Chapter 3
I was on the cusp of consciousness, the sound of chirping birds drifting into my bedroom through the open window above my bed, my mind trapped in the same dream I’d had the last three nights.
Except, it wasn’t just a dream.
I could almost feel his fingers in my hair. His tongue in my mouth. His cock stretching me open. My sex clenched, the heat of desire pooling in my belly as I crawled my way out of sleep.
I gasped, drawing in a deep breath as I pried my eyes open and rolled onto my back, forcing myself fully awake.
One night with a real man.
One night with a Stallion.
Turned out—it only took one night to destroy the carefully constructed safeguards I’d built in my mind over the last twenty years. They’d been torn down and rebuilt, damaged and patched up many times—but this, this was different. This was my own fault.
Or maybe it was Twister living up to his road name.
What we did didn’t mean anything, but Twister would have been hard to forget on a normal day. Six-foot-two. Head full of soft, wavy hair. That thick beard and his many tattoos only hinting at the rebel he was.
If I’d have been sober, I would have been smarter.
If I’d have been sober, I would have told him no.
If you’d have been sober—you’d have missed out , taunted the devil within.
The men I fucked were usually strangers lacking any quality that might be even remotely interesting. They were compliant and eager. They were warm bodies easily forgotten.
Twister had relinquished control— mostly —but he was far from docile. More than anything, he was amused by me. I still remembered the laughter that made his dark eyes gleam. Yet, even sober, I wasn’t nearly as annoyed by the memory of it as I should have been.
It was going on four days, and in spite of the tequila which coaxed me into a deep sleep beside him in that bed, I couldn’t seem to forget a single detail from Saturday night.
I had more than enough experience shoving memories into the furthest, deepest, darkest corners of my mind. I’d learned some things couldn’t be forgotten, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be hidden. Though, life had been decent for a while now, and it seemed I was a little out of practice.
Or maybe it was the fact that Twister unlocked something I’d been hiding for years.
I nearly forgot how much I liked to be kissed.
I was twenty-four years old the last time a man’s mouth knew mine.
Even younger since I’d wanted to know his.
Before the memory of my monster’s face could slither out of its dark corner and into the forefront of my mind, I sat up, tossed aside my covers, and jumped out of bed.
It was one fucking kiss, Phoenix. Get the fuck over it.
I pulled off the hair tie wrapped around my wrist and piled my curly mane atop my head as I descended the stairs of my two-story home, headed for the kitchen. I had shit to do—including inventory at the bar before we opened.
First, my babies and I needed hydration.
I made myself a cup of coffee—black, with a drop of liquid stevia—then headed out the backdoor, slipping on my Birkenstock sandals as I went. No matter how out of sorts my brain got, I could always rediscover peace in my outdoor oasis.
The patio door opened up onto my simple wooden deck, big enough to house a small four-top table and two, cushioned, wooden lounge chairs.
Not that I ever had any guests over. I merely preferred the symmetry.
Built above the deck, extending off the house, was the Pergola—the lattice top complete with solar powered stringed lights.
The deck and the Pergola came with the house when I bought it.
The rest of the yard was my doing.
There was an extensive flowerbed, about four feet deep, which bordered the entire fence line.
It was as chaotic as it was gorgeous, bursting with the colors of my favorite flowers.
Lavender, daisies, dahlias, zinnias, columbines, marigolds, foxgloves, and snapdragons.
There were also wildflowers scattered about, which added a bit of whimsy.
In one corner, I had a blue hydrangea bush, which got a little bigger each year; and in the opposite corner were my pink roses.
With my coffee in one hand, I used my other to turn on the spigot on the side of my house, filling the hose I used to hand-water the garden.
I took my time, walking slowly along the stone path I’d laid around the yard.
I didn’t have much grass, but that was by design.
I hated mowing and much preferred my floral escape.
By the time I watered the potted flowers lining the deck, my coffee mug was empty, and my head was mostly clear. With my first morning chore complete, I headed inside in order to get on with my day.
An hour later, I was dressed in a pair of cut-off denim shorts, an over-sized, black Nirvana tee I wore tucked in, and my Doc Marten’s.
My hair was loose, my makeup had been applied, and I was securing my knife to my hip as I headed for the garage.
