focus on breathing in, hold for a count of three, and then out, because maybe then I won’t say something I shouldn’t. “Good to know, but I think he still wants to talk to you.”
“He absolutely does, princess.” Rev plucks the phone out of my hand. While I’m trying to figure out how I feel about that, he and Rocker go back and forth on a possible get together. Rev doesn’t stop staring at me, either, one hand braced by my face and the other wrapped around my phone. The man’s a talented multitasker, because his fingers keep grazing my cheek, sending little skitters down my spine.
Why am I standing here letting him take charge? Because you like it, my bad voice whispers (or shrieks gleefully in my head). Damn. It. I reach for his wrist as he signs off the call. I still can’t tell if he and Rocker are friends, if Rocker owes him money (which would be a bad idea), or if there’s something else entirely between them (which would be even worse). But there’s something. There’s definitely something.
“Return my phone.”
His face doesn’t reveal a flicker of emotion. Bet he could make a killing playing poker on the Strip. “This isn’t a democracy. You got a pen hiding in that dress, sunshine?”
His gaze flicks over me. Maybe he’s looking for said pen—or maybe he just likes looking...at me. Shit. The hard-eyed steely-stare thing he’s got going on is not supposed to be a turn-on. My inner bad girl, however, won’t be shut down without a fight. She thinks we should jump him. Right here on the sunburned, stabby lawn works for that hussy. I opt for going on the defensive.
“Don’t call me sunshine.”
He shrugs. “You’re the one in the big yellow dress.”
“Occupational hazard.” I yank a business card out of my cleavage and slap it in his empty palm. The move may not be the classiest, but the look on his face is worth it. Naturally, birthday parties for the two-to five-year-old crowd are not his territory. He’s undoubtedly more into murder and mayhem.
“You want a princess to grace your next party? I make it happen. Forty dresses that drip sparkles, fairy wings, tiaras and enough faux glass slippers to shoe an entire beauty pageant—we’ll have a real good time. I promise.”
He makes a rough sound. Can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or if I’ve actually managed to shock the big, bad biker. “Since when do princesses have wings?”
Clearly, he has limited knowledge of five-year-old girls.
“All the best princesses can fly,” I inform him. Unlike him, I have extensive knowledge of five-year-old girls, and their preference for fairy princesses have been made abundantly clear to me. Ergo, I’ve responded to my market demands (and hey, I like wings and sparkles, too).
This time, he definitely snorts. “Why don’t you fly your ass on inside that RV and grab a pen?”
I don’t have to think about that “request” too hard. The man needs to work on his manners.
I don’t budge. “Rocker’s not your number-one fan.”
He grunts and returns his gaze to my phone. “He wants you safe. You should listen to him.”
“You should know something about me,” I tell him.
“What’s that, Evie?”
“I’m not big on orders.”
He actually winks at me. “Bet you’d feel differently in bed.”
I really shouldn’t hit him, not when there’s a birthday party happening in the backyard behind us, but the urge is almost overwhelming. This man has no filter. “Do you have any idea how insulting you are?”
He shrugs and texts something from my phone, before looking me in the eye. God, the man might be filterless, but he does have gorgeous eyes. “Put my number in your contacts.”
Um. Okay. And perhaps hell will freeze over despite the record hundred-and-something-degrees Vegas weather. I reach for my phone, but he holds it just out of reach. “If I change my position on order-taking, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”
“Thought maybe we could get together sometime,” he says.
Didn’t see that one coming.
“You want to go out on a date with me?”
“It’s a free country—you don’t have to say yes. Thought you might like a ride on my bike or a drink.”
He wants to give. Me. A ride. My brain stutters. The bike parked by the curb is a big, death-defying, powerful menace. Black leather saddlebags hang off the side that I’d bet my sheet cake he doesn’t use to transport groceries or crap from a Target run. Riding anywhere with a strange man would be crazy.
He has a friend with him, too, another man I’ve never met before. When I peer over Rev’s shoulders a little myopically (the best princesses don’t pair glasses with fairy wings and this particular princess has run out of disposable contacts), the guy offers me a slow grin and a little waggle of his fingers. He certainly makes pretty eye candy, but I prefer Mr. Tall, Dark and Grumpy.
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s the dress, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “You think I’ve got a thing for sparkly shit?”
There isn’t a man alive who looks rougher and fiercer than Rev. I’m trying to figure out a polite way to tell him so when he tucks the phone back inside my dress before I can so much as squeak out a protest. The backs of his fingers brush against the top of my boobs, issuing an invitation of their own.
I have to be more cautious. From the rising volume of the squeals emanating from the backyard, cake consumption has concluded and the party will be wrapping up as the sugar highs hit, the early departers fleeing past my RV parked out front. Spotting the princess in an R-rated embrace with a biker would be bad for my business. You can’t be a dirty girl and host children’s birthday parties for a living. The moms will kill you. Fortunately, the moms aren’t mind readers. I’m only a party-perfect princess on the outside. Riding anywhere with Rev would be career suicide.
My bad voice promptly weighs in. But only if you get caught.
“I don’t do bikers.”
Something flashes across Rev’s face. “You don’t get hurt on my watch. I promise.”
“You’re not an ax murderer?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wallet attached to his belt by a silver chain. Silently, he flips it open and holds it out so I can read his driver’s license. There’s a military ID underneath it, too, the kind of card that gets you into Nellis Air Force Base.
“Your name isn’t Rev.” According to the State of Nevada’s laminated plastic, he’s one Jaxon Brady.
“Road name,” he says tersely.
I examine the license again. He’s also turning thirty-three in four weeks. I bet he won’t be booking a celebratory princess party.
“Wow.” I hand back his wallet. “Former
