Ruled

by Anne Marsh

  ME: Open it and send me some pictures?

  I make it a request. I may be stuck across the street, but I’m getting a handle on this dating stuff. I cross my legs and lean back against my bike. A few seconds later, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.

  She’s sent me a picture.

  Of her middle finger.

  I so like this girl.

  Her door reopens and her ass appears first. No matter how fast she stripped, I don’t think she’s had time to put my stuff on. We’ll have to work on that. If we’re dating, she needs to appreciate what I do for her.

  She’s carrying a tray with two glasses of something brown with ice cubes. She sets it down, drops onto one of the chairs, and then looks at me and pats the cushions of the seat next to her. Apparently, my dick can get harder. Walking across the street is downright painful.

  She crosses her legs when I get close. My gaze follows. Big mistake. Her left thigh brushes the top of her right, where I’ve had my fingers, run my tongue up her silky-smooth skin and hit the jackpot. No way she misses my reaction to that memory, because she’s sitting in the chair closest to the door and an escape route—so I have to brush past her to sit down. God bless the total lack of space because my erection rubs against her shoulder.

  She sighs. “You’re impossible.”

  Complaint or not—you be the judge. I sit, knees brushing hers as I angle the seat closer to hers. Be happy to pull her into my lap if that was what she wanted.

  She hands me a glass of tea and launches her opening salvo. “You can’t send me underwear.”

  “Already did.” I knock back half my tea. It’s actually not bad. Hanging around on the curb is hot work.

  “Return it.” She launches into a stream of blah blah blah about not accepting presents from me and it’s totally inappropriate and how did I know her size because that’s creepy (I’ve had my hands all over her ass and her pussy—I can do the math from there) and who do I think she is? The words wash over me because I’m stuck on a visual of her in those pretty new panties that’s way better than the words she throws at me.

  I’ve spent five years earning the respect of my club. Before that, I earned the respect of the men in my SEAL team. I don’t expect her to give me anything, but I do demand a chance. I set my glass down and interrupt the flow of talk.

  “What’s a guy got to do to have a chance with you?”

  She blinks and fidgets with her glass. “You really want to date me?”

  She actually looks surprised. Maybe we’re both new to the dating game? Because that would actually be fucking awesome. We could make up our own rules.

  “Yeah,” I say gruffly. “I sure do.”

  She waves a hand and I’m goddamned lucky it’s the empty one. “We’re completely incompatible.”

  I give her a slow smile because I sure as hell remember what went on between us. “Not everywhere. You like some things about me.”

  “That’s just sex.” The cutest pink blush paints her cheeks.

  “You fucking love dirty sex.” Truth.

  She volleys right back.

  “Which doesn’t mean I love you.”

  “I don’t need that.” Love is on my personal no-fly list, remember? Evie developing feelings for me—other than the jump-my-bones kind—would be downright inconvenient. “Let’s date. Have some fun.”

  “Have sex.” Now she sounds completely disgruntled.

  Fuck, yeah.

  I cup her bare knee with my hand. Her skin is warm and soft, and she jumps ever so slightly when I skim my thumb over the vulnerable curve. “Sex works for me.”

  “There are rules for dating,” she says firmly. “You don’t like rules.”

  “What if I played by your rules?”

  She stares at me like that’s the craziest idea ever. “You can’t play by the rules.”

  “Why not?” I settle back in my seat, stretching my legs out. My legs bump hers, and so far, this is pretty freaking awesome. “Tell me the rules.”

  She makes a face. “So you can break them?”

  “Hit me.” I’ve so got this. Doesn’t matter if I’m a dating virgin—she’s gonna spell it all out.

  She leans forward and picks up my hand. “Five rules.”

  I can work with that number. Club bylaws are larger.

  “First rule?” She folds down my thumb. “I won’t cry about you. You don’t get to make me feel bad. If you piss me off, I tell you.”

  No fucking way I want to make her cry. “You’ve been dating the wrong guys, princess. I can work with that, as long as you show me some respect in front of the club. You want to tear into my ass, you do it when we’re alone.”

