Emily

MY ENTIRE BODY is warm and my skin is flushed. Oz’s head is close. So close. Close enough that my mouth waters with the idea of kissing him, tasting him, devouring him. This is crazy. This is insane. This is... “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Neither do I,” he responds. “But I’m not keeping you here.”

He isn’t and I don’t move. Oz stays still, as well. My breaths come in and they go out and my heart beats in time with my thoughts: kiss him, kiss him. Kiss him? But... “I don’t like you.”

I hate him...I think.

“I don’t like you, either.” Yet Oz tucks the wayward strands of hair that had fallen between us behind my ear and little goose bumps form along my neck. “But no one said that this had to do with liking.”

Oz slowly grazes his knuckles against my cheek. His skin is the perfect combination of rough and soft and I lean into his touch like a cat begging to be loved.

I inhale and I’m greeted by his dark scent that reminds me of wood burning and open flames. It’s an addictive aroma. One that calms me. One that encourages me to erase the gap between us. One that causes me to forget why I’m here and who he is.

Oz tilts his head and I mirror the motion. His breath heats my skin. My lips lightly part and a wave of desire runs through me. One kiss. Just one. Then it will be done. The craving satisfied.

Oz presses his forehead to mine, our mouths nearly touch, and...

The rumble of a motorcycle engine. My stomach jumps to my throat and I stumble back. The haze lifts and I drown in a rush of terror, excitement and this frustrated sense of loss.

“What was that?” I demand.

Oz drags both of his hands over his face. “A lack of control and thought—that’s what it was. It’s also nothing that will happen again. Stay here while I check this out.”

“Stay here?” We were seconds from kissing again and now he thinks he can tell me what to do?

He moves away from the bar, toward the door and when I follow, he freezes me with a hard glare. “I said, stay there.”

“You almost kissed me and so now you’re going to behave like an ass?”

“I didn’t hear you telling me to stop, and if you’re going to call me a name, get it right. I’m an asshole.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “My apologies. I forgot that you want me to own my opinions. You’re right. You are an asshole.”

Oz

FUCKIN’ A, I’M an asshole. I’m also a moron for almost letting that spiral out of control.

The windows of the clubhouse are blacked out so I stand by the door keeping an eye on the security monitor by the bar. The gun feels heavy on my back, but if trouble’s arrived I won’t necessarily have to pull it. There’s so much tension and anger built up in me, I’m practically shaking. A part of me wishes for the Riot to show so I can throw a punch in someone’s face.

But it’s not the Riot. It’s Chevy and when he gets close enough, I open the door.

I expect his easygoing grin and smart-ass greeting; instead he stalks in like a tiger that lost his dinner in a bloody battle. “We need to go.”

I eyeball Emily then zero in on him. “Can’t. I’m babysitting.”

“Did you say babysitting?” Irritation leaks into her tone.

I ignore Emily and so does Chevy. “Olivia called. Violet and Stone are broke down on Applewood Pass. They have a flat and the spare is busted. I sent out a SOS to the club, but everyone is on that ride with Eli.”

Not everyone. Eli held a few guys back to watch the perimeter of the property. I massage the knots out of the back of my neck. Violet’s dad was a member of this club and he died not too long ago. Violet, Stone and their mother are our responsibility now.

“I have my own problems,” I mutter.

Chevy glances over at Emily. She immediately looks away. “I see that, but I need the truck and I can’t be alone with Violet. I’ll be damned if we fail her on this and she has one more excuse to bitch about the club.”

Technically, Applewood Pass is on Cyrus’s property and Emily and I do need a chaperon and a distraction. I dig the keys Eli gave me last night out of my pocket. “Let’s go fix some tires.”

Emily

STOP ME IF you’ve heard it before: one girl and two bikers ride together in the cab of a truck... Yeah, I know. I haven’t heard the joke myself, but I sure feel like the punch line.

Oz opens the passenger-side door and does a sweeping motion indicating for me to enter. The guy who just showed hops into the passenger side and flings the door shut. The truck is old...like God created it on the eighth day then decided he made a mistake and went with us using horses for a few thousand years.

Rust lines the bottom edge of the frame. The pleather material of the bench seat is ripped and wires hang out in various spots in the dashboard. The scent of stale cigarettes drifts out of the interior. It’s what I rode in the other day with Eli, but without him this has a more foreboding atmosphere.

I climb in and the guy near the passenger door rolls down the window. The second I’m across the seat, Oz is in and I attempt to make myself smaller. It’s nearly impossible when I’m squished between two huge guys. Oz starts the truck and heads down the road.

“Hey,” says the overly huge, brown-haired biker Ken doll. “I’m Chevy.”

“Nice to meet you.” Not really. “I’m Emily.”