Chapter 1
Evan
I type my address to my Grindr hookup but hesitate to hit send
Both Cash and Johnny have repeatedly warned me to stay off hookup sites. They’d said it’s a security breach and the Reivers could use it to gain easy access into my apartment.
My finger hovers over the delete button.
But does “Down to Fuk” really sound all that dangerous? Other than his douchey choice of usernames, the guy seems like a typical frat bro looking for a quick, no-strings orgasm.
Besides, what do Cash and Johnny know about needing to get laid? The two insanely hot men probably have guys throwing themselves at them all the time. Not that they’d notice. The two men are so crazy about each other that they barely notice anyone else exists.
I’m not jealous. I’m really not. Even though I might have had a few fantasies about Cash over the years—which is totally messed up considering he once threatened me and burned down my parents’ cabin. I’ve put him in the frenemy zone now, though, I swear.
And come to think about it, Cash and Johnny had been responsible for my last Grindr date going to hell, so why should I listen to those two cock blockers.
I hit send just as my cat Delilah jumps up on the couch, giving me a disapproving scowl.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her guiltily.
“The Reivers aren’t going to go to the trouble of creating a fake Grindr profile to ferret me out.
My articles about their criminal activity are barely on their radar.
Not when the gang is doing such a bang-up job of disrupting their business and being general pains in their asses. ”
I reach out to pet her, but she jumps down and prances away in a snit, her fluffy tail swishing back and forth in protest.
“Sometimes I need somebody other than a judge-y cat to share my bed,” I call out to her.
For a few minutes, I feel righteous for reclaiming my autonomy, but once the thrill of my rebellion fades, I start having second thoughts.
What am I doing? Is this hookup worth the risk? I’m more lonely than horny, and hooking up never solves the loneliness. It just makes it worse.
By the time I decide to cancel the whole thing, I realize I took too long wavering, and now it would be rude to cancel. I take a quick shower and prepare myself, trying to get more excited. Remember, you’re going to get an orgasm out of this.
When the loud knock sounds at my door, I hurry to open it so I can get this whole thing over with.
I realize too late that I should have looked through the peephole first.
The man with his closely cropped dark hair and scowling brown eyes looks nothing like “Down to Fuk’s” profile picture. Maybe his older, much hotter, and more muscly older brother.
“You’re not ‘Down to Fuk,’” I say, nonplussed, wondering if hookup apps have started offering upgrades like airlines. Is this sexy man the equivalent of being bumped up to business travel when you bought the economy fare?
At my words, the man’s eyes slowly travel over me, a sneer of disapproval curling his lips. “Not with you, I’m not.”
His words sting like a slap on the face.
I feel all my old insecurities start to take over.
Sure, I looked better in my profile picture.
I’ve been stuck in my apartment writing articles at a furious pace for months.
I’m in serious need of a haircut, and my pale, washed-out complexion could benefit from some sun.
“Then why in the hell did you respond to my profile?”
“Profile?”
At the look of frustrated confusion on the man’s face, my brain starts to catch up with the situation.
Too caught up by his hotness and then having my feelings hurt by his rejection, the investigative journalist in me took way too long to catalog the man’s fighter’s physique, the tattooed muscles peeking out from his leather jacket, the biker boots, and the bulge of the weapon he’s carrying.
Fuck. Cash and Johnny were right. It’s a Reiver at my door looking for payback.
The grisly details of the Reivers’ acts of violence against their enemies flash through my brain as I slam the door on him. He catches it with his arm, and it swings back open, so I duck and try to run underneath his outstretched arm.
“Hold up there,” he says, catching me infuriatingly easily and hoisting me up under his arm like a sack of potatoes.
“Let me go!” I yell, but he ignores me. I try biting him, only to get a full mouth of leather for my trouble.
“Dude. You didn’t mention a third or that you were down for rough play in your profile.”
At the sound of the voice, both of us stop struggling. I crane my neck to see a good-looking guy standing there in a polo, jeans, and chucks, who, even from my upside-down perspective, I can tell clearly likes what he’s seeing.
He puts his hand on his junk. “Lucky for you, just like my profile name, I’m down to fuck.” He gives us another once over. “Especially if Muscles tops me first.”
“I’m not fucking anyone,” the guy holding me growls and walks me into the apartment.
“But—” the guy yelps as the door slams in his face.
“Go home,” the man yells in a deep baritone as he stalks into the living room, dumps me onto the couch, and targets me with an accusing stare.
