Page 3 of Sold to the Bikers
I barely have time to recognize the speaker as the long-haired biker from the door before I find myself in his arms. His hand slides into my hair and the next thing I know, his lips are on mine. Adrenaline surges, and instead of fight of flight, my stressed brain finally gives up and goes straight to fuck.
My eyes shut, and a little gasp slips out as his tongue slides along mine. A strong hand lands on my lower back, and pulls me straight into his big, muscular body. He tastes like whiskey and sex, and the smell of leather fills my lungs. My core heats like a nuclear reactor heading for a meltdown.
"Natalie?” Sandra asks, sounding equal parts amused and startled.
I come to my senses wrapped in a biker. “Stop!”
He pulls back, eyes lidded and his smile sexy and self-satisfied. “You ready to dance?”
“Not that kind!”
He chuckles. “Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
"That won’t be happening,” I say with more confidence than I feel. My knees are wobbly, and I can still taste him on my lips. I grab Sandra’s hand and pull her out of there before anything else happens. To either of us.
"You okay?" she asks as we get into my beat-up junker of a car.
"Fine!" It starts on the second try, and then we're pulling out.
"He seemed nice."
"Don't care."
"And he was pretty hot," she adds slyly.
The ridiculousness of it finally breaks through, and I can't help but laugh. "Yeah, fine. He was."
"Thanks for picking me up. I love you. Now I know there's nothing you won't do to keep me safe, including kissing a biker." She chuckles.
"Yeah. I love you too. Now let's get you home, okay? Tomorrow’s my day off, but you have work in the morning."
When I go to sleep, I think about how nice it is to have my sister back. It was really rough for a couple of years, and I wasn’t sure it would ever happen. But my dreams are full of bikers, especially a scarred, long-haired one kissing me senseless.
2
NATALIE
"A hundred thousand dollars?"
Even with the cold steel barrel of a gun pressing underneath my chin so hard it hurts, I can't keep in my shock. I’m happy when my balance is over four digits at the end of the month. If I had a hundred grand sitting around I wouldn’t be sharing this one bedroom apartment with my sister.
“You can say it all you want. It won’t change anything,” one of them says with an ugly sneer.
Why did I even open the door when they knocked? I’ve warned Sandra about it so many times, but I was expecting her home and she forgets her keys all the time. The last thing I expected was to get jumped and have a gun pulled on me.
There's four of them, and each one is scarier than the last. Big, dirty and nasty. A minute ago, it smelled like the cupcakes I have in the oven, but now all I can smell is motor oil and sweat off the guy holding the gun to my head.
I think they're bikers. I’m no expert, but they have the same sort of look as the people at the bar last weekend. But these guys don’t look dangerously sexy, just dangerous. They’re wearing muddy motorcycle boots, dirty jeans, and beat up vests covered in patches. "Unwanted" it says across their backs. Is that their club?
I try to focus on the details in case I need to give a statement later, but in this city? It would go straight in the trash as soon as I was done. Everyone knows who runs this town, and it’s not the elected authorities.
"There’s no way Sandra owes you a hundred thousand dollars! She’s practically still a kid! This must be some kind of mistake."
"No mistake, sweet tits," says their leader, his wide grin missing two teeth. He's built like a boulder, with blurry tattoos wrapped around his left arm. There's nothing underneath his leather vest, unless you count his hairy belly and the grip of a gun sticking out of his belt. The other guys call him Crusher. "Hundred fucking grand, and interest's ticking. Tell us where she is, and we won't blow your fucking head off. It's not you we want."
"Speak for yourself," says the guy holding me. He squeezes my breast roughly through my T-shirt. I whimper, and my skin crawls, but I'm not exactly in a position to fight back. "She feels pretty damn good to me."
Swallowing hard, I shake my head—only barely so the guy with the itchy trigger finger doesn’t get any ideas. "Sandra’s been in rehab for months. She just got home a few weeks ago. There’s no way she could owe you a hundred grand."