  Her fingers skim up the length of my index finger as if it’s my dick, pinching the tip lightly. “I do 40 percent of the dating work. You do the other 60. This is not a partnership, nor is it a dictatorship.”

  I curl my finger around hers. “I chase you. Got it.”

  She tucks my index finger into my palm and tugs on my middle finger. “Three? You pick me up and we go out. If we do this, I’m not your booty call. You don’t come over to my place and I don’t go to yours until we have a relationship.”

  I can work with that, too, although celibacy is definitely not my first choice. Don’t think it’s hers, either. But it’s up to me to earn a repeat in her bed, and I’m good with that. Anything I’ve put my mind to, it’s come to me.

  “Four. You plan ahead if you want to see me. You don’t just text or show up.”

  “You’re gonna have to forgive me for today.” I lift her hand to my mouth and press a kiss against her fingertips. “Since I didn’t have the rulebook.”

  She goes for the kill. “And we’re not having sex on the first date. Maybe not the second. If it happens again, it’s because I feel close to you.”

  She wants the whole enchilada. Dating, a relationship, emotional intimacy. And then maybe she tosses me the sexual cherry and we get around to having hot, dirty sex. Sex is the epilogue in her book, when in mine it’s all of the chapters except for the afterword where we say our goodbyes and head in opposite directions. Still, the only hard and fast rule I’m hearing is the not-on-the-first-date thing. After that? Everything is fucking negotiable.

  “And then what?”

  She shrugs. “And then we see what happens. Maybe we have sex. Or a relationship. Maybe we head in different directions and it’s over.”

  “Then we’ve got a deal. I’m playing by your rules and you’re giving me a chance.”

  Chapter Nine

  Rev

  MY PRINCESS MAY be unavailable for sexcapades—which is fucking a-okay with me because I’m all for the slow build if that gets her hot—but I have one of the old ladies from the MC book a birthday party for the coming weekend. I figure this falls under the plan-in-advance rule in the Evie Rulebook and since Mary Jane’s two girls are four and six, she’s perfectly happy to have me spring for some Saturday entertainment.

  Tío, her old man and my club brother, has ten years on me. His last tour of duty screwed with his head—I like to think Mary Jane’s his goddamned reward because finding an old lady like her is like hitting the rolling jackpot at the casino. Boom—you’re richer than fucking Midas himself because you plugged your lucky quarter into the right slot at the right moment. Tío deserves every second of his good fortune.

  I’d hung around while Mary Jane made the call, in case she needed an assist, but she handled the party details like a pro. Evie sounded way too perky. It’s not like I want her unhappy, but I wouldn’t have minded her sounding lonely or like she needed something. Then I could have headed on over to her place and offered to help her. Rub her back. Fix some shit. Be the fucking boyfriend of her dreams.

  That was such a strange thought that I’d done my best to forget about it the entire four days until the p
arty. I ensured a prospect kept watch over her from a nice, discreet distance and I took my turn. Not gonna ask them to do what I won’t do. The Colombians were no-shows, and let me tell you, Evie leads a really boring life. The woman does nothing but work. Not like I want to see her partying and getting it on with some random stranger (because then I’d have to fucking kill him), but it can’t be good for her.

  Mary Jane and Tío have a two-story house with a pool about a mile from the clubhouse. One of those home security system signs is stuck in the front yard, but the real deterrent are the bikes. One look and anyone with eyes in his head knows not to mess with their house. Since Mary Jane had promised her girlfriends would pony up enough kids for a bona fide party, I’d sent over a prospect with a big-ass cake and balloons. I figured that covered all the party bases.

  When the Princess Mobile pulls up, I can practically feel Evie taking in the bikes crowding the driveway. The engine keeps right on running as she peeks left, then right. Fucking looks up, too, as if she expects someone big, bad and dangerous to land on the roof of the monstrosity she drives. I whip out my phone and send her a quick text.

  ME: Didn’t think you were chicken.

