and the drug trade.
Since staking out a birthday party for kiddies isn’t getting me any closer to this goal, I need to find another way to get to Rocker. I do another quick survey of the house, but there’s still no sign of that asshole, and I don’t have his number. But I bet Evie knows how to call her brother—and I bet I can motivate her to share. I’m fucking awesome at motivating.
And today’s my lucky day because turns out that I don’t even have to go in after her. She pops out of the house alone and heads for the pink monstrosity parked by the curb, juggling a plate of cake in flapping plastic wrap. She looks like Christmas and the fucking Tooth Fairy rolled into one, with a dash of Tinkerbell and porn star. Okay. That last bit may be pure fantasy on my part, because she looks as sweet as Vik’s MILF in that fluffy-ass get-up. Unless my luck has changed, she’s not hiding a dirty girl underneath all that sparkle. I change course and wait on the other side of the pink RV for her.
Eve
“GOING SOMEWHERE, SUNSHINE?” The deep voice comes out of nowhere and I whirl. Off balance, I promptly trip on my dress and head for the pavement.
An arm fastens around my waist, rescuing me from my imminent face-plant. The plate of cake is plucked from my hands and set down by my feet. Huh. The arm tightens briefly as we dip and it’s a big, hard, tattooed, scary-as-shit arm, although the tattoo actually isn’t bad. Bold black ink covers the skin between his sleeve and his wrist... Is that a dragon? The animal looks almost Viking. Or as if the beast is seriously contemplating eating anyone who gets too close. If I need to file a police report, I have plenty to say when they ask about distinguishing marks.
The arm’s owner is sun-bronzed, and when I inhale, I breathe in leather, oil and something else. That something else spells trouble because the scent is hot and male. What my head can’t describe, my body recognizes, my libido perking up and demanding we revert to our former bad girl ways. Immediately. My princess costume works better than a chastity belt thanks to all that material, so it’s difficult to fully appreciate the hard male body pressed up against my butt, but I make an effort.
Maybe I’m hallucinating because men like this don’t exist.
I pinch his arm hard.
“The fuck?” Those two offended words rumble in my ear. I guess he’s real after all. He sets me carefully back on my feet and backs up, giving me twelve inches of space. Maybe a whole eighteen. And I mean the distance between us, not anything else, because...
This man is a whole lot of wow. I brace myself against the side of the RV. Knees don’t fail me now.
His face is way better than his arm. He’s a big guy, tall and broad-shouldered, traits that tick all the best boxes on my sexual wish list. He’s also more rough than good-looking, with short, dark hair and a cold, watchful expression that never leaves his face as he takes in the happenings on the lawn. Almost military, except that the local air force base would never let this bad boy in. He wears a leather vest covered with patches, a dark T-shirt and jeans that are white around the seams. Despite the full-sleeve tattoo on both arms, I spot no visible piercings, but trust me—he doesn’t need the metal to shout trouble.
He braces an arm on either side of my head. Despite his not actually touching me, it suddenly feels like we’re naked and he’s got his dick inside me. Under other circumstances, I might not mind. Since keeping up appearances in front of my paying public matters, I reach out and give his chest a discreet shove. We have an entire RV between us and any party guests, but I shouldn’t take chances.
He doesn’t budge. “I need to reach your brother, princess.”
There are so many different ways to define reach. Still, however you define it, he’s not here for me. I know I shouldn’t be disappointed about that, but I am.
“You’re a friend of Rocker’s?”
His face gives nothing away. “We’ve got business.”
I treat myself to a second glance at his leathers, the faded T-shirt that hugs a muscled chest and the boots. God. The boots. You know how some boots are made for dancing? These boots are made for pain, for kicking ass and for getting a point across one steel-toed tip at a time. And just in case there’s any question at all about where this man falls on the naughty or nice side of things, he rocks a leather vest with a club patch on it. Whatever Rocker’s done this time, he’s in deep. Pulling him out is going to be a bitch.
Ergo, despite my pressing need to get him away from Perfectly Princess Parties’s current place of business, I stall. Big-time. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Rev. You tell him Rev is looking for him.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth hangs open for a minute, because Rev looks amused. What kind of a name is that?
Since that’s not the kind of thing you ask a man, I go for the obvious. “Why?”
“Club business,” he says tightly.
In other words? Penis business. Also known as none of my business. I love my brother, but he has his head up his ass about things like sticking on the right side of the law and boy things versus girl things. When I try to duck under Rev’s arm, the man moves effortlessly with me. Shit. Pretty soon, we’ll start attracting attention.
“If I let him know you’re looking, you’ll leave?” Giving Rocker a heads-up that trouble is knocking on his door seems like my best two-for-one solution at the moment, so when Rev nods, I fish inside the bodice of my dress. I also do my best to ignore the slow grin spreading across Rev’s face as I retrieve my phone from its hiding place. What is it about men and boobs? He doesn’t back off and give me any space either, which makes dialing awkward.
“What’s up?” Miracle of miracles, Rocker actually answers his phone on the second ring.
“I have a friend of yours here who wants your number,” I say carefully. Pretty sure this is the trouble he mentioned back at the lake.
“Sure.” There’s enough background noise for me to be almost certain Rocker’s parked at a bar somewhere.
“He says his name is Rev.”
As my brother silently digests that revelation, Rev moves closer still and traces a finger over my ear. He smells good, although I wish I didn’t have a secret thing for leather and man. Plus, he has no business touching me. I shake my head as if he’s some kind of annoying gnat, but he just drops his fingers to my jaw and then plays with my hair as if I’m his own personal toy. Big fingers carefully untangle a snarl and smooth the strands down. I slap at his fingers with my free hand and he grins.
Rocker promptly proves that his brotherly radar still works fine. “He right there?”
“Couldn’t get much closer,” I tell him.
“Rev’s not a nice guy,” he says slowly. “And I don’t want him around you.”
News flash—I’ve already determined the not nice part for myself. In fact, it’s probably twelve inches long and located directly behind the zipper of his jeans. I look him up and down, or as much as I can since the man still has me pinned up against the RV. Somehow, I can’t work up any
