2. Demi
DEMI
Enjoy your tacos.
That's what I said to him. That's my big exit line — enjoy your tacos — like I'm not shaking so hard I can barely walk straight.
I don't look back. If I look back, I'll turn around, and if I turn around, I'll do something stupid.
More stupid than standing there letting him look at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
More stupid than the way my body leaned toward his without my permission, like gravity had shifted and he was the new center.
The crowd swallows me as I walk, and I'm grateful for it — the noise, the bodies, the chaos. Something to hide in. My legs feel unsteady and there's a pulse between my thighs that has no business being there, and I need to get my shit together before I get back to my father's camp.
I stop near a row of bikes, pressing my palm against cold chrome just to feel something solid. Real. My heart is slamming against my ribs like it's trying to break free.
What the hell just happened?
I've seen King before. Three rallies now, I've watched him from a distance — the way he moves through a crowd, the way his men orbit around him like he's the sun and they're just planets caught in his pull. I've noticed. Of course I've noticed. You'd have to be blind not to notice a man like that.
But noticing and this are two very different things.
At Mesa, I told myself it was curiosity.
The Sons of Ruin are rivals, enemies of my father's club, and their president was right there across the lot.
It made sense to look. To assess the threat.
That's what I told myself when I stared at him for way too long, when our eyes met and something hot and dangerous flickered between us.
Curiosity. That's all.
At Tucson, the lie got harder to sell. I found reasons to walk past their camp — stupid reasons, paper-thin excuses that wouldn't fool a child. I wanted another look. I wanted to see if he'd notice me again, if that heat was still there or if I'd imagined the whole thing.
He noticed. He always noticed.
And tonight... tonight he stopped pretending too.
I take a breath. Then another. My hands are still trembling against the chrome, and I curl them into fists, willing myself to get it together. I'm Rocky's daughter. I've been around dangerous men my whole life. I don't fall apart because one of them looked at me like he wanted to eat me alive.
Except I've never felt like this before. Not once. Not ever.
The walk back to my father's camp feels like miles. Every step is an effort, my body fighting me the whole way, wanting to turn around and go back to that food truck and see if he's still there. Waiting for me. Wanting me.
I don't give a shit about the reasons.
God, I'm in trouble.
The Road Kings camp is loud and rowdy when I finally get there, my father holding court near a cluster of bikes while his brothers pass around a bottle of whiskey. He's laughing at something one of them said, his head thrown back, and he doesn't even glance up when I approach.
That's my father. I exist when it's convenient, and the rest of the time I might as well be furniture.
Usually, that bothers me. Tonight, I'm grateful for it.
I find a spot at the edge of the group and try to blend in, grabbing a beer I don't want just to have something to do with my hands. Tina, one of the old ladies, appears at my elbow a few minutes later, her eyes too sharp.
"You okay? You look flushed."
"It's warm out here."
"Babe, it's like sixty degrees."
"Then I'm coming down with something." I take a sip of the beer, barely tasting it. "I'm fine. Just tired."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it slide. That's the thing about Tina — she knows when not to push. She drifts back to her conversation with one of the other girlfriends, and I'm left standing there with my lukewarm beer and my racing thoughts.
I try to pay attention to the conversations swirling around me.
I laugh when everyone else laughs. I nod at the right moments.
But the whole time, my skin feels too tight, like I've outgrown my own body.
I can feel the ghost of King's proximity, the heat of him when he stepped close.
The way he looked at me, like I was something he wanted to claim.
Saw something I wanted to taste.
His words echo through me, and I have to clench my thighs together against the pulse of heat they trigger. This is insane. I'm standing ten feet from my father, surrounded by his club, and I'm getting wet thinking about the president of a rival MC.
I need to move. Need to get away from here before I do something that gives me away.
"I need to find a bathroom," I mutter to no one in particular.
No one responds. No one cares.
I slip away from the group and head toward the back of the rally grounds, away from the stage and the fire pits and the thick press of bodies. There's a row of porta-potties near the tree line, but I walk past them, deeper into the shadows where the noise fades and the string lights don't reach.
I just need a minute. Just need to breathe, to think, to get my head on straight before I go back and keep pretending everything's normal.
The shadows are quieter here. Darker. A few bikes are parked in a haphazard row, chrome catching the distant firelight, but there's no one around. I stop near a massive Harley and press my hands against my face, willing my heart to slow down.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I talked to him, it got a little intense, and now it's over. I'll go back to my father's camp, get through the rest of the night, and forget any of this ever—
"You're not very good at staying away."
I spin around, my heart slamming into my throat.
King steps out of the shadows like he was made from them. The distant glow of the rally catches the edges of his cut, the hard line of his jaw, the gleam of his eyes fixed on me like I'm prey and he's been hunting me all night.
