Prologue Ridin Wild
Jenna
I was there to meet Mustang, the man behind the name Steel Mustang .
It took me approximately seventy-two seconds to understand why my best friend was totally head over heels. While he wasn’t my type, I could still appreciate the appeal.
He was everything she told me he was.
Mustang was tall and built, with overgrown hair, a full-grown beard, his arms and hands accented with tattoos. He was handsome, if not rough around the edges—but it was the way he held Tess, possessively yet tenderly, that made me smile.
Simply watching their hello was worth the trip.
A biker bar wasn’t exactly my scene, but I couldn’t deny this one was pretty cool.
The left half of the space had pool tables in the back corner, and high-top tables with barstools crowded with people. The right half was full of low-set tables and chairs, equally packed and situated in front of the stage that accommodated the live band.
The walls were covered in metal biker paraphernalia, neon lit signs, and framed photos of famous old bands or classic motorcycles. The ceiling was completely plastered with vinyl record sleeves, and it was quite apparent the vibe of Steel Mustang was attributed to the music just as much as the bikers themselves. It made the place a little more friendly to those who belonged to a different world.
People like me.
The bar, where Tess and I sat, was L-shaped and tucked into the back of the room—the wall along the front decked out in a bunch of motorcycle license plates from all over the country. On the other side of the counter, the brick facing was full of shelves stocked with booze, and there was a custom neon Steel Mustang sign mounted, too.
There wasn’t a television in sight, another reminder I’d entered a place that was all about good music and great company, which I appreciated.
The latter I had in spades.
Tess McBride, the knockout in the little black dress whose man had claimed her with one hell of a kiss, was my best friend and had been since we met at the hospital nearly a decade before. That was back when she first started as an oncology nurse, and I was a year in as an ER nurse. She’d since left the hospital to pursue her career in hospice care, but we remained close.
In a lot of ways, we were each other’s support systems. We kept each other sane and pulled each other from the brink of burnout time and time again.
Though, while we'd chosen similar career paths, we were quite different from one another. In some areas of life, we were complete opposites.
Our love lives were the perfect example.
Tess always fell hard and fast, while I was usually measured and cautious.
She liked her men rough and wild, and I—well, I had an ideal in my head I’d been chasing for nearly twelve years. I’d looked for him in all sorts of men, and most of them were quick to fall short.
I had zero anticipation that the man next to me would be anything more than the guy buying my drinks that night—but he had a smile which took me by surprise, eyes that were flirty and engaging, and hair I envied in a way I didn’t know it was possible to envy when comparing my own thick mane with a man’s.
Maverick was the epitome of a biker, and a Wild Stallion at that.
His gigantic feet were covered in boots, and his long legs wrapped in holey black jeans. He had on a plain, white tee with a deep V-neck, and a black leather vest, which was the symbol of his membership to the Wild Stallion Motorcycle Club.
Even sitting down, I knew he was a tall man. Likely taller than Mustang.
He was also well built in his own right. Not overly chiseled, but obviously strong.
His right arm was covered in tattoos. I couldn’t make out all of them, given his clothing and the angle at which he sat, but I knew the one on his outer bicep matched Mustang’s—as well as all the other guys in the club. It was their logo; a skeletal stallion head that appeared to be made of metal, the mane a wild lick of flames rather than hair.
Taking up his entire, inner right forearm was a detailed close up of a lion’s face. On his outer forearm was a slithering snake, which coiled once at his wrist, its head depicted on his hand with its mouth open and its forked tongue darting out toward his thumb.
On his left arm, the only ink I could see from my vantage point was the rosary he had tattooed on his inner forearm. The beads were wrapped just below his elbow, with the crucifix hanging closer to his wrist.
All of his ink was in black and gray; each piece, while certainly bold and masculine, was really well done.
He didn’t have knuckle tattoos, like Mustang, but he seemed to have an affinity for rings. He wore three on his right hand, and two on his left.
