"A knockout girl like you with everything going for you. You don’t belong here," the cook counseled her.
But it was painful for Lydia to be at the ranch. Not able to stand it, she actually arranged for the sale—all done with the wave of her pen. The ranch wouldn’t be hers in 30 days. But even despite not wanting to go there on this, her designated weekend, she was having some second thoughts.
Little did she know that just as she was wrapping her head around leaving at the end of her shift and heading that way, those deliberations would be put to rest. Life for Lydia Finch was finally about to get interesting. Very.
***
Lydia’s T-shirt was faded but it was clean beneath the crisp white bib of her apron. The apron and the nametag were the only parts of her attire that were the eatery's official uniform. Ollie didn’t mind that she was partial to little jean skirts. She hadn’t done much to speak of to wreck it that morning and it was mid-day. Shame to ruin it now. Its soft texture, and the sweet way it made her body look—taut, firm, hot. Lydia really loved her body. She walked it, jogged it, yoga’ed it, not to mention to ran it off at work. She was a blessed human being in that department, she had determined. Dean the cook often confirmed. The sight of her exquisite frame was one of the few things that gave her joy. Fortunately, living a life of virtual solitude even amongst a dinner crowd, she didn’t have to admit that. She checked herself out a lot—someone had to—in the long mirror in the lady’s room where she ducked a little too often to steal a minute alone.
Lydia delegated herself to take apart the counter and give it a thorough once-over but she stopped as soon as she started. A whir. A buzz. Faint but… what? Dean wasn’t running anything. It wasn’t a fan of any kind. It wasn’t a sound she had noticed before and the place had been quiet before.
It was getting louder. And it was coming towards them.
Like a herd of Montana whitetail led by a magnificent stag, a troop of motorcycles filed in front of Ollie’s and systematically filled the vacant slots of the parking lot. Neat and square, a row of bikes, sparkling, with chrome-clad curves, pipes, and wheels like silvered wasps, formed in the prime places at the eatery. Lydia’s heart, if it could waft, did. The sight of these warrior-like men, whose mail was form-fitting tees, denim, and leathers that showcased heart-stoppingly beautiful musculature, nearly made her lose her footing. Lydia viewed men with muscles all of the time. Many with the smell of leather on them. Quimby was cowboy country. Almost no one around was a pencil pusher or a keyboard jockey. But these men on bikes, none of whom Lydia had ever seen before, were positively stunning. The spectacle, especially that of their hold-the-door leader, made Lydia lonely and lustful all at the same time.
Ten men politely milled into the eatery. They hesitated, obviously wanting to take command of the floor plan. Dean the cook had come out from around the counter to greet them. He gave them the go-ahead to push the tables together. “Please by all means,” he said. Lydia lightheadedly handed out menus as she was steeped in the smell of leather and grease and the electric force of masculinity. One fellow had a bag on the floor. Lydia was not paying attention and she felt herself almost airborne as she stumbled over. A very powerful grip took hold of her lean hips and steadied her.
“Easy, baby,” came a low, easy, honeyed voice.
Never in her life did Lydia ever experience such a surge of warmth. The contact of this Viking-like man radiated a pooling erotic heat within her that created a struggle for consciousness within her. His enormous hand grazed the hard surface of her thigh as he braced her upright. He held his contact there until he was sure she was steady. “Okay?” he inquired. “Lydia?”
“Yes, sure,” Lydia lied. She was not quite sure she would ever be okay again. “How did you know my name?”
He laughed. “It says so on your name tag. Unless you borrowed it.”
She laughed at herself. “No.”
“We can be a little overwhelming, poor darlin. You folks usually this busy on a Friday night?” He extended his giant paw to shake with Dean. “Mickey O’Halloran.”
Lydia replied, “We’re dead because of the round up the next ranch over. Usually the place is hopping. We have been swamped with the extra hands.”
“Goodness,” Mickey replied in perhaps the most sensual voice Lydia had ever heard. “What did you do with all of those hands?” After a moment’s pause, in which both Dean and Lydia were stunned, he continued. “If we are the dinner crowd I suggest the two of you come join us.” Lydia felt her eyes get involuntarily big. “In fact, Royce here is a fabulous cook. He can help you. What are there, ten of us? And two you of you … dinner is on us, for everyone here and just about anyone else who comes in, within reason.” Mickey handed Dean a fold of cash. “Will this buy the place for the evening?”
Lydia was certain Dean’s eyes watered and it wasn’t even his restaurant. “I think it will. You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m in a good mood and I am feeling generous,” Mickey replied. “Second question. Those cabins out back. Are those active? Do you rent rooms?”
“Yes,” Dean and Lydia said together.
“So do we have the place for the night?” Mickey asked.
Dean looked at Lydia, who could barely maintain her faculties. “Sure, why not,” he conceded. “You only live once. Hey, are you men drinking men?” he asked. The only response Dean got was a burst of hearty laughter. “Lydia, why don’t fix these fellas up with some beers and Barn Burners.”
