Chapter 4
Tori
I practically gasp as my kidnapper, who is clearly the leader of the three, removes his balaclava.
His striking eyes, six-foot-three frame, and honed physique aren’t the only captivating things about him.
He’s downright gorgeous. He has dark hair with a smattering of gray.
Stubble lines his chiseled jawline, and he has a strong, masculine nose and lips.
“It’s Tori,” I say, pulling my hand from his as if scalded. I feel clearer now that I have broken the contact, as if lifting a spell. “Only my father calls me Victoria.”
He nods. “Tori,” he says, tasting the words and giving weight to my name, breathing life into it. “I’m Flint, President of the Ghost Riders MC.” He places a hand on his chest, then points to the others and introduces them. “This is Hunter, my enforcer and road captain.”
He points to the second-tallest man, only an inch or so shorter than him. Hunter removes his balaclava. He, too, is attractive, but in a harsher way. His features are sharp and angular, his icy blue eyes cool and calculating. He shrugs off his jacket.
“Finally, it was hot as balls in this,” he grumbles, running his hand over his short hair, a military style cut.
I realize that not only did he need to conceal his face, but he was also hiding a mass of intricate tattoos that snake around his arms and down his chest. I wonder how many more tattoos he has hidden.
He looks at me with laser focus, striding over to me, standing just a little too close for comfort.
I feel flustered by the proximity, even more so than when Flint shook my hand.
Hunter isn’t touching me, yet I feel his eyes on me like a caress.
“Welcome, princess,” he purrs, holding out his hand.
I hesitate, scared that if I touch him, I’ll lose myself somehow.
“I don’t bite,” he says, “Not unless you ask me nicely.” His words are so sexually charged that I stop short of reacting like some scandalized virgin and clutching my pearls.
He’s trying to get a reaction from me, and I’m giving him exactly what he wants.
“Bite me,” I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes.
His eyes glint with mischief, and he chuckles, low and wicked.
He grabs my hand and pulls it to his mouth, scraping his teeth along the back of my hand in a gentle, playful bite that connects to my very core and dampens my panties.
His tongue darts out, sending ripples of electricity throughout my body.
Holy heck, what was that? I should yank my hand away and yet…
“Hunter,” Flint warns, his voice low and commanding. Just the tone of his voice is enough to let Hunter know he’s ordering him to stop, and Hunter releases me with a wicked smile, sauntering across the room to lean against the wall, watching me like a cat with a mouse.
The third man has removed his balaclava during the commotion.
At this point, I shouldn’t be surprised that he, too, is attractive, but in a more wholesome way.
Kind of like the boy next door. Assuming the boy next door was a Californian surfer.
His dirty blonde hair has flecks of gray and auburn that glint in the light.
It’s styled in that effortlessly messy way that some men seem to pull off without doing anything.
Long lashes, the kind that women envy and are wasted on men, frame his kind, hazel eyes.
He has a short, neatly trimmed beard that I have the strange urge to stroke my fingers through.
“I’m Cyrus,” he says. His voice is almost melodic, less gruff and abrupt than his counterparts.
“I’m sorry. For everything,” he clarifies as he holds out his hand.
He’s the first one to apologize to me, and the gentlest, which somehow serves to make me feel wretched all over again, and to my horror, tears spring to my eyes. I blink them away and shake his warm, calloused hand. “Thank you.”
“Cyrus is my VP,” Flint clarifies.
I’m surprised to hear he’s the vice president.
My father would never make his second a man whose first impression he makes is one of gentleness.
Kindness is weakness, is one of his favorite sayings.
I nod but don’t respond. What am I meant to say?
Nice to meet you? That hardly feels appropriate, given the circumstances.
I want to ask what our next move is, what happens now, but I don’t.
Years of being ignored and sitting silently watching in the wings hold my tongue.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. Come on, let’s go upstairs, we can show you around and discuss our plan there,” Flint offers.
Gratitude wraps its arms around me. I wasn’t looking forward to the idea of staying in this room any longer, not when I had imagined I would never leave it when we first entered.
I gladly follow Flint’s lead. I’m acutely conscious of Hunter walking behind me, his eyes burning into the back of my head.
I try to think of witty remarks I could say, but god knows how he might react.