I grabbed my keys and my purse from the hook I kept next to the door, then stepped out to climb into my ‘76 Ford Bronco.
It was Brittany Blue with whiskey, diamond stitched, leather seats. It had a black soft-top I took off whenever the weather was nice and I was aching for a long drive. It was vintage, custom, and badass. It was me. Or, at least, the part of me I let the world see.
I purchased the beauty fully refurbished as a birthday gift to myself when I turned thirty-two. I’d been at Steel Mustang four years by then, and I had the money to splurge—so I did. Since Mustang hired me on, I’d been able to afford a lot of things to make my life more comfortable.
Though, I didn’t require much.
A home to call my own, a ride that could take me anywhere, and the freedom to roam.
Still, the bar drew in a crazy amount of business, my boss was generous, and my bank accounts were proof.
It was eleven o’clock when I pulled onto the compound and parked at the back of the bar’s lot.
I was the first to arrive, as was usually the case.
I preferred to handle inventory on my own, before any of the guys showed up.
It was the only time the place was quiet, and it was kind of nice, getting lost in the routine of my task.
At nearly one o’clock, I’d just submitted that week’s order in the system when I heard Rodeo stroll in.
Like most of the Stallions, he was good people.
Other than Mustang, he was also my favorite bartender with whom I worked.
He was fast, efficient, and he could smooth talk any drunk bitch who wanted to start something out of actually starting something.
He wasn’t my type—blonde hair, blue eyes, and a baby face still hanging on even at twenty-seven—but that didn’t mean I couldn’t see the appeal.
“Yo,” he greeted from the office doorway.
He had a hand on either side of the frame as he leaned into the small room and jerked his chin at me.
“Need anything?”
That was another reason why I liked Rodeo.
Those three words were always his first.
“Couple of the kegs need replacing. Saved ‘em for ya,” I teased with cheeky smile.
I’d learned how to get by without needing a man. I might have been small, but I was stubborn as hell. Still—replacing kegs was a pain in the ass, and I wasn’t afraid to pass it off to one of the guys.
I was the bar manager, after all.
He grinned, and I could almost see the Adonis he was.
“On it,” he assured me, clapping a hand against the doorframe two times before he pushed himself straight and disappeared down the hall.
With only an hour before our doors opened, it was time for me to start bar prep. I turned on the overhead sound system—which would stream classic rock until our live Wednesday talent showed up for their set—and then headed for the back fridge to gather fruit.
Behind the bar, I sliced lemons, limes, and oranges while Rodeo replaced the kegs, filled up the ice chest, and double-checked our liquor stash.
Wednesdays and Thursdays weren’t usually too busy.
It was a well-known fact our weekends were what drew a relentless crowd, but the bar was never empty.
Even with the clubhouse just a few yards away, where the booze was self-serve and always on the house, there were plenty of Stallions belling up to the bar night after night.
And they weren’t the only ones.
It was one of my favorite things about Steel Mustang.
It may have been a biker bar, but its doors were open to anyone who could hold their liquor and cover their tab at last call.
The live music was always its biggest draw, and Mustang had great taste.
In six years, he hadn’t let a band on stage who didn’t know how to rock.
“Shit. I almost forgot,” muttered Rodeo as he turned to address me.
I was stocking pint glasses in the mini fridge and glanced up at him from where I was crouched. He was wearing a tight white tee-shirt underneath his kutte, road-worn jeans, and—as always—a pair of black cowboy boots.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothin’—I forgot to tell you, I finished that book you recommended a little while back. The FBI one. Took me a minute to get into it. Between that ride I had last week and the weddin’, I’ve been busy—but I gotta say, I get the hype.”
Contrary to what he looked like, Rodeo was a book junkie in disguise.
“Mmhmm,” I hummed with a broad smile and a nod. “And when have I ever steered you wrong, blondie?”
He chuckled, unable to argue with me. “Have you picked up the latest Sanderson, yet?”
“I’ve got it. Haven’t started it,” I answered as I went on to finish my task. “You?”
“Got into it this mornin’. Let me know when you crack it open.”
I wasn’t nearly as fast a reader as he was—but he was the one who got me into this particular author. I was more of a crime thriller kind of gal, but a gripping fantasy novel had a certain appeal on occasion.