speckled brown spring of scaled flesh, wondering all the while if I’d simply have to abandon item number fifty-six and admit defeat.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Well, are you going to grab him, or not?”

I glanced at the ball of fuming mad muscle that was wadded around the end of the forked stick and then looked at Porter.

“Or not,” I said.

It came out more like a question than a statement. I desperately wanted to strike item fifty-six from my list, and the opportunity had fallen in my lap. To do so, however, I had to risk my life. Even if the snake wasn’t poisonous, getting bitten by it seemed like a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

I assessed the situation.

Porter was an experienced snake hunter, that much was clear. Along with that experience, I expected he’d be versed in first aid techniques. I mulled over each step that would take place if I attempted to grab the venomous viper.