His unpredictability and intensity make me nervous, but not necessarily in a bad way.
Something about the way he looks at me makes me feel like he might even find me attractive—a strange but not unwelcome feeling.
I’m sure he’s just messing with me, though.
The bar matches the picture I’d painted in my head earlier from the sounds emanating from it.
Rather than looking like a biker bar, it’s got more of a sports bar or pub feel to it.
There’s red leather booths and barstools, and a pool table in one corner.
A large, wooden bar, scarred and stained, each one telling a story, dominates the room.
The place is busy, filled with people laughing and drinking amicably.
There are more women here than at my father’s club.
And though I can see lots of barely dressed young club bunnies present, there are also more women who I suspect could be members in their own right, wearing the club’s insignia jackets.
“Are women allowed to join the Ghost Riders?” I ask Flint curiously.
A slight furrow of confusion laces across his brow. “They’re wearing property cuts,” he replies.
“Property?” I ask. Despite growing up surrounded by my father’s men I never really saw the dynamics of the club.
“It’s more like protection rather than ownership. The old ladies wear them, though it’s not compulsory. When a woman wears a Ghost Riders property vest then assholes know to stay away, or face the consequences,” Flint says without a trace of irony or pride, just humbly stating his opinion.
I glance at the women again. They have their heads held high and look invincible. I wonder for a moment what that feels like, and again I’m reminded of my father’s club and the way the old ladies were scared to open their mouths.
I’ve become acutely aware of the number of stares I’m attracting.
It’s clear that people are curious about who I am.
No one is openly hostile, and they clearly respect the guys enough not to ask unless introduced, but people are looking at us with naked curiosity as we make our way through the room.
Out of nowhere, Hunter appears by my side, snaking his arm around my waist.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to wriggle free from his viselike grip.
“You want people not to stare or ask too many questions about you?” he asks, whispering in my ear, his breath tickling and making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I nod, not trusting myself to breathe, let alone speak.
“Then play along,” he purrs, playfully nipping my ear and making me yelp.
Flint and Cyrus frown at him, but this time, Flint doesn’t order Hunter off.
Yet I know instinctively that if I asked him to back off, Hunter would.
Hunter guides me into a booth, climbing in and sitting beside me like a barrier between me and the rest of the bar.
I realize that Hunter is right. Now that it appears as though I’m some sort of sexual conquest of his, I’m getting less curious glances.
Though the club bunnies still shoot some jealous glances my way.
People are accepting that I’m a nobody, just another girl that Hunter is hooking up with.
I’m surprised that he was intuitive enough to pick up not only on my discomfort, but the reason for it.
I’m not used to being the center of attention.
Hunter throws a possessive arm around the back of the seat behind me.
I want to say he doesn’t need to pretend, but I don’t.
“If you’re done marking your territory, Hunter, can we discuss business?” Cyrus says, his tone more irritated and snarky than I’ve yet heard.
Hunter smiles, flashing his canines. “Just giving us a cover, don’t want people to ask too many questions about our new friend, do we?”
“Tori might not want you pawing at her, did you consider that?” Cyrus snaps.
I’m grateful that he’s defending my honor and respecting me enough to give me a choice.
However, I don’t want to cause a row, and I appreciate that Hunter was just trying to help.
He might be acting arrogant and cocky about it, but, as far as I’m concerned, he noticed my discomfort and tried to make me feel better.
“It’s okay,” I mumble, suddenly shy again.
Flint nods, satisfied, and Cyrus deflates a little, seemingly unhappy with the outcome but not pushing it further. Hunter smirks triumphantly. A woman comes over to take our orders, the guys all order beer, and I ask for iced tea.
Flint raises his eyebrow. “You don’t drink?”
Cyrus casually taps Flint using the back of his hand as a reprimand. “She just turned twenty-one today, remember?”
Flint frowns, as if just now remembering. “Right, I forgot how young you are.”
I bristle at the comment. I’m not some young, foolish girl. I don’t want them to see me as a kid.
Hunter turns to me with that mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, if you’re twenty-one and legally allowed to drink today, I think you should definitely have one.”
I’m about to decline, but then Flint comes to my defense. “We’re not getting the kid drunk.”