"Are you following me?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend, edged with something that's not quite anger.
"Didn't have to." He moves closer, slow and deliberate, a predator who knows his target isn't going to run. "You walked right to me."
I glance around. We're alone out here — really alone, hidden from the rally by the row of bikes and a stand of scraggly trees. No one can see us. No one knows I'm here.
That should make me feel safer. It doesn't.
"I wasn't looking for you," I say.
"No?" He's close now. Too close. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that one of us just has to lean in and— "Then why'd you come to the one place no one would see?"
I don't have an answer for that. Or I do, but I'm not willing to say it out loud.
"My father's camp is right over there. His whole club is right over there."
"I know."
"If anyone sees us—"
"They won't."
He's right in front of me now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. This close, I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are fisted at his sides like he's holding himself back by sheer force of will. He's not as controlled as he wants me to think.
Good. Neither am I.
"Tell me to leave," he says, and his voice is rougher now, lower. "Tell me to walk away and I will. But you have to say it, Demi. You have to mean it."
I should say it. The word is right there, sitting on my tongue. Leave. Go. This can't happen.
But when I open my mouth, what comes out is: "And if I don't?"
Something shifts in his expression. The leash he's been keeping on himself strains, and I can see what's underneath — raw want, barely contained. It sends a thrill down my spine that's equal parts fear and anticipation.
"Then I'm going to kiss you," he says. "And I'm not going to be gentle about it."
My whole body tightens. Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly, slicking between my thighs. I know I should stop this. I know I should be smart, be careful, be the good daughter who doesn't cross lines.
But I'm so fucking tired of being good.
"Then stop talking," I breathe, "and do it."
He moves fast.
One hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. The other grips my hip, fingers digging in, yanking me against him so fast I gasp. And then his mouth is on mine, and I stop thinking entirely.
The kiss is everything he promised — not gentle, not soft, not careful.
He kisses me like he's been starving for it, like he's been thinking about this as long as I have and now that he has me, he's going to take everything.
His tongue sweeps against mine, demanding, and I open for him with a moan I couldn't have stopped if I tried.
He swallows the sound, his grip tightening in my hair, angling my head so he can kiss me deeper. I grab fistfuls of his cut just to hold on, just to anchor myself, because my knees have gone weak and I'm not sure I can stand on my own.
He tastes like beer and danger and something I already know I'm going to be addicted to.
He walks me backward until I hit the rough bark of a tree, and I don't care. All I care about is his mouth on mine and his hands on my body and the hard press of him against my stomach, proof that this is wrecking him as much as it's wrecking me.
I don't know how long we stay like that. Seconds. Minutes. Time loses all meaning when his tongue is in my mouth and his hand is sliding down to grip my ass, pulling me tighter against him. I can feel every inch of how much he wants me, and God, I want him just as badly.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are dark and wild and locked on my face.
"Fuck," he mutters.
"Yeah." It's the only word I can manage.
His thumb drags across my lower lip, swollen and tender from his kiss, and I shiver. "I'm not going to be able to stop thinking about this."
"I know."
"I'm not going to be able to stay away from you."
"Good."
His jaw tightens. I can see the war playing out behind his eyes — the president fighting with the man, duty against want. Every instinct telling him this is a mistake, and none of it strong enough to make him let go.
For a long moment, I think he's going to kiss me again. I want him to. I want him to do a lot more than kiss me — right here, against this bike, where anyone could catch us.
Instead, he takes a breath and steps back.
The loss of his warmth is immediate and unwelcome. Cold air rushes into the space where his body used to be, and I have to stop myself from reaching out and pulling him back.
"Go back to your father," he says, and his voice is rough. Strained. Like the words are costing him. "Before I do something we can't come back from."
I should be relieved. This is the smart play — walk away, pretend this never happened, go back to being strangers on opposite sides of a line we were never supposed to cross.
But I don't feel relieved. I feel like something just cracked open inside me, and I'm not sure I can close it again.
"This isn't over," I say. It's not a question.
His eyes burn into mine. "Not even close."
I make myself turn around. Make myself walk away from him, back toward the lights and the noise and my father's camp. My lips are swollen, my hair's a mess, and I can still feel his hands on my body like a brand.
I don't look back.
But I smile the entire way there.
Back at the Road Kings camp, I grab a beer and pretend nothing happened. I laugh at the right moments. I nod when my father says something. I play the good daughter, same as I always have.
But the whole time, my lips are tingling. My skin is flushed. And I can still feel his hands on me like a brand.
When my father finally calls it a night and we head out, I don't look toward the Sons of Ruin camp.
I don't need to.
I already know this isn't over. Not even close.
And for the first time in my life, I'm not running from trouble.
I'm running toward it.