“Both Cash and Johnny mentioned they told you to stay off dating apps.”
Relief hits me first. He’s not a Reiver. I get to live. Then guilt. I knew I shouldn’t have hit send. It was shitty and stupid. Then anger. Who the fuck is this guy manhandling me and telling me what I can and cannot do?
I jump up from my couch. “Who the hell are you to tell me anything.”
“Your bodyguard,” he says with infuriating coolness.
“I don’t have a bodyguard,” I throw back at him.
According to Cash Mcree and Johnny Devon, you do. And until I’m told the threat you're under is over, I’m not going anywhere.”
“The hell you aren’t.”
He locks eyes with mine. “Try getting rid of me,” he says calmly as if his presence in my life is a forgone conclusion.
My eyes go over his muscled body again and dismiss the idea of being able to push him out my door.
Looks like my attitude is going to have to do the heavy lifting today.
“Look, you trespassing behemoth,” I snarl. Cash and Johnny don’t pay the rent here, I do. So go be big and bossy somewhere else.”
He looks at me calmly as I rant at him, which incites me even more. “I mean it. Leave now.” I grab my phone and pretend to open Grindr. “I need to message my hookup to come back.”
Finally, I see a flicker of response. “‘Down to Fuk?’ Really?” he says, a sour look on his face. “That’s what does it for you?”
No, it’s really not, but I’m not about to admit it to the sexy muscle man.
“Not your concern,” I tell him, but he’s already taking his phone from his back pocket and hitting a button.
“It’s Luca,” he says to the other person on the other end of the phone. “Yes, I’m here, but there’s a problem.” He makes direct eye contact with me. “Evan is still using hookup apps even after being warned against them. I’ve already intercepted a highly suspicious individual—”
“Highly suspicious, my ass,” I shout, but Luca ignores me.
“Yes. I think that’s the best course of action. Thank you. I’ll be in touch,” Luca says, hanging up.
“I don’t know who you were talking to, but it doesn’t fucking matter. I don’t need a bodyguard, and I’ll hook up with anybody I want.” This time I really do open up my app, ready to call “Down to Fuk” back and screw him just out of pure spite.
Just as my finger hits my screen, the app disappears. It has to be a glitch. I open my phone back up but can’t find the app. I look for the two other hookup apps I’m on. Nothing.
Then it hits me.
“You had whomever you were talking to delete my apps,” I gasp in utter disbelief at the bossy nerve of this man.
He shrugs like what he just did wasn’t a complete invasion of my autonomy. “Eli agreed they were a risk and removed them.” He studies me for a moment. “And because your self-control isn’t that great, he—”
“Self-control?” I screech.
He ignores that my voice just hit a pitch that an opera singer would be jealous of. “Also removed your food and grocery delivery apps, too.”
I throw my now mostly useless phone at him, which, instead of hitting Luca smack on his judgmental head like I want it to, lands easily in the palm of his rugged hand.
It starts ringing. Luca looks at the screen. “It’s for you.” He holds out the phone to me, and I stomp over to where he’s standing and snatch the phone back.
“Hello,” I shout into the receiver.
“I told you to stay off those apps.” Cash Mcree’s commanding voice sounds in my ear, and I immediately feel guilt surge over me.
“It was just the one time,” I say, trying to stand my ground.
“It just takes one bullet to kill ya, kid.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not a kid. I’m older than you are by a little over a year, Cash.”
“Then act like it. The shit you pulled tonight was risky and stupid.”
“I haven’t seen another person but you or Johnny in months,” I whine at Cash, though being lonely and cut off from people isn’t exactly a new thing in my world.
“Well, that’s another plus of having Luca watching over you. He can keep you safe, and you’ll have a little company.”
Great. I’m so pathetic that not only does Cash think I can’t protect myself, but he’s gone and paid someone to be my “friend.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” I insist.
“Look, Evan,” Cash says, his tone softening. “I don’t think you realize all the attention the last few articles you’ve written have gotten.”
He could be right. No one took my articles seriously when I started writing about the Reivers and their crimes.
They thought I was an unhinged conspiracy theorist trying to pin a bunch of unrelated crimes on the motorcycle club that had replaced the Hell’s Angels as the romantic American ideal of the outlaw biker lifestyle.
Lately, though, my work has been getting some journalistic cred.
It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact it’s not just me and my anger writing into the void.