Like everyone else at the bar, Tess, Maverick and I were facing outward, so as to fully appreciate the show. I was a couple sips into my ranch water when Maverick leaned onto his right elbow—propped on the bar next to me—and asked, “What do you think of the band?”
I shrugged and nodded, the universal nonverbal response for not bad and said loud enough for him to hear, “I’m impressed.”
“Eighties rock up your alley?”
He smiled at me mischievously, his dark brown eyes bright and playful, like he knew I routinely blasted the likes of Luke Combs, Morgan Wallen, and Kelsea Ballerini on my way to and from work.
I fought a grin and replied, “It’s classic. I can’t deny that.”
He frowned at me teasingly. “Don’t tell me you’re a Swiftie.”
I laughed unabashedly, not having expected that.
“What do you know about Swifties ?”
His smile stretched into a grin. For a second, I wondered if my drink was already going to my head, or if it was that grin which caused a tightness in my chest.
Maverick didn’t have a full-grown beard. He grew out a mustache and a goatee, which were both somehow blond, even though he wasn’t. The rest of his face was clean shaven—like any more would compete for the attention of his head full of hair.
As if there was any risk of that.
His mane was long, his tight, bronzy-brunette curls draping halfway down his chest and back. He wore it parted down the middle, and it looked thick and soft.
“Got a brother with a daughter who is full-on Swiftie, poor bastard,” he chuckled.
I shook my head, still combating my amusement as I told him, “I think I’m a little old to be a Swiftie. Some might argue I’m wrong, but I think I may be offended you didn’t give me more credit than Taylor . I do know who Bon Jovi is,” I teased.
We were flirting, and I knew it.
I didn’t often spend my Saturday night out at a bar flirting with a stranger. In fact, it had been a really long time since I’d been on a date, or anything resembling one. My schedule was not always conducive to an active dating life.
At least, that was my easiest excuse.
But that night, I felt like being in the moment.
Besides, Tess did tell me how fun it was to walk on the wild side.
It was easy to flirt with Maverick, and I knew why.
There was no pressure. No expectations.
We weren’t going to be anything.
I didn’t need to worry about all the reasons why he wasn’t my type or why we probably wouldn’t work out, because we were just two strangers who made each other laugh.
Simple as that.
“And what about you? I’m guessing this is your sweet spot? You’ve even got the glam rock hair.”
“Eighties are good,” he said with a nod and a smirk. “Seventies are better.”
“Mmm, an old soul.”
“Somethin’ like that.”
I took another sip of my cocktail then glanced over at Tess.
She really was fit for a place like this, even in her Louboutin stiletto sandals.
Her wavy, dirty blonde hair was tousled just right, hanging above her shoulders. I always thought her hair was an uncanny reflection of who she was on the inside. She was beauty and flare; compassionate and rebellious; light and dark; blonde and brunette all rolled into one.
Her golden-brown eyes caught my hazel-green ones as she smiled, bumping her bare shoulder against mine. “Are you having a good time?”
“I am.”
“And you’re not just saying that to appease me?” she asked, squinting skeptically.
“You were right,” I assured her, this time nudging her with my shoulder. “It’s pretty chill for a biker bar.”
“Well, I mean, it’s still a little early,” she laughed. “Expect the crowd to get a little riled up after a few more drinks.”
For the next forty-five minutes I bounced back and forth between Tess and Maverick, enjoying the cover band and a bit of people watching. When I got to the bottom of my ranch water, Maverick noticed right away and offered to buy me another. I took him up on it, and he ordered another beer for himself.
He’d just handed me my second serving when I was distracted by the sight of a strange man entering the bar. In any other place I could imagine, strange wouldn’t have been the adjective I would have used to describe him; but the attractive, blond man in a button-up shirt looked odd even amongst the non-bikers.
Leaning toward Tess, I voiced my observation.
“I—I know him,” she stammered in reply.
I gave her my full attention. “What? You do?”
