Free.
God, I envy them their freedom.
One rides in front, the other two behind him like an honor guard. The pack guarding the alpha, except these guys are all alphas. Even though our windows are tinted, I swear they're all looking right at me. My heart races like one of their bikes.
The front guy veers closer. Two-day stubble darkens his superhero jawline, and he sits his bike confidently, almost regally. The sleeves on his denim jacket have been ripped off, revealing tanned muscles and dark tattoos snaking around his powerful forearms. He's the stuff of bad boy dreams, but it's the dark, haunted pools of his eyes that really draw me in. The kind you can drown in, the kind that seem like they've seen far too much for a guy who can't be much older than his mid-twenties. He sneers, and if he knows whose limo this is, I don’t blame him.
If the front guy is royalty, the one behind him is savagery. His tattoos go all the way up both arms, dense tapestries of vivid, colorful drawings of monsters and sexy women, and they're—holy crap. My face warms as I realize what's going on there and my breath quickens. It has me adjusting the way I sit. I tear my eyes away. I'm not going to look at that with my parents in the car.
His ink black hair flutters uncontrolled in the wind, with a bright purple streak dyed through it. He smirks the cockiest smirk I've ever seen—and I've dealt with career politicians all my life—then yells something to the third guy and points at our limo.
The third guy's beard is magnificent. It's the only way to say it. Rich and thick, just a bit redder than the brown, longish waves that flutter behind him as he rides. He's huge. Like bench pressing his bike huge. Maybe Dad's limo, even. Clinging to that hair while doing dirty things would be… well, I'm not exactly experienced, but I've read a lot—a lot—of romance novels. I'd figure it out.
His nose has been broken, but it just gives him character, and if I thought the lead guy's eyes were to lose myself in, when this guy turns his rich hazels my way and frowns, I'm completely done for.
They're a fantasy trio, wild and free. Everything I'm not. I don't even blink, just in case I miss a single moment. I'm burning this into my memory to revisit… well, later. When I'm alone.
“What the fuck are the Screaming Eagles doing this far uptown?” spits Dad like it's a personal insult.
I suppose it kind of is. His whole election campaign was based on ending the biker problem. To clear them out of South Side and get them off the streets. After three years, he hasn't had much luck, but now he's gunning for senator and he's got some special task force going on. I dunno. Much as he wants me to, I can't find it in me to care about his politics.
Probably because he wants me to.
“Honey, it's a public highway,” says Mom with a slight slur and pats his arm. A peacemaker until the end, as if her only job is to keep Dad civil. It's a thankless and impossible job, but it's hers. I’d probably drink if I were her, too.
“The fuck it is. At least when I'm done with them. Their days are numbered. Not just the goddamn Screaming Eagles, but all the gangs. They're trash, and they're making a mess of my city. Fucking trash.” A few drinks make Mom more relaxed and amorous, but Dad just gets angrier and more on edge.
Honestly, that they piss him off is enough for me to give them a little sympathy. But just because Dad's an asshole, doesn't mean he's wrong either. If there's anything he's always warned me away from, it's the biker gangs. More than stranger danger or bad touch, or looking both ways before crossing the street. Even in our neighborhood, if I was so lucky as to even be let off our estate, the first thing I worried about was motorcycles. Not that I ever saw any.
The lead guy revs, a sound that rumbles right into my core. I squeeze my thighs together like I'm riding one of their bikes. Except it's not the bikes I'm riding in my mind, obviously.
He speeds up, and the other two follow. The guy with the purple streak holds off long enough to show us the finger, and then they're all gone, leaving us in the dust as if we're standing still.
Maybe they knew who's in here after all.
“Goddamn, motherfucking, gutter trash bikers,” rants Dad, throwing himself back into his seat. At least his fuming isn't directed at me, for a change. Still, as soon as we're home, I'm off to my wing of the house, and well away from his sour mood. He's got a nasty habit of lashing out, and well, sorry, Mom. You're the one who chose to marry him.