Hell on Wheels (Kings of Mayhem MC 4)

“Thanks,” I breathed out.

“You’re welcome. The kid was a tweaker.”

“I don’t think he would’ve gotten far with twelve dollars,” I joked lamely.

He looked at me through a furrowed brow.

“You okay?” he asked.

I smiled awkwardly because damn this guy was hot as fuck. He was tall with massive shoulders and a face I couldn’t stop looking at. He wore a hoodie, dark pants, and a pair of kick-ass motorcycle boots.

I nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

A strange pause lingered between us before he spoke again.

“You’re a good singer,” he said. “I really liked the one you opened with.”

“Oh, that wasn’t one of mine.” I noticed how bright his eyes were as we talked. “That belongs to Ava Max.”

Like fucking bright blue.

He smiled and I felt my knees slightly weaken. This guy already had a sexy intensity about him but when he smiled it was simply breathtaking.

“Do you play paid gigs?” he asked.

“Well, yeah, sometimes,” I replied, surprised. “Why, you know someone who needs a girl with a guitar?”

“Yeah.” He smiled again and damn. “As a matter of fact I do.”

“I’m listening.”

“I need someone to play at a party we’re throwing tonight. How does two hundred dollars for six songs sound?”

Like a lifeline.

“It sounds pretty amazing—”

I was seconds away from accepting his offer when I noticed the leather vest under his hoodie.

He was a biker.

No. Not just a biker. According to the patch on the front, he was the Seargent at Arms of the Kings of Mayhem motorcycle club.

My heart sank.

I’d heard about the Kings of Mayhem. You didn’t live in Destiny and not know who they were. They were like rock stars in this county and held the real power in this town.

Which meant they were to be avoided at all costs.

Well, for me anyway.

I didn’t care how hot they were, or how powerful and lusted after they were, those vests were a giant red flag.

It was my experience that with status came power. And with power came the misguided ignorance that you were better than other people. Some saw this as a license to abuse. Or worse. Destroy.

Disappointment rushed through me. This guy was something else—from those vivid blue eyes and the muscles for days, right down to that scar running through his eyebrow.

My disappointment sank deeper in my gut.

Two hundred dollars for six songs.

The offer was good, but the vest was a deal breaker.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “It sounds pretty amazing, but …?”

“You’re a biker,” I blurted out.

He frowned. “And?” My sudden change in demeanor was as obvious as a snowstorm. I didn’t want anything to do with bikers, and I was doing a bad job at hiding it.

“Listen, it’s a really decent offer, but I’m going to have to decline.”

His expression didn’t change. Except his eyes darkened a little. He didn’t bother asking why. He could tell I was put off by his vest because I was looking at it like it was a piece of satanic literature and I was a nun.

I held up the money I’d earned for the day. “Thanks again.”

His expression remained unchanged as his eyes locked with mine. “No problem. If you change your mind…”

I wasn’t going to change my mind.

I was good at calculating the risk in most situations—I had to be—and this man and that damn vest, was too high of a risk. Hauling my ass across town to a biker clubhouse to play in front of drunk, sweaty bikers wasn’t in my immediate future. That would be asking for trouble.

And I was already running from a fuck-ton of it.

CHANCE

I couldn’t shake her from my mind as I left the bar. It had been hard to miss the frown on that pretty face of hers and the way her nose screwed up when she noticed my cut. That was new. The cut usually earned me a wink or a suggestive bite on the bottom lip—and quite often an invitation of some sort. But disgust? Not until ten minutes ago.

It annoyed me more than it should have.

I should be happy she pushed me away.

So why couldn’t I get that angelic face and those big blue eyes out of my head.

And why the fuck did just the thought of those luscious lips and flawless, honey-colored skin make me want to kiss her?

This morning I had sworn off women.

Now I was getting hard over one.

I broke away from my brothers and took my bike for a ride on the highway where I could really open her up and let her fly. It was good therapy. The sun on my face. The wind whipping against my skin. The freedom I felt as I pushed my bike to her limits. Sometimes it was the smallest things that took the biggest steps toward healing.

After half an hour of roaring through the empty highway, I turned back toward town and headed for the clubhouse.