She knit her eyebrows together and shifted her gaze until it found mine.
“I had a patient. She died a couple weeks ago. That is her youngest son. I have no idea what he’s doing here, but something tells me I have to go talk to him.”
I cut my eyes back toward the blond, then sucked in a breath through my teeth as I raised my eyebrows at Tess. “Um, something tells me you’re right, because he just clocked you and he’s headed this way.”
“Shit,” Tess whispered.
She slid off her barstool and tugged at the hem of her dress.
There wasn’t much to tug, so it didn’t go far.
I could tell she looked uncomfortable, and I didn’t like that one bit.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to go with you?”
“No. No, I got it,” she assured me. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I watched her cross the room, meeting the man in the middle. They exchanged a few words before she looked back at us, then she followed the man outside.
I couldn’t wrap my head around why he would come to Steel Mustang to talk to Tess. She had pretty strict boundaries when it came to how she interacted with the family members of her patients. Given this man’s mother was dead, it didn’t make sense that a relationship with the son would continue—at least, not in any way other than a kind hello if they ran into one another around town.
The biker who stood at the door frowned for a moment before he made his way toward us. He wore a vest, identifying him as a Stallion, and he had a biker mustache he pulled off surprisingly well—but I was too preoccupied to fully appreciate the details of his face.
He stopped in front of Maverick and stated, “That guy didn’t smell right.”
That’s all he had to say. Without another word, Maverick set aside his beer and headed for the door.
“Yo! Mustang,” called the man with the mustache. He waited for Mustang to stop what he was doing and acknowledge him. “Joker walked in lookin’ for your woman. She followed him outside for a chat. Didn’t like the looks of him.”
It was my turn to set my drink aside as I twisted on my seat and told Mustang, “She said he’s the son of a former patient. She died a couple weeks ago?”
Mustang jerked his chin in acknowledgment then looked toward the door. Following his lead, the guy with the mustache and I did the same. Maverick had the door cracked open with his shoulder as he peeked out. He only looked for a moment, then he let the door close as he shifted his focus our way and shrugged, as if to silently report everything was okay.
“I don’t like her out there alone,” said Mustang.
I then watched as he turned toward the swinging door behind the bar. Not five seconds later, he was walking toward Mustache . They were on their way to the front entrance when Maverick took another peek outside. Only this time—he didn’t shrug at what he saw.
He took off running.
My stomach dropped, instant panic weighing it down like an anvil.
Mustang and the other guy were hot on Maverick’s heels, and my legs carried me in the same direction before my brain could fully register what was happening.
Even though no one had said a word, a half dozen men in vests were quick to head to the exit, curious about all the commotion.
I was in heeled ankle booties, so I wasn’t moving quite as fast as the others, but I spotted Tess just as her knees gave out, her body sinking to the ground along the far side of the building as she heaved for breath.
I hurried straight for her, my heart racing.
“Hey, hey—honey—are you okay?” I cried, kneeling down beside her.
She was shaking when I wrapped my arms around her shoulders.
She shook her head, but I couldn’t tell if it was shock or an answer to my question.
Tess shifted in my arms, and then I heard it.
My head jerked in the direction of the parking lot.
I couldn’t see much from my low vantage point, but I was certain a punch had been thrown—and it landed.
Tess shifted again. When I looked back at her, I understood she was trying to stand. I adjusted my hold on her and helped her to her feet. She was still trembling as she leaned into me, her breaths quick and shallow.
A second punch was thrown. And a third. And a fourth.
I looked back toward the fight.
If one could call it that.
Now that I was standing, I could see it was Mustang’s fist that was repeatedly making contact with the man in the button-up shirt. The guy with the biker ‘stache had hold of the man, both his arms pinned behind his back.
The crowd around them shifted, and I lost sight of what was happening, but I could still hear it. The fifth punch, and the sixth.
