Sometimes, I strike gold, and the guy isn’t interested in hanging out.
He’ll fuck me and leave.
Exactly how I want it.
My best friend, Riley, says I fuck like a college boy. I tell her I fuck like a girl who doesn’t want the responsibility of a relationship while she focuses on her studies.
Brad pushes up on big arms. “You’re fucking hot, you know that?”
I smile up at him sweetly. “And you’ve got a great cock.”
It’s average, but I’m about to kick him out of my apartment and easing into it with compliments seems like the nicer thing to do.
He grins. “Glad to be of service. I’ll give you my number and maybe we can do this again sometime.” He pulls out of me and the drag of the condom against my skin makes me want to dry retch. I watch as he pulls it off his sticky cock and ties it at the end before depositing it in the wastepaper basket by the desk.
“How about a nightcap?” he asks, coming back to the bed and dropping a kiss on my shoulder.
“Not tonight. I have an early class in the morning.” I stretch and feign a yawn. It’s time for him to go. “I should probably get some sleep.”
“What about tomorrow night?”
“I’m working.”
“What about breakfast on Sunday?”
“How about I call you?”
The smile on his face fades as he stands. “Okay, I see what’s happening here.”
I brace myself because of his tone. “Excuse me?”
He shoves on his briefs followed by his jeans. “I know about you. I’ve seen what you do.”
I stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Different night, different guy.” He pulls his T-shirt over his head and yanks it down. “No repeat performances.”
Taken back, I frown.
Is he calling me a slut?
“I’ve seen you go home with different guys.”
Wait. What? Has he been watching me?
“You’re one of those girls who can’t stand to be alone.”
He’s wrong. Being alone is the only way to be.
It hurts less.
I sit up and tighten the bedsheet around my ample chest. “Since when has enjoying a healthy sex life become a crime?”
Damn, this went downhill fast.
“Healthy,” he scoffs. “What a joke. Fucking a different guy every night isn’t healthy.”
Every night is a bit of an overstretch.
“Something must be really broken in you.”
He has no idea.
“Get out,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” He grabs his keys off the table by the front door. “Fucking slut.”
With a slam of the door, he’s gone, but the lingering scent of his disgust remains.
Jumping off the bed, I run to the door and lock it, then slide the chain in place. I peer through the peephole and watch Brad disappear down the flight of stairs into the night.
Asshole.
A cool breeze drifts in from the window and brushes across my skin as I sink to the floor and start to cry.
The problem is—he isn’t wrong.
Something inside of me is broken.
And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put it back together again.
JACK
Three Months Ago
There is no feeling in the world like riding on the back of a Harley Davidson and enjoying the slap of crisp mountain air across your face.
It is exhilarating.
Intoxicating.
Like religious enlightenment.
There is no other place on Earth where I am more at home, gunning through the sweeping curves of a mountain road and letting the wind carry all my problems away.
But out of all the rides you can take, the ride home is the best.
I miss home.
It’s been a long run.
We’ve been away from Flintlock for almost two weeks this time, visiting towns throughout Appalachia, handing out moonshine to those loyal to the club and checking on the weed crops we grow amongst the Christmas tree farms throughout the mountain range.
This run hasn’t just been about club business. Doc came along this time, riding in the old ambulance we’d picked up at an auction in Williamsburg, so he could stop in to see some patients along the way.
It’s something the Kings of Mayhem had started with the arrival of Layne “Doc” McCoy around about the time I became president. As a young doctor, Doc had been struck off the board after one of his patients died under his care. It was a crazy charge, one surrounded by controversy because it wasn’t his fault. However, thanks to some ridiculous protocols and some crazy bad luck, he lost his license to practice medicine.
Which is unfortunate because not only is the fucker an incredible doctor, he’s also one of the smartest sonofabitches I know. His mind works in ways I can’t fathom, and it just doesn’t seem right that he has no place to use it.
After being struck off the register, he fell into a slump. Worked construction by day and beat up a boxing bag at night to release his frustrations. By the time he walked into the tattoo shop the Kings of Mayhem owned, he was a six-foot-two tank of pure muscle covered neck to toe in tattoos.