Mickey looked at Lydia directly. She had never seen anyone with violet colored eyes before. He could not be any more handsome if he tried. She was coming unglued. “Now what, pray tell,” he began smoothly, “are Barn Burners?”
Lydia’s voice warbled as she answered. “They’re shooters. A secret recipe. Well, a recipe with a secret ingredient.”
Mickey grinned. Of course he had perfectly white, even teeth. “Same thing, isn’t it?”
“Not sure. I’d be happy to give you the recipe. Berna, the owner’s wife—well she’s the owner too technically ‘cuz she’s married to him—”
Mickey interrupted her. “Oh not so, I’m afraid. Montana is not a community property state. But any way, you were saying.”
“Yes, anyway, Berna made up the shooters and she’s put in a special blend of ingredient. We just have a bottle of it in the well “
“Berna’s Barn Burners,” Mickey recited.
“Yep.”
“Well if you’re serving them, I’ll drink them. Line ‘em up.” He smiled. In all her limited experience and slightly broader imagination, Lydia had never met a person who had this kind of effect on her. It was sort of a cruel thing for any man she met next. There was no way she was going to feel this again.
“This might ruin your appetite,” Lydia cautioned. “We probably should wait until after supper. But I suppose one won’t hurt.”
“My appetite is fine,” Mickey assured her. He was most definitely flirting. Lydia’s breath caught in her chest as she moved behind the counter and laid out shot glasses, enough for all.
She poured with finesse, deftly tipping the spouts and counting to measured precision as she replicated the eatery’s signature drink. Mickey and the others sidled up behind the anchored bar stools and knocked back the glasses. They shook their heads and hissed with approval. Lydia poured two, one for Dean and one for Royce. Mickey flicked one of towards her. “Have one.” Lydia hesitated. She wasn’t much of a drinker, especially since the last time she had a Barn Burner, but she indulged. She threw the shooter back and contracted as the contents made its way down her to her stomach. She drew hard through her nose. Mickey grinned. “Good stuff, missy.”
Lydia and the men were wobbly. “What is in this stuff?” Mickey asked as he tried to get his sea legs. “There is a definitely a hallucinogen afoot.”
“Something,” said another struggling rider.
“It only lasts a sec. It gets better,” Lydia promised. She didn’t move. Just pressed her fi
nger tips to the counter to gain composure.
“This was most definitely an after dinner drink,” Mickey remarked.
“Food will make it better,” Lydia replied and already the peak of the buzz was receding. “There,” she said. The riders shook their heads a second time.
“Damn,” Mickey proclaimed as he leaned on a bar stool. “I am going to have to patent this if Berna doesn’t beat me to it.”
“You steal Berna’s recipe, she’ll beat you alright,” Lydia quipped. Mickey’s hands were slow and sure, but quick enough. He took hold of her hips and pulled her to him.
“She will, will she? Should I be afraid?” he murmured. All of it left her unable to answer the question.
“I– I—” she stammered.
“I think we ought to take a pass on those beers and go sit down,” Mickey had his arms now tangled around the small of her back. The chemistry that transpired all but knocked out the rest of the world. It truly felt like they were the only two at Ollie’s Eatery.
“How about some iced tea?” Lydia suggested.
“I’ll get the glasses and you get the pitcher,” he answered. Still composing herself from the Barn Burner, Lydia reached in the cooler and pulled out the tea while Mickey pinched plastic tumblers off their pyramid tidily stacked on shelves behind the counter. In one trip, he carried enough glasses for everyone in their dinner party.
“Something smells good.” Lydia could not believe how suddenly ravenous she was.
“Good enough to eat,” Mickey said lasciviously, as though he were thinking out loud. All eyes popped towards him. “You know what, excuse me. You are a fine woman but that drink… I swear… I have manners.”
“Some,” amended one of the riders.
“Okay some. Please accept my apology.” Mickey bowed.
“Okay,” Lydia conceded. “Only if you meant it.” Now Mickey’s eyes bugged.
“I did,” he said earnestly. “I do. You are.”
“Okay,” she answered. “Have a seat.”
Just as drinks were served, Dean appeared with a tray of sheep herder’s hors d’oeuvres—orange and onion slices on squares of cheddar cheese atop a saltine—and bread. “We are doing steaks.” He glanced at Lydia and then hesitated.
“What?” she asked him. “Want some help?”
“Nah, I got it. You’re good,” he answered. He and Royce came out with eight small bowls of bean soup. Two customers strolled in. Chrissy and Mike Marsilio.
“Hi!” Lydia stood up.
“They can join us,” Mickey chimed in. “Would you like to join us for dinner? I am buying. Steaks suit you?” Chrissy and Mike’s faces lit up.
“Sure,” they said simultaneously, and they pulled up a chair.
“How about you and I go get those beers now?” He gave Lydia a smoldering look that matched how she felt. As though he had been working there forever, he guided her to the cooler. They were behind the counter when he said, “What is this?”