I hadn’t seen it happen, but there was only one reason why the guys would have gone running at what they saw; only one reason why I’d come outside to find Tess gasping for breath on the ground; only one reason why her man would see fit to beat the hell out of the guy in the button-up shirt.
Yet, while I understood what was happening, it didn’t make it any less terrifying.
The fact that my friend had likely been assaulted was horrifying. And while I thought it valiant that her man would go to battle for her—what I saw wasn’t a battle. It was annihilation. Totally one sided.
Button-up hit the ground, and I thought it might have been over.
Then I heard a boot make contact with something solid followed by a groan of pain.
Mustang kicked him three times before Maverick and another Wild Stallion grabbed hold of Mustang and pulled him back. I watched as he tried to resist, then heard as he yelled, “You sick motherfucker— you put those hands on any woman who doesn’t want your limp dick, I’ll find out, and I’ll cut your fuckin’ hands off. You put those fuckin’ hands on my woman again—I’ll saw your dick off and feed it to you.”
Earlier in the night, I’d seen the man with whom my friend was falling in love.
I saw the way he adored and respected her.
He was kind to me.
But as I stared at the man who stood over his victim, beaten bloody on the ground, I knew who I saw wasn’t just Mustang the man.
He was Mustang the Wild Stallion .
I didn’t know much about motorcycle clubs, but I wasn’t so na?ve as to think the Stallions were a club that got together just to ride for fun. They had a reputation around town. They were respected and feared in equal measure. Except, I never knew why they were feared. It wasn’t like they made headlines for breaking federal laws or menacing the community. Not as a collective, anyway.
Now, I not only knew why they were feared—I sort of feared them, too.
I was an ER nurse. I’d seen my fair share of crazy things. I’d seen gunshot wounds, stab wounds, broken and bruised bones. I’d seen victims of violence, but never before they got to the hospital. Never while the violence was happening.
Justified as Mustang’s actions might have been, it still didn’t make it any less terrifying .
He shrugged off the men who were holding him back, his attention wholly focused on Tess. I heard her breath catch, her body still trembling against mine. Then Mustang was headed our way.
When Tess took a step toward him, I let her go.
Neither of them hesitated.
He opened his arms, and she fell right into them, burying her face under his chin as she burst into tears. With one arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand gently holding the back of her head, I stepped away and stared.
Whatever rage that coursed through him, causing him to lose his shit on Button-up, it was gone. Now, all that remained was his concern for his woman.
I couldn’t make sense of the dichotomy between Mustang the Stallion and Mustang the lover—but I knew instinctively that Tess was safe now. I knew because I trusted Tess, wholeheartedly. She had a tendency to be a bit impulsive when it came to matters of the heart, but she was completely self-aware. She wasn’t stupid.
If she saw what I saw, and the first place she wanted to be after she’d seen it was in the arms of her man—then that’s where I wanted her to be.
And now that Tess was where she belonged, I couldn’t ignore I was needed, too.
I looked toward the limp body in the parking lot, and the few remaining men who stood over him. One guy nudged him with a boot, spat at him, then headed back for the entrance of the bar. I could still hear the band playing as the door opened and closed behind the men who passed through it.
Inside, it was like nothing happened.
I wasn’t paying attention to who was left as I made my way toward the man. In all the commotion, I’d managed to keep hold of my purse, strapped over my shoulder—except, I knew there wasn’t going to be anything inside that would be of much help. He probably needed an ambulance. I wondered if he’d hit his head when he fell to the ground.
“What do you think you’re doin’?”
I looked up as Maverick stood in front of me, blocking my path to my new patient.
For a fraction of a second, I noted that I’d been right. He was tall. Taller than Mustang. At least six-four.
“He needs help,” I answered before I attempted to step around him.
“He’ll be fine,” Maverick replied, extending an arm to block my path.
The other two remaining guys snickered as they walked away, leaving just Maverick and me with the unconscious man.
I looked at my patient, then up at Maverick. “He might be fine, if I get him some help.”
