Good Gone Bad (The Fallen Men 3)

“Harleigh Rose,” the deepest voice I knew called out over the higher cries of student chatter.

I froze.

Then slowly, already reevaluating my affirmation that the Berserkers wouldn’t harm me on campus, I turned to face the group of students in the parking lot.

Wrath sat on his huge Harley Davidson, a soft tail slim with red and chrome accents, but I knew it wasn’t the bike that had drawn notice but the big ass, badass biker that went with it. His thick hair was kinked and waving in the wind, his permanent scowl affixed to his gorgeous face, and his big body doing that lean women loved where the whole length and muscled breadth of their body was on display.

I understood the crowd.

I didn’t even like the man and I wanted to get closer to catch a better glimpse of that beauty.

But I didn’t.

“Gotta get home, Wrath,” I called out with a flick of my fingers. “Catch ya later.”

“Why do ya think I’m here? Get on,” he said.

Fuck.

I didn’t want to. I wanted to go home, clean my gun, take Hero for a run, and study for my finals coming up in two weeks. But Wrath was technically my old man now, and we hadn’t had the time for us to work out the particulars.

Like the fact that I was not going to sleep with him.

I hefted my backpack over the other shoulder so it would be balanced on the bike and trudged over to him.

“Lookin’ sweet, H.R.,” he complimented me when I came to a stop with my hand on my hip in front of him.

I was hyper aware of our lingering crowd as I tossed my hair over my shoulder and popped a loud bubble with my original flavoured Hubba Bubba. “Wearin’ an old tee and jean shorts, Wrath, nothin’ to write home to your mummy about.”

Given, it was one of my fav tees, one I’d stolen from dad with AC/DC emblazoned in red on the front that I’d tied at the bottom to expose a sliver of my tanned belly and the tops of the fishnets I wore beneath my shorty short jeans. I’d been a biker babe since I could talk, even I had to admit I had the look down pat.

His crossed his arms over his chest, drawing attention to the beautifully detailed tattoos of hellfire blazing across his forearms and up into the demons burning it the flames on his huge biceps. “You think a woman’s gotta wear somethin’ special to make a man pant, woman? Nah. Attitude is ninety percent of the attraction.”

“And the other ten percent?”

He paused as a slow grin split his beard in two. “Don’t find that out ’til later, when she’s on her knees with your dick in her mouth and you find out how good she is at suckin’ ya down.”

I snorted, done with our game, and moved to swing myself over the bike behind him. “I wouldn’t bet on finding out the decimal power of my suction, dude.”

Wrath’s laugh was less noise than it was a vibration of movement through his long, wide torso. He settled himself over the bike, waited for me to set the brain bucket on my head and then gunned the throttle just to see the gathering of students gasp and scramble backwards.

“Show off,” I muttered under my breath, but if his laugh was any indication, he heard me.

We took off and I hated that I loved being on the back of a bike so much that I enjoyed the ride through UBC’s curved roads, glimpses of multi-million-dollar houses through opened security gates, and huge stretches of unobstructed ocean views, the summer sun in full noon bloom over the silver water. The wind was in my hair, the scent of hot asphalt and leather-clad biker in my nose and before long I caved to the impulse to throw my arms in the air and yell indecipherably into the rushing wind.

I was almost sad when we arrived at Bernadette’s, Berserker’s local watering hole, except they made the best damn chicken wings on the planet so at least there was that.

I swung off the bike, pushed the helmet into Wrath’s chest and said, “Meet you inside.”

The bar was nothing like Eugene’s, my uncle’s bar and also my father’s club’s favourite bar just outside of Entrance. It was grungier, the servers older and haggard, wash-ups from strip clubs and more popular downtown bars, the drinks limited to beer and a few bottom shelf liquors.

I slid into a booth and ordered a Blue Buck and hot wings.

Wrath joined me at the same time the frothy pint was slapped in front of me and ordered the same.

“We gotta talk.”

“Yeah, we do. We gotta talk about the fact that I am so not your old lady,” I told him.

Wrath stared at me implacably with those placid, beautiful grey-blue eyes. “For the purposes’a the club, you are.”