Moonlit Hunger (Midnight Riders MC #2)

Prologue

“Send a frosty one my way, Aila.”

I recognize the regular patron and know exactly what beer to serve.

“Here it comes, Steve!” I holler at the top of my lungs so the beer sliding towards him across the counter doesn’t take him by surprise.

The real reason they crank the music so loud in here is because it forces everyone to get close if they want to be heard. And I’m talking real close.

And that’s great if you’re at the honkytonk bar to pick up some random hottie to take back home and bang. But I’m the bartender. My job is to sling beer. Period.

I’m not here to pretend I find the customers appealing. This is a saloon for truckers, and sometimes patrons from the motel down the road, not a cotillion ball for debutantes. It’s where folks from the diner next to the gas station come to get loaded after eating.

Every night as I come in to work, my mind is busy trying to invent new ways to serve liquor without looking like I’m in the mood for a little something extra.

The bass is so powerful I can feel it more than my own heartbeat.

I’ve asked Si Leblanc, the manager, to turn the stereo down so many times, but he just shoos me away without even bothering to take off his noise-reduction headphones.

A bulky shape looms out of the darkness and leans on the counter. A loud crack tells me there’s a pool game going on.

“Hey, Aila, give us a Coors.” The man has to shout over the music.

Grabbing a cold one out of the refrigerator, I pop the cap and slide it over. And now comes the part I usually hate, but fortunately, Bobby is one of the good guys. Leaning over the counter, I manage to muster up a smile as I hold my hand out for the money.

“Hey, Bobby. Whatcha hauling this time?”

The trucker holds out a Canadian five-dollar note for me to take and shakes his head.

“Fucked if I know. The doors were sealed at the depot, and the truck’s got satellite tracking up the wazoo. Probably computers or chips or something.”

Moving to the till, I ring up the sale and slip two dollars in change out of the note compartment, but Bobby waves the change away. “Put it towards that student loan of yours, Aila.”

“Every little bit helps, Bobby. Thank you.” Folding the notes neatly, I place them in my bra. It’s the only place Si never thinks to look when he’s mooching around at closing time and bitching about “getting his cut.”

All the saloon regulars know about my loan debt. It’s the reason why I’m spending my hot summer nights working at Harry’s Saloon instead of studying in my cozy bedroom back at the motel.

There is a surprising amount of traffic in this particular part of Manitoba.

Provincial Trunk Highway 10 is the road that heads south from La Pas.

Just before a driver reaches the transport depot, they see Harry’s Saloon nestling off-road.

It would be hidden by the tall pines of the forest if it wasn’t for the flickering neon sign.

Harry’s consists of a sprawling log cabin, a dirt track, and a haphazard parking lot. Half a mile deeper into the forest brings drivers to a lake called Cemetery. And one mile north takes them past La Pas Cemetery itself.

We get our fair share of wakes in here. Alcohol seems to help sad hearts heal.

Another dark shape takes Bobby’s place as the trucker lopes away to watch the game on the flatscreen.

“Hi there, beautiful. Got anything you would recommend to a man looking for something different?”

My hackles rise, but I check the man’s expression before adding my own subtext to his question. He’s leaning with his forearms on the bar counter, grinning hopefully, maybe just looking for a conversation.

He’s wearing the La Pas summer uniform of plaid flannel shirt, jeans held up by one of those flashy belt buckles, and cowboy boots. But every single one of his clothing items is high end.

Expanding my inspection, I clock an enormous diamond signet ring on his pinky and made-to-measure veneers.

He reeks of one of those intense designer perfumes for men: Acqua di Parma or Creed.

“Whiskey or beer?” I have to lean over the counter and speak with my mouth only a few inches from his face. His grin gets even more hopeful.

“What you got in a premium whiskey?”

Turning my back to him, I fetch the menu. I shout over my shoulder after placing the menu down. “That’s what we have in stock. Call me over when you’ve made a selection. The Glenfiddich is nice—or so I’m told.”

I’m not being rude. Another bar patron has caught my eye. He is just a dark shape standing behind the overhanging pendant light illuminating the counter, but I feel compelled to serve him.

“What would you like to drink?” No matter how far I lean across the counter, I can’t seem to get a good look at the man standing in the shadows.

“Heh.” That’s all I get. He gives a short bark of humorous laughter as if he wants me to see the irony. “What are you offering?”

My insides turn to water as he leans into the light.

The man is impossible in every way there is! Impossibly handsome. Impossibly tall and imposing. Absolutely impossibly well-built. And when he smiles at me, I get the feeling that he might just be impossibly charming, too.

“Wow.”

Oh please don’t let me have said that out loud.

I try to make a recovery, for my pride’s sake. “Whew, I mean. We offer a wide variety of alcoholic beverages at Harry’s Saloon, sir.” But the man with the flashy belt buckle is holding the only laminated menu. “Do you like whiskey, beer, or cider?”

The loud crack of pool balls colliding makes me jump. That’s how tight this man has me wound up.

I think I’m holding my breath as he inclines himself towards me. He’s so tall, he has to move to avoid the pendant light. “Surprise me.” His voice is a rumbling growl, bass enough to penetrate through the music.

Mister Flashy Belt Buckle seems sulky as I give my attention to my new customer.

“Excuse me! I was here first.” Rapping his knuckles on the counter, the high-end guy waves the menu in my face.

Stepping back, the tall man disappears into the shadows again. I get a glimpse of black on white. His t-shirt. The logo of a moon rising behind a strangely shaped mountain and some words: Midnight Son.

Hmm. Biker for sure.

“I’ll have the Glenfiddich, twenty-five years aged. Double.” Flashy Belt Buckle stabs at the menu with his finger.