I tried again to get around him, but he shuffled and remained in my way.
“Leave him, babe. He ain’t dead.”
A scowl tugged at my brow as I replied, “I don’t expect you to understand, but I am a healthcare professional. I have an obligation—”
“He put his hands on your girl,” he interrupted. “Why the fuck do you even care what happens to him?”
I balled my hands into fists, the impact of his words knocking me square in the chest.
He’d been the first to see. Maverick had been the first to run out the door.
Tess had been assaulted by the scumbag now unconscious on the ground.
I glanced over at my friend and saw her staring back at me. She was still standing in Mustang’s hold. I knew there was nothing I could do to help her—not like Mustang could. And she and I both knew I couldn’t in good conscious leave a bloody, beaten man to succumb to his injuries. I had an ethical obligation.
She’d understand. I knew she would.
Looking up at Maverick, I explained, “I don’t get a choice. I have to treat everyone—even sons-of-bitches like him. It doesn’t excuse what he’s done. Not even a little. But Tess is exactly where she needs to be right now, and if you would move , I could be where I need to be.”
Maverick didn’t respond, so I took that to mean he was going to let me have my way.
I was very wrong.
As soon as I began to step around him, he bent down and hooked an arm around my thighs. The next thing I knew, my feet were no longer on the ground.
I squealed, gravity pitching me forward, my torso folded over his shoulder as he began to carry me away.
“Maverick! Maverick—what are you doing? Put me down!”
He still said nothing.
My focus was glued to the ground, which passed beneath us quickly with his long, efficient strides. My hair hung all around my face, and my hands were pressed against his back.
Admittedly, I couldn’t ignore the way my bare arm brushed against his curly hair.
It was as soft as I imagined it would be, which meant he took good care of it.
But I tried not to think about that.
Instead, I insisted, “Maverick! Seriously, put me down.”
Two seconds later, I was on my feet.
Though, whether or not it was because I’d demanded it or he simply had me where he wanted me, I wasn’t sure. A quick glance around let me know I was on the far, opposite side of the building.
And we were all alone.
“I hope you know, you can drag me back here over and over again, but I’m going to help that man. Out of sight does not mean out of mind. We can’t just leave him there.”
“Don’t sass me, woman, or I’m gonna have to do somethin’ about it.”
I jerked my head back, adjusted my purse on my shoulder and replied, “I’m not sassing you. I’m doing my—”
I didn’t get a chance to finish telling him what I was doing before I was suddenly doing something else entirely.
His fingers combed my hair away from my face, making way for his lips to find mine. He tilted my head back, I sucked in a startled breath, and before I could think of a response, he was teasing my mouth open with his tongue.
There was something about the way he did it—the sure, decisive sweep of the muscular organ between my lips that made me obey.
Given full access to my mouth, he cradled my head in his large hands and devoured me.
It took me approximately two seconds to get lost in the moment with him, my stomach full and buzzing with a million little butterflies.
The way he held me. The way he consumed me.
He was in control, but he wasn’t aggressive.
He was tender, but he wasn’t soft or timid.
He felt incredible . I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been kissed so well.
I pressed up onto my tiptoes, my hands automatically lifting to take hold of his wrists as he beckoned my tongue to dance with his.
This close, he smelled like coconut, birchwood, and leather—earthy and manly and delicious.
My senses overwhelmed, I was so wrapped up in him, I almost forgot where I was.
Then I heard the rumble of a motorcycle, and I was immediately freed from my trance.
I reared my head back and yanked at Maverick’s wrists.
He let me go, breaking our kiss, but remained close—close enough for me to feel his panting breaths as they mingled with mine.
Staring up at him, everything that had happened over the course of the last ten minutes flashed before my eyes.
I blinked, hard , and shook my head.
I was at a biker bar and totally out of my depth.
Maverick was a Wild Stallion.
I now understood why a Stallion should be feared.
He might not have been the one throwing punches, but he was not the kind of guy I should kiss.