Flint calling me a kid pisses me off further, and I scowl at him before turning to the waitress.
“You know what? Make mine a vodka cranberry. A double,” I add, when I see the annoyed concern on Flint’s face.
The woman nods, scurrying away before it can become a fight.
“I’m not a child,” I snarl at Flint. “Don’t treat me like one. ”
Hunter laughs delightedly, reveling in the chaos. Flint nods. “Understood.”
Our drinks arrive, and I sip on mine slowly, trying not to wince at how strong it is.
I regret ordering a double, but I’m not about to back down now.
The guys start to discuss plans, asking me questions here and there about my father’s business and the Raging Bulls.
I listen as they begin to formulate a plan of attack.
“Alright, so we’ll hit the warehouse first,” Flint says confidently.
I’ve finished my first drink and am into my second, already feeling the effects. Emboldened by alcohol, I speak up. “That’s stupid,” I say with a snort.
Flint looks up at me in surprise. A flicker of disbelief, followed by annoyance, flashes across his face. “Excuse me?” He’s clearly not used to being contradicted much on decision-making.
“Hitting my father’s warehouses won’t hurt him.
You’ve tried it before, and yes, it’s annoying for him, but then he hits you back, and the cycle continues.
If you really want to hurt my father, you need to wound his pride.
” I sip on my straw, looking up at the stunned, yet curious expressions on the guys’ faces.
“How would we do that?” Cyrus asks, thoughtfully stroking his beard.
I shrug, as if it’s so simple I can’t believe they have to ask. “Embarrass him in front of his MC, make him look weak. If there’s one thing my father can’t stand, it’s weakness. If people see him being weak and vulnerable, that will break him.”
The guys look at me with surprise and, dare I say it, respect. Hunter claps his hands together. “Yes!”
Flint smiles proudly, making me feel warm and fuzzy inside. “Alright then, Tori, we’ll do it your way.”
We spend the next hour or so coming up with a plan.
This time, the guys don’t talk as if I’m not there, instead, they involve me in the discussion.
It feels good to be included, to have my opinions listened to and respected.
Eventually, the conversation moves on to other things, and we simply start to chat about life as if we’re old friends.
We have several more drinks, and the conversation flows surprisingly easily, and we’re all laughing and drinking as if they didn’t kidnap me earlier tonight.
At one point, a song comes on, and Hunter loudly exclaims how much he loves it before whisking me up to the dancefloor.
He ignores my protests that I can’t dance, and I don’t try too hard to say no.
I find myself wanting to dance with him.
I laugh as he spins me around, but then when he pulls me close against the hardness of his chest, my laughter dies, and I find myself feeling like I can’t breathe.
I’m acutely aware of how good he smells, how strong he feels, and how small he makes me feel in comparison.
I push down the overwhelming urge to kiss him as we dance closer and slower.
The song ends, breaking whatever tension had built up between us, and I quickly make an excuse to sit back down with the others. The guys seem unimpressed by Hunter’s stunt, and conversation is stilted until he convinces us all to do a round of shots as a birthday celebration for me.
It’s only when I try to get up to go to the bathroom that I realize how drunk I am. I stumble as I try to get up, and Hunter is there to catch me. “Whoops, I think I’ve had a little too much to drink,” I slur, giggling.
“I told you this would happen,” Flint grumbles.
Hunter scoops me up into his arms effortlessly. “Come on, princess, bedtime.”
I should protest, but I find I quite like it. I wrap my arms around Hunter’s neck and nuzzle into it. “You smell nice.”
Laughter rumbles in his chest as he strides through the room. “Thank you.”
As we leave the bar and head upstairs to the living quarters, I drunkenly protest. “I don’t wanna go to sleep.”
Hunter ignores me. I close my eyes and enjoy him carrying me in his arms like a real princess. I open them as he places me down on a soft bed, but then close them again as the ceiling above me spins. In a surprising show of tenderness, he kisses me on the forehead.
“Goodnight, princess.”
I reach out for him. “Stay with me, kiss me,” I say pleadingly. Something that I will come to regret in the morning when I’ve sobered up.
He chuckles. “Not tonight. Not when you’re so drunk you can’t properly decide for yourself. Sleep now, you’re safe.”
The blissful oblivion of sleep comes quickly.