“What is what?” she asked.
“This.” He looked down.
She looked down as well. “I don’t see anything.” He tugged the bib of her apron and both of them descended into a crouching position. She gazed into his eyes, which were waiting for her.
“There you go. You found it,” he said, and he leaned in to kiss her.
That was all very fast for Lydia. She didn’t have but one speed, and as a result, she had a life that went absolutely nowhere. She was a grown woman. If she wanted to, she should. She wanted to, so she did.
The taste of Mickey’s tongue in her mouth was sweet. It was hot and ice-tea chilled at the same time. It took intoxicating control, sweeping inside of her, licking the walls of her cheek before twining and dancing with her own. She took her turn exploring him, owning him. Lydia was certain she let go of a moan. Working in a place walled in stainless steel, echoes had a way of telling on a person and Lydia was afraid she gave herself away. Mickey laughed at her start.
“You look like a sweet little whitetail that got caught in the headlights.” He tweezed her pebbled nipple. “Ooh, speaking of.”
The pleasured tinge of pain corded to her center, and she was wet. She was consumed by primal need. Mickey guided her to her feet. As she clutched cold, wet bottles of beer the hem of her shirt rose. He reached behind her apron.
“Here, let me,” he said. His fingers intimately grazed the delicate skin of her midriff. It was all Lydia could do to keep from whimpering. Dean and Royce barreled out of the kitchen with two large swivel trays stacked with dinners. “Mm,” Mickey remarked while locking eyes on Lydia. “I am about ravenous. I say let’s eat.”
If it weren’t for his skirting Lydia, she might not have made it to the rest of the diners. It took so much coaxing that everyone was all elbows and clatter, digging into their food, by the time Mickey and Lydia took their place. Lydia wasn’t the least bit interested in food. Mickey gingerly pushed her into a chair and uncapped her beer. He covertly reached beneath the table and gingerly ran his fingers along the smooth skin of her thighs. They regarded each other. It felt so weird and foolish, thought Lydia, like they were already a couple. It really had been way too long for her. She could not imagine that it had been such a long time for him.
Mickey O’Halloran was extraordinarily handsome. Charming. Fleeting images of him, bare to the waist, muscle bulging on his back as he bent over the nebulous frame of some lucky girl, about to give it to her the way Lydia wanted it. No, it was not possible that Mickey had to wait if he did not want to.
“Nice skirt,” he whispered.
Dean lined up the second round of Barn Burners. Mickey made the stop sign for Lydia. “I think she’ll pass,” he said.
“She okay?” Dean arched a brow. “I don’t think I’ve seen her that way… ever.”
“She’s okay,” Chrissy Marsilio giggled.
“She’s gotta be careful there. She’s got to drive tonight. This is her weekend to go home.” Dean was talking, but slurring under the after-effects of the Barn Burner.
“Home?” Mickey inquired with a slight bit of alarm. “Dude, you’re buzzed. What’s in that anyway?”
“I don’t know. Berna ferments it, whatever it is. It will literally make you see stars. Trails, depending on the mix. Anyway like I was saying, that’s right. Ms. Finch here has a sprawling ranch about thirty miles out. Only she never goes there. She’s doesn’t want to go home. She’s afraid the place is haunted.”
“Haunted?” Mickey teased mildly. “You don’t believe in ghosts.”
A bit drunk, Dean barged in on Lydia’s answer. “Believe in them? She carries them around with her.”
Lydia was more than a little embarrassed. “I sold the place, ghosts and all,” she retorted to Dean.
“Wait a minute, “Mickey said. “You mean that huge spread we passed about 30 miles out?”
“Yes,” Lydia answered.
“You’re not selling,” Dean snorted incredulously. “You’ll hold on to it, waste your life here. Yada yada.”
“I sold it, smarty pants. But yes, I am going to rescind the deal. I made up my mind. I want it back, so yep, Deanster. You are so, so right about me. Why am I saying this in front of a bunch of strangers?” she asks.
Mickey handed her the beer. “So you sold your place but now you’ve changed your mind?” he asked.
“Yeah. We don’t have to talk about that now,” Lydia said shyly.
He reached up and brushed a strand from her face. “Finch, hunh? You know anything about finches?”
“What?” She smiled wryly.
“They appear timid, fragile, but they are among the heartiest of species and about the most adaptable,” he answered
“You polish up on your ornithologist just so you can get lucky, Mr. O’Halloran?
“Did it work?”
At once a sober pall fell upon Lydia as she moved in to kiss him. She was never more serious about anything in her whole life as she committed to give herself to him, if for only a
few hours until he showered and rode away. It was as though everything she ever wanted, though never really gave too much thought to wanting, was coming true and the entire night was suddenly enough. She had to know what it was like.
She pulled back. What he asked. “I got to know,” she said. “Is that true about the finches?”
Runaway Ride: Alpha Bad Boy Biker and MC Romance Box Set Page 24
