How to Not Kidnap a Biker (Certified Poor Decisions #1)

Chapter 1Rachel

Rachel

It’s Friday night. It’s book club night.

Noah and I are sitting in my living room, each of us buried nose-deep in a book, with a half-empty wine glass next to us and an equally half-empty bottle on the table between us.

The night screams of tipsy behavior and bad decisions.

One of those bad decisions is currently sitting in my bedroom.

Kind of... Being tied to a chair can be considered sitting, right?

Yeah, it totally does. It’s fine. Totally fine.

Perfect. Amazing. I will definitely not get in trouble for this or arrested.

Oh, God! I could get arrested! Nope, don’t go there, Rachel.

You will be fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.

You just gave the guy a ride... to your house...

without asking... and tied him to a chair.

Yeah, I am definitely going to prison. I wonder how many years the sentence for kidnapping will be.

Five? Six? Ten? Can’t be more than ten. He did seem kind of willing, after all, and he hasn’t called for help yet.

Yeah, definitely not more than ten. I can do ten years.

It’s fine. Ten years is nothing. They have books in prison, right? Okay, maybe I can’t do ten years. Fuck.

I try to focus on my book. I am reading a mafia romance, trying to seem totally innocent even though I am having a mental breakdown, while Noah is fully immersed in an enemies-to-lovers paranormal romance—a typical night in every sense of the word for us.

If you don’t count the guy I kidnapped. No!

The guy I gave a ride to my house. That’s the story I am going with.

I am a totally innocent woman who invited a guy to my house...

without asking him, and then tied him to a chair. Still counts.

“What was that?” Noah lifts his eyes from his book at the sound coming from my bedroom for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes.

As I said, a typical night, except for the man tied up in my bedroom.

Why does this fucker have to make so much noise?

It should be common sense that when someone kidnaps you, you respect their home and stay the fuck silent.

This guy has clearly not gotten the memo; every sound he makes is louder than the one before it and probably one more nail in my metaphorical, or literal, coffin when Noah finds out what I did.

Another sound follows, and now I am starting to wonder what he is doing up there.

At least he is alive. Positive outcome and all that.

I will admit I was a little concerned when I found him unconscious after driving us here in my work van.

However, this also worked in my favor. The universe works in mysterious ways, and who am I to question the universe when it’s trying to work in my favor?

“The cat, probably,” I say without looking up from my book, acting as if it’s so interesting that I can’t even bother to look my friend in the eye, even though I have been reading the same page for the last hour. What can I say? It’s a very interesting page.

In reality, I am just hoping he will ignore the sound if I do too.

Noah goes back to his book, satisfied with my answer.

A sense of reassurance fills me, as it appears I have convinced him, but that feeling lasts only until another sound emanates from the bedroom.

Noah turns to me as if he’s just been hit by a lightning bolt.

Jesus Christ, seriously? Can’t you just stay quiet? I’m trying to avoid prison over here.

“Rachel, you don’t even have a cat! What was that?” Noah yells, his voice at a frequency only dogs can hear.

“Oh, yeah, I don’t. I forgot about that.

” I try to focus on the page again, but my pulse is racing, and I’m pretty sure you can hear my heartbeat from where Noah is now standing, book still in hand as he looks at the staircase leading to my bedroom, as if the damn wooden thing will give him the answer.

“You forgot you don’t have a cat,” he says, one eyebrow raised and a look that screams “bullshit.” He is not convinced at all.

I wonder why. One could totally forget they don’t own a cat.

It’s a very believable excuse, in my opinion.

Of course, my opinion is that of a woman who kind of kidnapped a man, but that’s not important.

My therapist was right; I spend too much time on social media, and I am way too easily influenced by it.

Maybe I should book another session. I probably should avoid telling him I kidnapped a guy.

Nope, I invited a guy to my home. That’s the story we’re going with, Rachel. Focus.

“Why is it so hard to believe someone could forget that they don’t own a pet?

” I try to argue with a straight face. Yes, a therapy session will totally be needed after this.

