Becca Vs. Biker

“C’mon, motherfucker, let’s move!” I yell through my windshield.

Always an effective way of communicating with others, I know.

He flips me the bird but his brake lights flicker off and he starts to move forward. I begin to inch forward—

My driver’s side door flies open and some guy in a leather jacket is yelling at me and I slam on my brakes in total shock.

“Throw it in park and move over!” he demands.

His jet black hair is unruly, like he’s just come out of a wind tunnel, and his leather jacket and chaps scream biker. Normally, if I saw a guy like this on the sidewalk, I’d get the fuck out of his way. He’s big and he’s scary and he’s tatted up and he’s yelling at me and I know I should be scared, but instead...

All I can do is laugh.

2

Harlan

Fuck, what a morning. I haven’t had such a shit show of a morning since that time my MC got ambushed in Jersey and we almost ended up with half our club dead. We barely escaped with our lives.

But no matter how pissed off I am about today, I know that what’s most important is getting these papers to my president.

Except now, I have some mom in a minivan just laughing at me. Some smoking hot mom wearing a skirt about three inches long and a shirt made out of two band aids and some string. Do mothers really wear shit like this? I mean, I haven’t seen my own mom since I was 17, but I don’t remember her leaving the house in this kind of getup.

I’d picked a minivan on purpose, expecting that the mom would have her kids with her and thus would be willing to do whatever I wanted her to do, including driving me back into the city so I can deliver these damn papers, but a quick survey of the van shows me no evidence of children—no toys, no booster seats, and sure as hell no kids.

God-fucking-dammit.

“Listen lady, don’t make me force you,” I growl.

I really hate threatening women, but on the other hand, these papers are life and death. I don’t have time to play nicey-nice with some lady. Even if—my eyes flick over her body—she’s usually someone I’d be doing my damndest to talk into my bed. She has a rack on her that’d test the patience of a saint, and that super short black skirt that shows miles of smooth legs. I feel my dick harden but I push that thought away.

Papers first and only. Fucking can come later, or never. I can’t be sidetracked by … well, by one hell of a broad.

I go for my knife in my boot but before I can pull it out, the woman just shrugs with a huge smile on her face. An almost … unhinged smile.

“Do it,” she says blithely. Not a care in the world. “After the day I’m having—no, the month I’m having—a little stabbing might be nice. Or is it a gun in your boot? Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Right now, I’d welcome a vacation in a hospital. Just lie around and watch TV and get high on morphine? Yeah, I’ll take that. So do it.” She spreads her arms wide. “You can’t miss at this range.”

I just stare at her, confused as fuck. I just got ambushed and almost died in the process and I have the Dark Tribe on my tail and they’re gonna catch up to me at any moment and this lady is just laughing at me? Begging me to shoot her?

I’ve managed to find the one crazy-but-sexy-as-hell bitch in all of New York who was excited about being stabbed.

Fuck. I may have just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

The traffic is flowing around us, horns honking at us for holding them up, but I just give them all the one-finger salute and keep staring at this crazy lady. What do I do? She seems so nuts; the Dark Tribe might be safer than her. She looks perfectly normal (i.e, fuckable as hell) but apparently, looks are deceiving.

Something my dick seems perfectly willing to ignore. My eyes fall back on her gorgeous, smooth legs, and I feel my cock get harder still.

Yup, if nothing else, my dick is still in perfect working order, and right now, it’s begging me to kidnap her.

3

Becca

“What’s your name?” I demand. If I’m going to be hijacked by some motorcyclist, I at least ought to know his name.

“Harlan,” he says gruffly, flipping the bird at another honking car passing us. We both ignore the irritated commuters who are working their way around us. Right now, I have more important things to do. Like chew this biker out, dammit.

“Well Harlan, here’s the dealio: My boyfriend has lost his job and just parties day and night, coming home just often enough to drunkenly paw at me before falling asleep. My law firm has basically transferred me to Siberia, and I’m now stuck commuting every day into Long Island. Fucking Long Island! I mean, who intentionally goes to Long Island, let alone on a daily basis? And,” I say, really warming up to the task, “I’m sleeping like shit, if I’m lucky enough to sleep at all, so I’m practically a zombie, and theeeennnnn, I get stuck driving a minivan to Long Island this week. A fucking minivan! I’ve pissed off a god and I don’t know which one, and I’m not sure wha