That’s going to set him back a C-note. Quickly calculating the tip on that makes me smile. I guess I’m in a naughty mood—something is making my blood pump faster through my body tonight—because I hook my fingers into two double shot glasses and pinch them against my thumb.

Grabbing the bottle of Glenfiddich with my other hand, I set one of the shot glasses in front of Belt Buckle and pour him a double. “Water?”

His lower lip pooches out as he scoffs. “I take it neat.” But I’m gone before he can toss back the drink.

Shaking the bottle in front of the tall man, I dare to smile as I put the other shot glass down. “Is this surprising enough for you?”

Angling his head to one side, the tall man gives me a calculating look. His deep gaze is telling me all kinds of things: pleasure, amusement… and assessment.

“Who doesn’t like surprises—when they are nice ones.” He nods his approval for me to pour him a tot.

“Water?”

“Yep. Room temperature spring water.”

I have to go to the backroom to get it. By the time I return, I have three guys to serve with beer and am required to pour Belt Buckle another double tot. My tips are going to be huge tonight.

When I turn my attention back to the tall man, he is still standing at the bar counter like some darkly beautiful statue. The whiskey and water bottle are untouched.

I want to serve him something he will find tantalizing and pleasing. He has that kind of effect on me. “Why do you want to ruin a good whiskey with water?” Standing on tiptoes, I get as close as I dare to his face. “Guys like you, I should be pouring you a second tot by now.”

“And what do you know about guys like me…?” He waits for me to tell him my name.

“Aila O’Hara. No relation to Scarlett. And for the record, we get a lot of bikers in here over the summer.” I hold out my hand over the counter, praying for him to take it and shake it. Desperate for one brief touch.

“Hm.” He acknowledges my outstretched hand by tapping his knuckles against mine for the briefest moment. “Theron Rabane.” He pronounces his name carefully. T’rron Rrrbain. Is he foreign? “Pleased to meet you, Aila. Here. Let me show you how perfectly whiskey and water go together.”

Lifting the bottle, he pours a few drops of water into the shot of whiskey before holding the glass up to the light. The water droplets spiral around the golden liquid like thin, smoky rivulets.

“The water helps open up the spirit’s flavors while reducing the burn.” Holding the glass towards me, his eyes connect with mine over the counter. “Take a sip.”

I hardly ever drink. And drinking with customers is definitely not part of my job description.

Here I am, sipping expensive whiskey out of Theron Rabane’s shot glass. His eyes remind me of the whiskey, golden and mellow with an attractive twinkle. No, wait, let me amend that. It’s more like an alluring glow.

This man is the whole package. If only he would take off those leather gloves so I can check his hand for a wedding ring. I have a rule never to flirt with married men.

And he’s right. The whiskey does taste better with water.

“Hey! I’ve been trying to catch your attention for over five minutes! I want a refill here!”

Belt Buckle has bypassed cheerful and gone straight to surly as far as drinking moods are concerned.

Smiling, I serve him a third double tot in double quick time. Ker-ching. That’s a three hundred dollar tab he’s just racked up. I hope he tips me in cash. “Anything else I can get you, sir?”

Immediately, Belt Buckle is all smiles. “How about a phone number? I’m parked in front. Y’see that big ol’ luxury recreational vehicle there? That’s mine. I’m not gonna lie, babe, touring alone gets kinda lonely.”

Ugh. No. Thank. You. Damn my brokeness.

“It’s company policy for servers to keep their contact details private, sir.” Company policy my ass, but it’s my go-to excuse for most things.

Darting my eyes over to Theron, I have to bite back a wail of regret when I see his spot is empty. The tot glass is untouched with what looks like a fifty- and a twenty-dollar bill trapped underneath. Did he leave the whiskey for me to finish?

“Excuse me.” Not sticking around to give Belt Buckle another chance to pester me, I lift the swing counter door and duck out into the saloon.

Pool tables, drinking tables, and the dance floor are semi-busy, but no one milling around is tall enough or jacked enough to catch my eye. No one with the same tousled tawny hair.

I know I’m not meant to do it, but I go outside anyway.

His motorbike might be behind this monstrous motorhome that’s in my way.

The night air feels refreshing as it bites my skin.

But even after walking all the way around the RV, I don’t see any motorcycles—just pickup trucks, articulated vehicles, and some old model sedans.

For a moment, I struggle to contain my disappointment.

How did he manage to get me feeling like this? I’m no pushover. I’m not that girl who falls for a handsome face. And yet it’s not the night breeze that’s making my nipples erect. It’s my body reacting to Theron's memory.

I stand there in the middle of the dimly lit parking lot, softly touching my breasts. Throwing my head back, I stare at the moon as the delicate strokes stoke the pounding passion inside me.

Come back.

“Well, well, well. Did you change your mind?”

Belt Buckle’s sneaky approach makes me jump.

“Just needed some air. Gotta go back inside now—”

I try to back away with my hands held out in front of me to ward off his unwelcome advances, but something blocks my way.

The motorhome bars my escape. Fuck my fickle fate. No tip is worth this!

“Get… away!” I scream, but the music inside is too loud. He's got my wrists in a vice-like grip. I try to break free, but he’s pinned me to his chest while pulling the motorhome door open.

This can’t be happening to me. This only happens to other people, not me…

And then he’s gone. I wait for someone to step out of the forest to yell “April Fools!” but the only sound is the steady thump-thump of music. Belt Buckle has disappeared like a puff of smoke, leaving only a whiff of whiskey fumes behind.

Flexing my aching wrists, I dare to look around. After checking under the motorhome, I shout into the darkness. “You better run, you dirty fucker!”

The only reply I get is the rustle of scattered notes as they flap in the breeze while rolling slowly towards me.

C-notes. Twenty C-notes.

Is that rumbling thunder I hear?