Ride Me Hard: A Biker Romance Serial (The Devil's Host Motorcycle Club Book 1) (2 page)

T
he bells on
the front door jingle. The big scary biker releases my wrist and slips back into his booth seat. Smooth as silk. Just another customer. Nothing to see here. He nails me to the floor, though, with his eyes and a single whispered word. “Don’t.”

Don’t what? Don’t run? Don’t scream? Don’t…try anything? I’ve seen this movie. I know what happens, especially in these shoes. Me flat on my face in the parking lot, him looming over me. I shiver.

I just need to find a way to give him what he wants and get him the fuck out of here. I can do this. I squeeze my eyes shut and say a silent prayer that whoever just walked in the door isn’t a friend of his. Or a little old lady with a heart condition. Or Harry.

I know for sure it won’t be Harry. Goddamn cowardly idiot.

An oily voice crawls over my skin. “Everything okay in here, Star?”

Fuuuuck.
If this situation is a brush fire, that voice and the body it’s attached to are gasoline.

“Good evening, Officer Wade.”

Officer. Officer. Officer.
I mentally telegraph that to the biker glowering in the booth beside me.

Don’t.

It echoes in my mind. It echoes in his too, because I watch him slowly curl his fingers around the handle of the steak knife on the table. Is that a threat for me? Or Officer Wade?

Officer Wade helps himself to a slice of pie from the dessert case next to the counter, struts over to his regular booth, and slides into its vinyl embrace. “So formal. I’m not even in uniform.”

“That’s a shame.” And I mean that deeply. If he had his uniform on, he’d have handcuffs and a gun strapped to his belt. He’d have a patrol car out front instead of the little sedan with worn leather seats that smell like french fries. If he had his uniform on, he’d be here in a professional capacity and not trying to get me into the back of his car again for recreational purposes. “We close in ten minutes.”

“I know. I came to give you a ride home.”

The way he says
ride
makes my stomach twist, and I have to force myself to swallow the
no, thank you
that’s become automatic.

Shit. I should be relieved, but the last ride home was all unfortunate hands and his unpleasant mouth slimy on my neck.

And I’ve been putting him off for weeks. I try to be nice, but it only makes him more aggressive.

I don’t know what’s worse, the biker clutching a dull knife and vibrating with hostility or the upstanding member of the community who thinks his badge gives him permission to take whatever he wants.

The biker stands, leaving the cutlery on the table, and pulls a worn wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He drops a wrinkled ten and grabs his gear.

My heart drops, and I have my answer. Officer Wade is worse.

“My compliments to the chef.” He hands me the menu. “I can’t wait to try the meatloaf.”

Tomorrow’s special. Message received. He’ll be back.

That’s fine. I don’t work tomorrow anyway.

The door closes behind him, and it’s like all the air rushes back into the dining room. Officer Wade barely seems to register the near miss other than to blink at the exit. He just eats his pie. “You about done here?”

Screw the side work. And Jimmy. And dumb-ass Harry. I don’t have any choice but to take Officer Wade up on his offer and hope he can be decent. Maybe he will. Maybe he’ll surprise me. I can’t exactly walk off into the night with him standing in the parking lot watching. I weigh my options. “Yeah, just let me grab my purse and lock up.”

The back door locks by itself, so I flip the kitchen lights without wandering in farther and grab my bag from the cabinet under the register. Jimmy will be pissed if I don’t take the cash back to the office safe, but we barely did a hundred dollars in sales since the last cash drop. It hardly seems worth it.

I hold the front door open for Officer Wade, punch in the alarm code, and hurry out before I accidentally set it off.

“Come on, Star. I want to make last call at the Drop before I take you home.”

“I’m really tired, Wade. Too tired to drink. I appreciate the escort, though; we had some tough customers tonight.”

I fumble with my keys, trying to find the one that fits the sticky exterior lock. How long do I have before the alarm trips? Two minutes? One?

“Like that big bastard in your section when I came in? Glad I was here to serve and protect.”

Should I say something? That the
big bastard
threatened me? That he threatened Harry because…something to do with drugs? No. I’m not a narc. And what good would it do anyway? The big bastard is gone. And I’m alone. With Wade. The key slides home with a click.

Who’s going to protect me from him?

A clammy hand lands on my thigh and inches up. Wade’s touch is worse than cobwebs across my face in a dark basement. I jerk away, but he pins me against the door.

“Please don’t, Wade. I’m sorry. I’m just not interested in you that way.”

“Star—”

“Hey, asshole.” The biker’s voice tears across the parking lot. “She fucking said don’t.”

Wade grunts and then…he’s gone. His hand isn’t on my leg. His chest isn’t heating my back. There’s nothing but air behind me.

I can’t bring myself to look at what’s happening. Because I know. There’s more grunting and shouting. The thumps of knuckles against soft flesh. The sick crack of what can only be bone on pavement. Oh God. I have to look. I wobble on my heels and turn to find Wade facedown on the ground, the biker looming over him. His heavy boot resting on the back of Wade’s head.

He came back.

For one second I’m so fucking grateful to have Wade’s hands off me, however that had to happen. For one second I only care about myself.

“Thank you,” I breathe.

“Don’t thank me. I was making plans for your ass, and he was getting his fingerprints all over it.”

W
ade is out
cold; at least I hope that’s all he is. I drop to my knees and use two fingers to find a pulse, the way Mrs. Zambroski taught us in eighth grade biology. The thumb side of the wrist. Two fingers.
Don’t press too hard.
I take a shuddering breath and hold it.