Do therapists do prison visits? Will I need to settle for the therapist they have there?

I like my therapist. It would be inconvenient to have to build a connection with a new one.

Trust is important. I would know. I’m so trustworthy that a poor man is tied to a chair because he trusted me.

“Because the last time you owned a pet, Rachel, you forgot it existed, and I had to flush the damn goldfish down the toilet because—and I quote—‘you were too sad to do it yourself,’ even though you were the one who murdered the poor thing.” Oh yeah, I forgot about the goldfish.

“I did not murder the damn goldfish, Noah! I simply forgot it existed for a month. Who knew it couldn’t survive without food for a month?

” I argue. It was a difficult month. I had broken up with my boyfriend, work wasn’t going so well, and the goldfish was a gift from the cheating bastard.

Hard times, I’m telling you. “Besides, this only proves I could easily forget I have a cat,” I say, using his example to get me out of this situation, but now Noah’s other eyebrow has joined the first one in a competition of which one can get higher.

“Forgot you have a cat, yes. Forgot you didn’t... I call bullshit.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, dropping his precious book on the floor as he runs for my bedroom before I can argue with him. I truly can’t catch a break, can I?

He is going up the stairs two steps at a time, and I am right behind him trying to catch up.

Right about now, I should be considering my life choices and coming up with a plan for how to explain what he is about to find in my bedroom.

At least that’s what I would do if I had any sense of self-preservation.

Which I don’t. Clearly. It was probably left behind right alongside my morals when I decided to start my afternoon by kidnapping a biker at the local motorcycle shop.

In my defense, those videos on social media have been influencing my mind.

My feed is full of “how to kidnap a biker” videos, and it’s safe to say that they have been a very bad influence.

Plus, if we are going to be technical, it was way too easy to catch one. That alone should be a good get-out-of-prison card, right?

“Maybe it was the wind,” I try to argue when we are finally both in front of my bedroom. The closed door is the only thing that separates me from a prison sentence and a very angry best friend.

“It sounded more like someone broke in, Rachel.” Good observation, Noah.

I wouldn’t say he broke in—more like I brought him in.

But for the sake of our friendship, I decide to keep my mouth shut.

Noah twists the doorknob, and my door slowly opens.

We stand there—Noah with his fists in the air, ready to fight, and I right behind him, contemplating my whole existence.

Right about now, I am hoping the biker broke free and fell out of my window or something as I watch Noah, scared out of his mind, trying to assess the situation.

He is cautious, as if he is trying to catch the robber in the act.

That won’t be an issue since the man in question is tied to a chair anyway.

Unless he broke free and fell out the window.

Wishful thinking. Oh wait, no! Then instead of going to prison for kidnapping, I’ll be going for killing a man.

I will definitely not survive a life sentence.

The door opens, Noah turns to me, then back to the biker who is very much still alive.

Oh good, I’m not going to prison for manslaughter, just for kidnapping.

“What the hell, Rachel?” He screams, looking at the man displayed in such a way as if he is the main event. He would have been if Noah hadn’t decided to go full Scooby-Doo mode and investigate the strange noises.

“It’s not what you think.” It’s totally what he thinks.

“Really? Because what I think is that those videos you keep watching on your phone finally knocked a screw loose and you’ve decided to kidnap a fucking biker.” He screams, and his face is turning a shade of red I haven’t seen before on Noah. It’s not a good look. Definitely not his color.

“Okay, that part is how it looks, but I promise you it’s not as bad,” I try to argue. Yes, Noah, it’s not as bad. I could have gone for a set and kidnapped two.

“Hey, not to be that guy, but it is actually worse than you think.” Biker Boy decides to chime in on the conversation because why wouldn’t he? And now Noah is turning a deeper shade of red from anger. Red is definitely not his color.

“How did you even manage to get him here?” Noah questions again, as if that’s the main problem here, not the biker dude stating that the situation is worse than it looks. I would worry about that, but he does genuinely seem harmless, and I’m too deep in this to back down now.