Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Nope. Your timing is perfect.” How can it be a bad time when this sexy biker standing in front of me looks good enough to eat. Diesel’s wearing black jeans, a gray t-shirt, and his leather vest, telling the world he’s a member of the Reckless Souls MC. I try for a smile, but it feels like a grimace.
His brows lift higher. “You sure?”
I nod. “Yep. Absolutely.”
“Okay,” he smiles. “Let’s go, then.”
I nod again, ignoring my racing heart, as I grab a jacket and lock the door. “What’s the plan?”
“Our plan is simple,” he says, his hand pressing against my back. “We’re going out.” He leads me down the cement steps and to his bike while I try to focus on anything beyond the warmth of his touch.
In a daze, I swing my leg over the motorcycle and wrap my arms around him. I’m so close I can smell his scent, making it hard to think straight. But the cool breeze as the sun sets helps calm my emotions—and lust.
Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at a barbecue restaurant. The smell of food makes my stomach growl in anticipation. “Don’t get too excited. We’re just here for takeout,” he says with a smile.
He picks up our order, and takes my hand in his, the paper bag in his other hand. We head back to the motorcycle and enjoy the ride until we reach a secluded beach on PCH. The parking lot is almost empty now that the sun has set and the temperature has dropped.
“Barbecue on the beach? Good choice.” It’s exactly the kind of date I prefer instead of a fancy restaurant where I have to dress up in clothes I don’t have and order shit I can’t pronounce. This is low-key, low-pressure, and the view—from the man to the ocean—is stunning.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer, but you seem like a laid-back chick, and I wanted to respect that.”
I smile up at him, taking the blanket he hands me before we make our way to a small plot of beach about twenty feet from the ocean.
“Thanks,” I say, too shy to look him directly in the eye yet. Diesel cracks open two bottles of beer before handing me one, his gaze on the dark water in front of us. “Tell me about the life of a biker.”
He freezes and turns to me with a hint of wariness. “What do you want to know?”
I shrug. “Anything. Everything. What do you guys do besides fix up cars and bikes? Do you have other businesses? Do you bust kneecaps?”
His lips curl into a grin. “We have what folks would call a diverse portfolio of businesses,” He pauses to think for a moment. “We run dispensaries, the shop, a few gun shops, nightclubs, the bakery, and of course, Morgan International.”
I let out a low whistle and reach for a drumstick drenched in tangy barbecue sauce. “Impressive. And the kneecaps?”
He laughs, and the sound is rich and contagious as hell. “We have been known to bust the occasional kneecap. This life ain’t for the faint of heart, but we fuck shit up only if and when there’s no other way.”
I let his words sink in for a few long moments, processing the truth of them along with what I think I know about motorcycle gangs. “So you’re like corporate types without the suits?”
“God, I hope the fuck not, but I’ll let the analogy stand.” There’s a gleam in his eye that’s impossible to look away from. “What about you, Cassidy?”
“What about me? Well, I’m not in a motorcycle club or even an eighteen-wheeler club.”
“I mean, what’s next for you?”
“Oh,” I sigh. It’s inevitable he would ask, but I didn’t plan on revealing the truth to him at all. “Aria and Ace asked if I could get a shipment to Bakersfield, then I’ll deadhead to Tulare and pick up a load of nuts due on the East Coast in a few days.”
The cost to fix my truck put a dent in my finances, and I’m grateful to have back-to-back jobs lined up to make up the difference.
“You come to California often?”
My heart makes a fuss at his question because it’s clear he’s thinking about spending more time with me. It’s a nice thought, and fuck me, but I wish I could say yes. “I’m in Central California probably once or twice a month. But L.A.? Down where you are? Not much. Why?”
His lips tug into a sultry smile so full of heat I’m suddenly no longer cold from the early evening breeze. “You know why.”
I do. “You want a booty call whenever I cross the state line?”
He laughs. “Or maybe I want to give you a reason to cross that line as fast and as often as you fucking can.”
Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted? Someone who makes every trip back home feel like a celebration instead of a reminder of what I miss while I’m away. “That sounds nice.”