If he’s dead, is it my fault? My throat tightens, and tears prickle up to the surface. Not for Wade. For myself, for this fucked-up situation.

Wade’s skin is warmer than I expect, and for one horrible second all I can feel is the thundering of my own heart.

“I didn’t kill him.” The biker’s words rumble over me, but I don’t look up. My eyes are locked on the scuffed toe of his massive boot, still resting on the back of Wade’s head. Casually.

When I finally find my voice, it’s flat—if a little strangled. “You could have.”

It’s not a question. It’s an observation. This is a man who can kill another man. Easy, casual violence. I know that in my bones. Not because he’s covered in tattoos and leather, but because he’s standing here like he spends all his days using the heads of his enemies for footrests. Maybe he does.

Loose gravel bites into my shins, but I hold still as a steady pulse beats against the pads of my fingers. Thank God. A hot rush of relief courses through me. And then the tears do fall. Fat, salty drops slip over my cheeks and down my chin.

“Yeah, I could have. Could still.”

“Because he—he touched me?”

“Oh no, sweetheart. Don’t get romantic ideas.” He leans down and grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look up into his cold eyes. “Because I feel like it.”

My heart pounds against my ribs again, frantic and desperate. What else does he feel like doing? “Did you miss the part where he’s a cop?”

Because reminding him he’s assaulted an officer of the law and has nothing left to lose is a brilliant idea. I gulp at my own stupidity.

“No. But if he’s clean, I’m a fucking choir boy. I’m sure he won’t want to answer any uncomfortable questions about tonight.”

He’s got a point, but my stomach twists at the possible blowback. Wade and Jimmy are friends. One word from Wade and Jimmy will eighty-six my job faster than yesterday’s special. I scramble for an escape.
We were attacked on the way to the parking lot. A stranger. He probably thought I had the night’s deposit in my purse.
It’s not far from the truth. It could work. And Wade would seem like a hero. He probably wouldn’t argue the details. “I need to call him an ambulance. If I tell you where you might find Harry, will you leave? Please. I won’t tell the police anything about you. I promise.”

My voice breaks.
I promise?
God, could I be more pathetic?

He tips my chin up farther until it’s uncomfortable to hold the position. I wince and resist the urge to pull free. I need him to trust me. Worse, I want him to like me. As much as he tells me not to thank him, not to get romantic ideas…I wonder.

He smirks. “So, he gets to be a hero?”

And there it is again. Does
he
want to be the hero? That wounded smirk is a sliver of hope, that maybe this big bad man likes being good sometimes. Wants it, like something forbidden and sweet. Like cake. Like me. “What? No. I just…I’m trying to help us both out here. We can both get what we want, can’t we?”

“I think so.” His smirk curls into a genuine smile, one that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

Regret flickers in my belly. I remember that my security comes with a price. “Are you going to hurt Harry?”

“Not if he has Dev’s money. But judging by the way he ran off tonight, that might be an issue. If you’re worried about him, I might let you plead for his life. You’re pretty on your knees. We could do
this
again.”

My cheeks heat with arousal and shame as I realize how I must look; face streaked with tears, skirt rucked up almost to my hips, lips inches from his crotch.

Wade’s unconscious body between us. Shit. I need to get him out of here before Wade wakes up and my terrible plan falls apart.

“But I won’t be—” And then it hits me. He’s going to take me with him, and I’m not one-hundred percent sure I don’t want to go.

His grip on my chin eases into a caress, and I shiver. His touch is almost tender, swiping away my tears with his thumb. “There’s a smart girl. But I’m not a complete monster. I’ll bring you back here in a few days, sooner if Harry has the money. You’ll only be a little worse for wear, unless you like it rough.”

Do I? My lips twitch to say no, to protest, but my body has other ideas.

I shouldn’t trust him. I should scream and run and break my ankle trying to get away. Instead I turn my face into his palm like a kitten looking to be petted.

I was worried about him having nothing to lose, but really I’m the one with nothing to lose. Dead-end job, dead-end apartment, dead-end family…I might as well climb on the back of his bike and see where he takes me.

I
n my skirt
and heels, I’m not exactly sure how to climb onto the back of his bike. Not without flashing my panties or possibly knocking into something I’m not supposed to touch.

I’m not
supposed
to touch any of this. Not the bike. Not him. I don’t even know his name.

Not that it matters. We aren’t going to be friends. He isn’t going to ask about my day and rub my feet. He’s going to… I shake my head against the filthy thoughts shimmering just beneath the surface. Me with my legs spread, him tearing down my…

I take a step toward the bike and hesitate. It’s more like a mountain than a bike anyway. A sleek metal mountain, with chrome peaks and flat black valleys.

“What do I—How do I—”

And then he’s behind me, arms like tree trunks at my back and under my ass. I am falling and flying and so warm in his embrace as he lifts me up. Bereft when he plants me on the leather seat instead of bending me over it.

“What’s your name? Should I even ask that? I shouldn’t.”

He laughs, skimming his fingers down my leg, catching on my nylons, trailing sparks in the wake of his touch. He plucks at the thin material and opens up a run in my dime-store hose.

“Noah.”

It’s like a match strike. The sound of the rip, the drag of his calluses over my bare skin. Jagged and sharp and so damn hot. I reach behind me and wrap my hands around the metal bar that seems to exist for just such a purpose. So I can have something to hold on to while he makes me explode by wriggling his rough little finger against a patch of skin just above my knee.