Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)

A shadow falls over his eyes. “It was my mom’s favorite movie.”

I nod in immediate understanding. Kiki made me watch that movie with her so many times. I guess, “So your mother was a singer/songwriter?”

He shrugs. “She was trying to be. She never got anywhere with it except bitter.”

Again, I nod. “Yeah, there’s a lot of that, especially in Nashville.”

“You know what, I don’t want to talk about my mother.” He leans forward on the server station. “What if I told you I was the only customer you needed to worry about tonight?”

Okay, we’re back to flirting. I reset to Red and answer, “I’d say that’s simply not true. Candy’s going to be real upset with me if I leave these bikers thirsty.”

“Candy . . .” He sneers a little, like he doesn’t quite like the taste of her name in his mouth. “Is that the girl I sent away so I could talk to you in peace?”

Aaannnd cue another stomach swoop. But I calmly tell him, “I really do need to see to the rest of my customers.”

He gives me an assessing look. “I’ll take a bottle of Glendaver from the top shelf.”

Top-shelf bourbon. I should be beyond thrilled. We charge premium prices for the bottle of thirty-year Glendaver I have to stand on a stool to retrieve from the bar’s literal top shelf. I’ve never even had to get it down for a pour, much less to sell the whole bottle.

But a funny feeling grumbles in my gut as I check the price list taped to the side of the liquor shelf. What was supposed to be a free beer for him and a nice tip for me is turning into something way more complicated.

And as Red as I’m trying to be, I have to work to keep my voice from shaking when I let him know the high three-figures price tag.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and places enough twenty-dollar bills on top of the server station to pay that amount with another five hundred dollars on top.

I just made more in three minutes than I’ve made in the first three hours of my shift.

“Thank you, baby,” I say, putting extra Red oomph in my voice like I always do when bikers overtip me. “That’s very generous.”

“Don’t thank me.” He ignores the bottle he overpaid so much for and leans back in. “Just tell me how much more it will take on top of that to get you upstairs.”

This isn’t the first time a biker has propositioned me. Usually, it leaves me feeling dead inside my cut-off shorts.

But when the biker they call Rockstar asks me to go upstairs, my entire body goes haywire. What would it be like to sleep with the cocky biker? Would he take me in missionary, like my last boyfriend, Paul? Caress my breasts fondly? Ask if I was ready before he carefully entered me like he was having sex with a precious G-rated princess?

Or would he flip me over and grab on roughly to my breasts before he—

Wait, what the heck am I thinking? I blink away those R-rated visions. Too far. Definitely too far.

“I don’t do that,” I answer, putting a few icicles in my voice. “I don’t go upstairs.”

He considers my words with a thoughtful look. “I’ve got somewhere else I can take you, if that’s what you need to seal the deal. But you feel this, right?”

He wags a finger between the two of us, and a dangerous hunger stirs below my waist, curious and electric.

“I’m not looking to seal any deals,” I answer, nonetheless. Then I tell him and remind myself, “I’ve got goals and dreams. And this job is just a means to achieve them. So, you can keep your tip and just pay me for the bottle. I’m not for sale.”

He jerks his head back like I’m speaking a foreign language he can’t quite understand. “So, you’re saying you’re the only one in this place who can’t be bought for the right price?”

“Not everybody is for sale,” I let him know since he’s apparently never heard of that concept.

“That’s not my experience, here or outside this roadhouse.” His voice is flat, like I’m pissing him off. “You have a price. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Okay, enough of this. I pull the plug on the conversation by taking just enough from the pile of twenties to pay for the bourbon.

“You can keep the rest,” I inform him.

There. Transaction done.

But he grabs my wrist again before I can move away and pushes the remaining bills into my hand. “Take this. I insist.”

He’s touching me again, and my mind spins with terrible, bad, bad, wanton thoughts. Working at the roadhouse is fun and liberating—easy too, since it plays surprisingly well into my outside-nursing skillset. Whatever this thing is sparking between the biker and me is the opposite of that. It’s dark and dangerous territory that fills my belly with fear . . . and an anticipation that I cannot reconcile.