Riding Him (Ghost Riders MC 5)

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, sliding up next to him, taking the stool next to his and turning to face him. His musky sweet scent hits me, and I didn’t know a man could smell like both at the same time, but he does. “I don’t need to be miles away. I can handle myself right here,” I tell him, looking him dead in the eyes. “You don’t know me.” My words are flat, brooking no argument. It’s nice to be farther away from your target, but I learned at a younger age that isn’t always the case. Sometimes you have to be close. Sometimes life just gives you the option and you have to learn how to protect yourself in that moment, and I have.

“I know a lot more than you think.” He glances at his computer, then back at me. “In fact, I feel like I know almost everything.” A small smirk plays at his lips, and I wonder if that’s a trace of the flirting I’ve heard so much about. Does he think I’ll turn into some blushing girl in front of him and bat my eyelashes? Not happening. Not for him. Never for a man who doesn’t think I belong. I may not know shit about men in this area, but I know how the men in my life treat their women, and I want that.

“That so?” I scoot a little closer to him, wanting him to know I don’t care what he thinks. That he has no effect on me, even if that’s a total lie. I want him to know that I’m here and I’ll be all up in his fucking space and this place whether he likes it or not. “Just because you went through my life with your computer doesn’t mean you know shit.”

“I beg to differ.” He leans a little in himself. “You finished college in under three years, spending hours up late writing your papers and studying, that when you can’t sleep you read Harry Potter, and you like to scroll JJ Watt’s Twitter a little too much.” He says the last part with gritted teeth. “You’re too young to be here.”

All the things he said are true, except the part about me being too young, but that’s unimportant. These are things he shouldn’t be looking at. My personal fucking business. Has nothing to do with this club. I get they need to know shit about me, but that is just a little too intimate. He doesn’t have that privilege. I haven’t granted him that privilege.

I also don’t throw in his face that everyone in this room was fighting in a war when they were 18. I’m 21. I feel my age is just fine and not part of this equation because I can do what they need me to do and that’s all that matters.

I reach down, grabbing the knife out of my right boot and slamming the blade down into the wood of the bar, leaving the handle sticking up.

“Shit,” I hear from the other side of the room, but I don’t turn to look to see who said it. Neither does Scribe. He didn’t so much as blink. Not even when I pulled out the knife.

“You can’t see everything behind that computer,” I tell him, pulling the knife from the wood, still looking straight into his eyes as I lay my left hand, palm down flat, on the bar, fingers spread wide. I start to unhurriedly hit the blade between each finger, slowly picking up speed. Moving my right hand faster and faster as the knife lands between my fingers, hitting the wood of the bar. I’m sure it’s leaving nice little nicks each time it hits, but I don’t give a fuck. Finally, he pulls his eyes from mine and looks at my hand. “Not everything is as it appears on your little screen. I think someone like you would know that, because most of you are nothing like you seem.”

“Jesus Christ.” I hear another voice from the other side of the room again.

Scribe’s eyes are now studying my hand, but I still keep looking at him as I move the blade between my fingers with quick ease. I know what he’s going to do. He’s looking for the right moment to grab my hand, and just when he goes to grab me, I pull back, making him jump. It gives me an opening, and I slam the knife right into the center of the keyboard of his laptop. The light drains from the screen.

“Stay out of my fucking business,” I say as calmly as I can. I pull the knife from his keyboard and throw it across the room to the dartboard next to the pool table. I hit it square in the center. “I can handle myself,” I tell him, leaning in so I’m only a breath away. “Even better when I’m close up.”