Hot Wife Summer

The object of my fascination raises a glass to her lips, and my heart immediately comes crashing down into my gut. There’s a diamond ring on her finger. And a big one too. Someone’s already claimed her. Goddammit. How can the universe be this cruel?

Despite the hurdle of her already being in a committed relationship, I can’t help but keep on looking her way. She’s the type of girl who is just damn captivating, and the unselfconsciousness of her movements tells me that she doesn’t know it. I want to show her how special she is but the code of the Wildfire MC doesn’t tolerate any homewreckers.

Not that I’d want to do that… but she makes it a tempting proposition.

I look but don’t touch for what feels like forever and also not nearly long enough. I push Capone through the motions, patrolling the bar, but always keeping an eye on her. She seems to be alone, which confuses me. A married woman showing up at a bar like this alone indicates that her life might not be all sunshine and rainbows. The desire to go be her knight in shining armor is pretty strong, which surprises me. I’m not the kind of guy who’d normally be full-on pining for a wife I can’t have.

A wife I wish was mine, crazy as it sounds.

I’m trying to forget her, go about my business, when I hear a commotion at the bar. Some schmuck is grabbing at her and I instantly see red.

He’s in a leather jacket, but he’s not one of ours and there’s no tags to suggest that he’s part of any other MC. He’s kind of scrawny and rough, looking about three times her age and like he hasn’t seen the inside of a gym any time during his life.

He yanks her right to her feet. The utter terror in her eyes suggests that this isn’t some playful roughhousing. They share some words, but over the chaos of the club I can’t hear anything they’re saying. He’s pissed, she’s scared, and he starts dragging her off. Her father, maybe?

I shift nervously. I’m not one to pick fights, but I’m sure as hell not going to stand idly by either. I keep my distance but follow them, itching to jump in if I see something that tells me I should punch this guy.

Because more than anything, that’s what I want to do.

2

BAYLEE

The Wildfire Motorcycle Club is a bit farther out than I usually go, but I wanted out of the house more than anything tonight, and I didn’t want to be found either.

My whole life I have felt trapped and deep down I am just longing to be free … to be loved.

My usual haunt for when I want to get far away from home is Joe’s Tavern, much closer to where I live. But my dad and Uncle Jericho’s first guess would be to look for me there, so that meant it was off the table.

I don’t even like drinking that much, but one beer I can nurse for a few hours is cheaper than what I’d need to pay to justify hiding out somewhere else, like at a restaurant. Plus I can people-watch at a bar.

Wildfire turned out to be pretty good for that. It could get pretty wild, people dancing, shouting, and a fist fight even broke out earlier in the night. Both participants wound up at the end of the bar with arms over each other’s shoulders, mugs in hand, the bartender happily filling them back up all night. Drunk as heck is preferable to fighting, I suppose.

My little runaway stunts like tonight have been getting more and more frequent. I guess I can’t call it running away anymore, but my father would disagree. The bartender doesn’t care that I’m twenty years old, and Dad doesn’t care either. Dad still acts like he owns me. Like I am an asset to him, someone who has to earn her keep. If I don’t? He’ll make me regret it.

Tonight I just had to get away. It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death. It always makes him more ornery and violent. On nights like tonight, I make sure to be far away, as the last thing I want is to be there to find out what stupid thing he did next.

Long term? I don’t know what to do. Small towns like this aren’t exactly rife with opportunities. And I need money to leave, but the tips I get from being a part-time waitress aren’t going to get me to a bigger city.

I’m sitting at the bar, running a finger over my glass and wondering just how long I can sit here without ordering another, when a hand closes around my arm.

“There you are, you ungrateful little bitch.” My uncle’s voice sends a chill down my spine and he yanks my hand away from the glass, which wobbles but doesn’t fall over.