Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

I shook my head. “Not at all. Given proper warning and enough time to put together a suitable outfit I’d be jumping on. But this,” I gestured down, “is Alexander McQueen.”

Brock eyed me. “I don’t give a fuck what that is. Get on the fuckin’ bike so I can take you home and eat your pussy until you pass out,” he commanded roughly.

I shivered at his words. Alexander who? I snatched the helmet.

The ringing of a phone interrupted my efforts not to jump him on the sidewalk. Brock glanced down at the display. “Fuck,” he muttered. He glanced up at me. “A second, Sparky.”

“This better be fuckin’ important,” he hissed into the phone. I watched him silently listen to whoever was on the other side with a hard jaw. “I’ll be there in twenty,” he bit out furiously.

I pouted at him like a sullen child after hearing his last comment. He ran his hand through his hair. “We’re gonna have to raincheck, babe, something’s come up.”

My vagina and I both frowned at him. Actually I think it was safe to say I glowered.

He stepped forward, lightly grasping my hips. “Fuck, normally I wouldn’t let anything interrupt me getting in there.” His palm crept to my ass. “But this shit is pressing and it’s something that can’t wait.” He sounded genuine and supremely pissed. But I was drunk and horny and his sincerity meant sweet fuck all at this moment.

“Get on, I’ll take you home,” he said, stepping back.

“No way,” I responded quickly and with a slight hint of venom in my tone. I stepped back, out of his grasp. I needed to be out of range of his male pheromones in order to practice the feat of extracting myself from his presence without humping his leg.

“Pardon?” He frowned at me.

“I said no. I bet that’s not a word you’re used to hearing due to your impressive muscles and inhuman kissing skills,” I said. “Now I was willing to risk couture for the promise of what those muscles could do, considering you went to all of that effort to scare away my dates. But leading me on, ordering me around, then bailing on me? Not okay. So I’m going to call a cab and go home to my vibrator who never disappoints. You go and take care of whatever you need, and enjoy your blue balls,” On that note I turned on my heel and walked away, ignoring Brock’s shouts and curses.

CHAPTER FOUR

After nursing my disappointment and rejection, I was back to being supremely pissed at Brock. No matter what his reasons were he still got me all hot and bothered only to ditch me for his little club. It may be childish or immature but I didn’t care. I maintained my healthy dislike because the alternative was to drive over to his house like some sort of doormat and beg him to fuck me. That was not me. I didn’t beg.

So I dodged unknown numbers on my phone, avoided any place where leather clad men might frequent and kept myself busy. Gwen was currently all loved up with her own biker so I couldn’t even suggest nightly cocktail sessions with her. Luckily Rosie and Lucy were happy to comply.

After days of probing, the girls convinced me to head to the weekly club party, promising me there would be loads of hot men from out of town visiting. I complied with only the slightly evil plan of flaunting my Upper East Side version of biker chick in front of him. Okay, maybe I was thinking of doing a little bit more than flaunting. I could only stay angry and sexually frustrated for so long, and I wasn’t about to jump into bed with any other bikers. Not that I didn’t want to; I just didn’t want to be the girl that caused shit between friends. And by Brock’s possessive behavior the other night and descriptions of Cade’s actions from Gwen I guessed these were a special breed of men. The type of alphas that decided a woman belonged to them and them only until they decided otherwise. I didn’t agree with this. Not one bit. But I wasn’t going to be the Yoko Ono to this band of outlaws. Guess I had no choice but to sleep with Brock. I was doing it for the good of the community. It was the charitable thing to do.

So when I arrived at the club with Rosie, Ashley, and Lucy I wasn’t intending on being anything other than friendly to whatever hot men I encountered. That was until I saw a sandy-haired girl sitting on Brock’s knee. I didn’t consider myself a jealous person. But right then, I was considering ripping the girl off Brock with my freshly manicured hands.

“Ames?” Rosie questioned, following my death stare.

“Oh shit,” she muttered. She thrust a beer in my hand. “That’ll help. And let’s go over and have a chat to the guys from the New Mexico charter.”

I glanced around at the party. I had been to a lot of parties over the years, ranging from stuffy society parties where they served five hundred dollar champagne to raves in Europe where I had to dodge used needles on my way to the bathroom. I had never been to a biker party. I guess I suspected burning tires, men throwing knives at a prospect chained to a dartboard and maybe some public sex. What was in front of me was a slightly rowdier version of Rosie’s barbeque. Granted, there were a lot more leather clad men and the women were decidedly skankier. My eyes darted back to one skank in particular. It was unfair of me to think of her that way. She could have been a perfectly nice girl, but right now all I could see was her hand on Brock’s chest.

Rosie successfully defused the situation and led me over to some very attractive men. I drained my beer quickly and it was immediately replaced by the dark haired man I was chatting to. He wasn’t bad looking. Not at all. He was Hispanic, he wasn’t tall but he had the obligatory muscles and a seriously awesome goatee which made up for what he lacked in stature. I respected any man who still looked hot with a goatee.