  The pause is long enough that I start to worry she might actually bail, leaving me alone with a dozen tutu-sporting, tiara-wearing little girls, when she finally responds.

  EVIE: You got kids? Bcz...dating no no

  If I had a kid, I’d never fuck around on the side.

  ME: Kids belong to Tío’s old lady

  EVIE: Tío’s a busy man

  ME: Got some loaner kids along for the ride

  EVIE: How come you’re here?

  ME: Cake and a beautiful woman? Come on out and make my day

  I can imagine her rolling her eyes at that one. Still, she and a couple of princess chicks emerge. Mary Jane bustles out before things get too awkward, so I owe the woman. She sends Princesses Two and Three into the backyard where, she warns, the hordes are getting restless. No clue why we don’t let women patch into the MC—they’re bloodthirsty enough.

  Evie kind of flutters on the walk like she’s not sure what to do—bet that pisses her off. Since I’m working on my boyfriend skills, I help her out.

  “Good to see you.” I brush a kiss over her cheek, same as I would for Mary Jane except for the way my dick waves a greeting of its own. “See? I planned ahead.”

  Chapter Ten

  Eve

  LITTLE KIDS DON’T bottle their feelings up. When the five-year-old girl spots me from the doorway, tiara twinkling in the scorching sunlight, her eyes go wide and a grin splits her face. I’m pink, I sparkle and I’m there for her. That’s all it takes.

  Princesses rock. Yes, I read all those magazines by the supermarket checkout counter. I got up early to watch Kate and Will tie the knot and once upon a time I knew precisely how many unmarried princes were running around Europe in expensive sports cars and designer wear. I watched brides emerge from medieval churches, all big smiles because they’d landed their princes and were about to get on with the happily-ever-after part of the fairy tale.

  I don’t really want a prince. I don’t need to be a princess either, although pretending’s fun. The last ten years taught me how to take care of myself, and more importantly, Rocker. Independence is worth more than any crown of diamonds. Still, the way Mary Jane looks at her husband makes me think of princes and endless, public, fairy-tale kisses shared with princesses.

  Sort of.

  Because Tío is no prince.

  He’s a biker.

  He’s also big, his ratty T-shirt promoting a second-rate rock band that will still be playing Vegas lounges when his daughter’s friends are old enough to drink legally. But he listens when his wife talks. He brings her a cupcake and a beer. He runs his hand down her hair, her arms, her back, and yes, her butt. He can’t get enough of her and he’s clearly anticipating the moment we all get the hell out of his yard and he can take her inside and show her how much he cares.

  Exhibit A? He calls her pumpkin and plants a big, smacking kiss on her cheek before stepping out to take a call.

  “Wow.” Samantha watches him go. “You think he’s for real?”

  Yes. Yes, I do. Mary Jane has that look in her eye. It’s part satisfaction, part happiness, and part keep-your-hands-and-your-eyes-off-my-man. She knows she’s got a keeper and no one’s making a move on him. Between the diamond bands on Mary Jane’s ring finger and Tío’s leather vest with its Hard Riders patch, her Tío is safe. I need no more bikers in my life, thank you very much.

  Instead, I focus on making today’s party the best party ever. It’s the secret to my success. I treat each birthday like it’s my first and best party ever, and whichever little girl (or boy) is birthday queen receives my undivided attention. I perform. I sing, I dance and I kill the dragon.

  Afterward, while party guests scream and mainline cake, I pack up my props. The house is gorgeous, the kind of place I’ve secretly dreamed of owning years in the future. Mary Jane’s kid is cute and her husband hot. I’m just not sure where or how the MC factors in. I didn’t even know bikers bought real estate that wasn’t a dive bar, pawnshop, or some other seedy enterprise. The bikers I’ve known had addresses like Lovelock Correctional Center and Ely State Prison.

  Mary Jane hums off-key as she saunters up to me to hand me an envelope of cash. “Thanks for making my daughter’s day.”