Not to mention, there was an unconscious man still in the middle of the parking lot I’d claimed as my responsibility. I wasn’t about to abandon him for a man who was hardly more than a stranger who had bought me a couple drinks—no matter how well he kissed.
“I can’t do this right now. There’s a man lying in the middle of the parking lot.”
I let go of his wrists and moved to walk around him, again .
He extended his arm, pressed his palm against the building at my back, and stopped me, again.
“Babe, I can guarantee I’m a hell of a better time than that punk-ass bitch.”
The dying butterflies in my stomach fluttered for the last time, reminding me of what it felt like to have Maverick’s mouth on mine. I avoided his gaze as I ducked under his arm, murmuring, “No doubt,” as I went.
Finally out of Maverick’s reach, I hurried back to my patient. As I went, I dug my phone out of my purse.
“Sir? Can you hear me?” I asked as I knelt beside the man. He didn’t respond, and I reached for his neck in search of a pulse. Sweeping my hair behind my ear, I also leaned over him in an effort to hear his breathing. I found his pulse, but I was only marginally relieved. There was still no telling what was happening on the inside of him.
I was on the verge of dialing 911 when my phone was plucked right out of my hands.
“I know you’re smarter than that, foxy,” Maverick muttered as he deleted the numbers.
“Hey!” I gasped, exasperated as I scowled up at him.
He didn’t give me back my phone. Instead, he dialed a number and initiated a call.
“What are you doing?”
“Gettin’ your number,” he answered matter-of-factly.
I shot to my feet, my patience completely spent.
“What is wrong with you? This man needs help!”
I didn’t wait for him to respond but reached for my phone and wrenched it out of his grasp, ending the call.
“No ambulances. No fuckin’ cops. Not on the compound,” he warned me.
My lips clamped shut, I tried not to lose my temper as I glared up at him.
I was so irritated it was hard to believe I’d had his tongue in my mouth not two minutes ago.
“Fine,” I bit out as I turned on my heel.
I marched across the parking lot, skirting motorcycles and vehicles until I reached mine. I didn’t exactly relish the idea of putting a bloody man in the backseat of my car, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do. I was not going to be bested by my circumstances.
Maverick was still standing by my patient when I screeched to a halt next to him.
Of course, he was.
After I stepped out from behind the wheel, I went straight to the back passenger door and pulled it open. Tess and I had ridden to the bar together, as I didn’t want to show up by myself. The plan was always for her to leave with Mustang, which was why her overnight bag was in my backseat. I grabbed it and shoved it at Maverick.
“Make yourself useful, would you? Be sure Tess gets that.”
Kneeling once more, I tried again to rouse the unconscious man.
“Sir? Can you hear me?”
I huffed in frustration, wondering just how I was going to get a man who was likely twice my weight while passed out into my car. I didn’t want to jostle him too much, just in case, but that was likely not going to happen.
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” grumbled Maverick as I positioned myself to make my first attempt.
I then watched as he walked around me, dropped Tess’s bag on top of my car, then came to stand beside me.
“Move.”
I looked up at him, wondering if I could trust him.
“Babe—doin’ you a solid. Fuckin’ move.”
I dropped my chin and hid behind my hair as a smile played at my lips.
I couldn't help it.
When I thought I had my face under control, I watched as Maverick unceremoniously hauled the man off the ground and shoved him across my backseat. It was far from graceful, but it was all I needed. As soon as I got to the hospital, there would be more than enough hands to help.
Maverick slammed the door shut then grabbed Tess’s bag, headed for the bar without a backwards glance.
“Thank you,” I called after him.
I barely heard it when he muttered, “Pain in my ass.”
As I got behind the wheel and started for the hospital, something told me Maverick wouldn’t be calling the number he’d been sure to procure earlier.
I didn’t even know why the thought crossed my mind.
I didn’t want him to call.
Even if he was a great kisser, he wasn’t my type.