basket from me and tosses it in the garbage behind him. I barely catch sight of the bacon and ranch on top of my Coastal Fries as they sail into the trash.
“Time to go,” he repeats. I bite down on my bottom lip so hard I worry it’ll bleed. The very real possibility that one of the nearing bikes could belong to Grady makes me more agreeable to leave and find another place to eat lunch. With an empty belly and heart heavy with sorrow that I won’t be getting to taste that killer burger that I didn’t even get to sniff before it was brutally taken away, I stand from my stool and collect my purse. Just as I’m turning to leave, two men in black leather vests walk in. Each with patches, and each with their eyes on me. I drag my hands down the front of my pantsuit and smooth the material down. One of the men can’t be any older than early twenties, and the other must be no more than thirty—though both look as though they live hard lives with their faces in the wind, their bellies full of booze, and their veins pumping full of adrenaline.
The bikers are part of the club.
His club.
There is something undeniably attractive about the lure of bad boys—men who live by their own rules and don’t give a damn what you think about them—and they know it, too. Even though I grew up here, with the club always at a short distance, I’ve rarely found myself in the company of more than one of them at a time. Like Grady at Sea Salt Pizza—he wasn’t wearing his vest.
From the corner, the elderly patrons rise and pack up their chess set. The bikers part, and the men sneak between them and disappear out the door.
“Where ya going, babe?” the one on the right says, his voice reminding me of a snake, slithering and creepy. I stop and look up at them both, my eyes bouncing between them. The one on the right has dark features—dark hair, darker skin, dark eyes—and the one on the left has light brown hair with a pleasant summer tan. So different and yet so similar—their stances, their attire, their attitudes—both equally menacing, both equally dangerous. I’ve had my fill of menacing though.
“Leave her alone, dude. You’re gonna scare her,” the one on the left says as his eyes slide up and down my frame. He smirks. I open my mouth to respond before thinking better of it. I move to slide between the two men, but the dark-haired one takes a step sideways, effectively blocking my path.
“Just sayin’ hi, babe,” he says, leaning forward and grinning at me. I catch movement from out of the corner of my eye—the man behind the counter. He’s raising a bottle of Jack Daniels to his lips and chugging away.
“Hello,” I say in a squeak. An icy cold settles over me. Call it women’s intuition or a heightened awareness of my surroundings. Whatever it is, suddenly, I have a very bad feeling about standing here with these men. I’ve never known a member of the club to forcibly take a woman, especially in such a public venue, but there’s so many other things that can happen here and now that I’d like to avoid.
“You ever ride bitch?” the man with the snake-like voice asks. I don’t quite understand the question, but I get the feeling that no matter how I answer, the outcome won’t be pleasant.
“Excuse me?” I snap at him. His question has caught me off guard and left me annoyed. My temper’s ignited by his comment, and I find myself being more brazen than I should be. Then again, I basically threw my manners out the window when I called Grady an asshole. “Now, please move out of my way.”
“Tell me your name and I’ll move,” he says. His eyes fall down to my breasts and then drag back up. I know he’s lying. Everything from the look in his eyes to the way he smirks at the end of his sentence tells me that I can’t trust this man. But what options do I really have? I could lie and give him another name, but I have to live here, and his club runs this town. It seems like a bad idea to lie to
“Time to go,” he repeats. I bite down on my bottom lip so hard I worry it’ll bleed. The very real possibility that one of the nearing bikes could belong to Grady makes me more agreeable to leave and find another place to eat lunch. With an empty belly and heart heavy with sorrow that I won’t be getting to taste that killer burger that I didn’t even get to sniff before it was brutally taken away, I stand from my stool and collect my purse. Just as I’m turning to leave, two men in black leather vests walk in. Each with patches, and each with their eyes on me. I drag my hands down the front of my pantsuit and smooth the material down. One of the men can’t be any older than early twenties, and the other must be no more than thirty—though both look as though they live hard lives with their faces in the wind, their bellies full of booze, and their veins pumping full of adrenaline.
The bikers are part of the club.
His club.
There is something undeniably attractive about the lure of bad boys—men who live by their own rules and don’t give a damn what you think about them—and they know it, too. Even though I grew up here, with the club always at a short distance, I’ve rarely found myself in the company of more than one of them at a time. Like Grady at Sea Salt Pizza—he wasn’t wearing his vest.
From the corner, the elderly patrons rise and pack up their chess set. The bikers part, and the men sneak between them and disappear out the door.
“Where ya going, babe?” the one on the right says, his voice reminding me of a snake, slithering and creepy. I stop and look up at them both, my eyes bouncing between them. The one on the right has dark features—dark hair, darker skin, dark eyes—and the one on the left has light brown hair with a pleasant summer tan. So different and yet so similar—their stances, their attire, their attitudes—both equally menacing, both equally dangerous. I’ve had my fill of menacing though.
“Leave her alone, dude. You’re gonna scare her,” the one on the left says as his eyes slide up and down my frame. He smirks. I open my mouth to respond before thinking better of it. I move to slide between the two men, but the dark-haired one takes a step sideways, effectively blocking my path.
“Just sayin’ hi, babe,” he says, leaning forward and grinning at me. I catch movement from out of the corner of my eye—the man behind the counter. He’s raising a bottle of Jack Daniels to his lips and chugging away.
“Hello,” I say in a squeak. An icy cold settles over me. Call it women’s intuition or a heightened awareness of my surroundings. Whatever it is, suddenly, I have a very bad feeling about standing here with these men. I’ve never known a member of the club to forcibly take a woman, especially in such a public venue, but there’s so many other things that can happen here and now that I’d like to avoid.
“You ever ride bitch?” the man with the snake-like voice asks. I don’t quite understand the question, but I get the feeling that no matter how I answer, the outcome won’t be pleasant.
“Excuse me?” I snap at him. His question has caught me off guard and left me annoyed. My temper’s ignited by his comment, and I find myself being more brazen than I should be. Then again, I basically threw my manners out the window when I called Grady an asshole. “Now, please move out of my way.”
“Tell me your name and I’ll move,” he says. His eyes fall down to my breasts and then drag back up. I know he’s lying. Everything from the look in his eyes to the way he smirks at the end of his sentence tells me that I can’t trust this man. But what options do I really have? I could lie and give him another name, but I have to live here, and his club runs this town. It seems like a bad idea to lie to
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