Gah. I need this more than I need the air in my lungs, and the thought that he might deny me makes a knife cut at the sensitive lining of my stomach. Frankly, I need a lot more than a ride to fix this monumental fuckup, but I can’t think in sweeping measures of time—I can only consider right now, this moment, and how glorious the feel of a cool wind blowing on my flushed face will feel. In fact, I’m truly surprised at how much I like the idea of hopping on the back of a complete stranger’s bike altogether.
“Please,” I say then, the shake in my voice apparent to even my own ears.
I can only see his intense—and eerily familiar—blue eyes through the flipped-up dark screen of his black helmet, but the combination of those mesmerizing eyes and his visibly fit body that’s currently clad in dark jeans, black boots, and a James-Dean-Rebel-Without-a-Cause-style black leather jacket, he’s…pretty damn enticing. If all the women in the world combined their fantasies of the quintessential bad boy to experience hot and wild fun with, this guy would be the poster child.
“Daisy, what are you doing? Come back inside!” I glance over my shoulder to see Duncan standing at the entrance doors of the Wynn, and a sigh escapes my throat.
I have nothing against Duncan Jones, but also, I don’t want anything to do with him. Especially right now. I have no actual concrete reason for this internal response, but it’s undeniable. He’s the very last person I want to deal with.
I look back toward Mystery Guy, and he slides his helmet off his head, and I don’t miss the stark reality that the rest of his face is the same caliber as his eyes. Strong jaw, sexy, full lips, this guy could actually have given James Dean a run for his money back in the day. And when you add in the perfectly messy dark hair that sits on top of his head, it’s almost too much to comprehend.
Goodness, where did he come from? A fucking fantasy?
And then it hits me. He’s the guy. The silent, mysterious man who commanded his drunken, five-hundred-dollar-chip-bestowing companions without even a word.
“I know you,” I announce. “Your friends chatted me up this afternoon at my slot machine. One even gave me a five-hundred-dollar chip.”
“My brothers, actually,” he corrects.
His brothers? No wonder all four of them were insanely attractive. Only strong genetics could make something like that happen.
“Put this on.” He turns his body enough to hand me his helmet, and then he kicks his heel down to throw the motorcycle into gear. “And hold on tight,” he adds quietly, and I don’t hesitate to obey, sliding the helmet over my head and wrapping my arms around his firm waist once again. The material of his black leather jacket is rough against my forearms, but for some reason, I don’t hate the sensation.
Just as the engine revs, I look toward the entrance again and spot Duncan standing there with wide, shocked eyes. And before he can even open his mouth to say something, Mystery Guy releases the brake, cranks the throttle, and we’re off on a slight jolt.
I grip my arms tighter around his abdomen as he weaves us in and out of the Wynn’s valet traffic, and it doesn’t take long before we’re taking a right onto the main road of the Las Vegas Strip and heading toward the unknown.
Holy hell. What have I just signed up for?
Flynn
Unsure of where my unexpected passenger wants to go or what has her so worked up that she hopped on the back of my bike, I pull into a gas station about a mile off the Strip. Once I pull my Harley to a stop, she eases herself off the saddle.
My helmet is off her head a few moments later, and I don’t even try to be inconspicuous as I watch her wild mane of curls fall past her shoulders and the green of her eyes shimmer beneath the obtrusive neon lights of the gas station.
Daisy. I silently test her name in my mind. Oddly enough, the name matches her to a T. Beautiful, but also a bit wild. I sense she’s the type of woman who is full of surprises.
Frankly, I’m just happy it was me sitting at the entrance and not some deranged psychopath looking for a vulnerable victim.
Her energy is manic as she paces the pavement next to my bike, her teeth sinking into the flesh of her soft red lips repeatedly. I avert my eyes briefly and focus on cutting the engine and popping out the kickstand of my bike, and it’s only then, after being divested of the weight of my scrutiny, that she finds the will to speak.
“I’m…uh…Daisy.” Her words grab my attention, and I look up to find her holding out a petite hand toward me. “Daisy Diaz.”