  “You’re welcome.” If I had my way, every kid who wanted a princess party would get one, too. I’d spend my waking hours in tiaras and tulle.

  Mary Jane’s silent for a moment and I try playing it cool—but we’re both staring at Tío and Rev. Sprawled in lawn chairs on the opposite side of the stamped concrete patio, they hold longnecks and watch the kids’ antics like there’s nowhere they’d rather be. I’ve always assumed bikerly debauches involve adult women, kegs and salacious X-rated activities, but they seem to be having a good time.

  “They’re great guys,” Mary Jane says with a little sigh.

  “Uh-huh.” I pack my shit faster. Rev’s a gorgeous guy, and I’d have to be blind not to notice. My libido wakes up when he’s around and it’s easy to forget he’s a biker and a badass watching him listen intently to a five-year-girl explaining why purple is her favorite color. And another part of my anatomy stirs when he announces that his favorite color is blue. I’m sure he’s just being polite (although Rev is one of the least polite people I’ve met), but the girl nods and runs off happily. I like that he listened. That it didn’t matter to him that she wasn’t discussing the fate of the nation or the tanking economy or supersecret biker stuff. He listened. He volunteered a few words of his own.

  Hell, I like blue, too.

  He stands up, so I stare some more. The man has legs that deserve to be looked at. The faded denim of his jeans tightens with each step he takes—and I’d like to start at the bottom and work my way up. When he stops in front of me, I’m still staring. He plucks the plastic box of props out of my arms and aims a crooked grin at me that should be illegal. Hell, the entire man is a walking felony.

  He tips his head at the box. “Where to?”

  The question would be easier to answer if I stopped staring. His eyes are warm and heated, a dark brown reminding me of my favorite things. Chocolate. This great faux-fur blanket I bought for my house. Puppy dogs and cowboy boots. I bet he’d taste as good, too. Bet he’d feel—

  “Evie?” He sounds amused.

  “Yeah?”

  “You wanna tell me where to put this?” He hefts the container higher in his arms, in case I need the visual. Which I totally do. I’m staring at the man like I’ve been on a no-carbs diet for a week and he’s the world’s biggest, sweetest, tastiest doughnut ever. I’m pretty sure I’m drooling.

  It’s not my fault his package is so appealing.

  “The RV,” I blurt out.

 
“Uh-huh.” He shoots me that crooked half grin again, as if he can see the X-rated party taking place in my head. He brushes past me, his arm rubbing some very non-PG areas. I follow because he’s got my stuff and I have questions.

  “Why are you really here?”

  Behind us come the sounds of Mary Jane wrapping up the party. He opens the door to the RV and steps inside. This is the point where I’d like to pretend I stop following him and do something strong and independent. It’s not like I want or need to knee him in the balls to assert my ability to stand on my own two feet, but he’s just so effortlessly in control that it grates. I hesitate, but he disappears inside my RV and I’m not done talking with him. To him. Fuck if I know what I’m really doing here, other than going in after him.

  I step inside.

  “Where does this go?” He hefts the box. There’s not much space inside the RV. In addition to the built-in table and benches, there’s a bed, a tiny bathroom and a galley kitchen consisting of a Mr. Coffee, a toaster oven and a mini-fridge whose capacity maxes out at a six-pack.

  “On the bed. Why are you really here today?”

  He deposits the box and turns around, reminding me the RV’s short on space. Without even trying, the man consumes every inch and then some. He’s even bigger than Mary Jane’s Tío and the way his shoulders brush the wall just calls attention (my attention) to his body.

  He shrugs. “You made the rules.”

  Words blah blah words. I fight the urge to step forward and run my hands up that big, broad chest.

  “About?”

  He looks at me like he’s never been more serious in his life. “Dating.”

  “And you’re playing by my rules?” Hello. It’s hard to imagine Rev putting the brakes on anything at my say-so.

  “I’m giving it a shot, princess. The way I see it, if I hang out here with you, I can keep an eye out for the Colombians. They’re not gonna give a shit that you’re a civvie in this war.”