Lonely Rider - The Box Set: A Motorcycle Club Romance - The Complete Series Read online

  It was the kind of place where people could sit and drink and just forget about the past. The kind of place where the large windows overlooking the ocean and the salty air that drifted inside through the open windows could wash every single care and worry away. Or drown it out. In copious amounts of tequila or Mexican beer.

  It was late. After an enjoyable chat with Mrs. Lewis and a much needed nap, Shanna woke with energy to spare. She was restless so she took a walk and that led her to the touristy area, down the street past shops and a few houses, and eventually to the bar. She decided to go in and even though she’d wanted just one drink, she found herself on her third margarita. They were deceptively potent, the taste of the tequila masked well, and she found herself thinking less and less of Bill and more about how the bar was becoming blurry and starting to spin.

  She’d never been the kind of person who would just go out on her own. She always had friends or at the very least, acquaintances to tag along with.

  At thirty, freshly single, her engagement broken, forced to start over, her shit piled up in a storage unit back in Cincinnati, her suitcase in her mother’s spare bedroom, she figured it was time she actually started living. If that included having a few too many drinks and staring out the window aimlessly, enjoying the sight of the water, then so be it.

  What was remaining of the daylight quickly faded. Two more margaritas later, Shanna almost didn’t notice that it was raining. No, pouring. The kind of tropical rain storm that really let loose.

  The door jingled and the wind and rain blew in with the bar’s newest inhabitant.

  Shanna leaned forward on the bar stool at the window. She was drunk enough that her inhibitions about staring at a stranger weren’t what they used to be. Before she would have looked away, looked anywhere else, pretended to be studying her hands, glanced out the window. It was funny, how tequila worked.

  Or maybe it was one of those guys that immediately drew attention wherever he went.

  He wasn’t thick and blocky like guys who went to the gym, but he was powerful and distinctly masculine, built like one of those steel cables. Wiry. Resistant. The kind that could hold up a few thousand pounds effortlessly.

  Shanna spent most of her life with an undying fascination for men that were shaped like a football quarterback. She liked the classic triangle shape, big broad shoulders, barrel chests, tight waists, massive leg muscles. She liked tall guys, guys that could pick her up with a single arm and heave her over their shoulder. Guys that could dominate, could lay her out flat and cover her up with their massive being. Guys that were all hard planes and jutting angles and rigid muscle. That was normally her flavor.

  So maybe it made sense that for some reason, her eyes were glued to the new guy. He wasn’t any of those things. His short black hair was plastered to his scalp. The jet black appearance of it was striking, but only because it was followed up by jet black brows, a shadowed forehead, sharp cheekbones and a sharp jawline. His mouth was thin, like his lips had never been used for a smile before. His skin was bronzed from the sun, but it did little to detract from the two lines etched deeply into his brow.

  He was the kind of guy who had a sullen, brooding, sexy kind of look even if he wasn’t dressed all in black, which he was. Rain water sluiced off his black leather jacket. He had on a pair of worn out black jeans, the kind guys wore back in the nineties. Maybe she only thought of that because the wallet chain hanging out of the back pocket reminded her of junior high. His black boots, covered in mud and water, left tracks across the tile floor.

  He didn’t look around, just headed straight to the bar. Shanna watched him. No, she stared at him. Where the hell are my manners? She must have left them behind in Cincinnati along with all the fucks she’d given about her damn relationship.

  She found herself wondering what color his eyes were. So deep brown they were almost black? No, that’s not right. They’re probably blue. That deep blue that looks nothing like frozen ice, but all those romance novels call it that.

  The bartender, a young man who spoke very good English, though it was heavily accented, pulled down a glass. “What are you having today, Percy?”

  Percy? Jesus, that’s a terrible name.

  “Same. Thanks, Mateo.”

  The fact that he said thanks and actually meant it, a guy who looked like he’d prefer to bash heads in than use manners, sent a shiver racing up Shanna’s spine. A guy like that, tough looking, like he’d lived most of his years on the street, like he drove a damn bike… he was perfect. Perfect for regrets. Perfect for the kind of fuck that is quick and dirty, up against some alley wall in the dark.

  Don’t. Don’t even think about that. Shanna warned herself, but her inebriated brain wasn’t listening. It had been a long time. A really long time. A real fucking long time, since she’d come. She should have seen all the signs. She just thought it was because she and Bill never really had that sparking chemistry to begin with. He wasn’t a very good lover, but again, according to her mother who was an expert on marriage apparently, marriage wasn’t about the sex. Apparently it wasn’t about the orgasms either. At least her mom and Bill were on the same page about that. Maybe he’d been too busy giving them to his mistress to worry about his fiancé.

  Thinking about Bill and his dick made her think about where he’d been sticking it, which made her think about the fact that he’d been sticking it in her and that other woman at the same time. Not at the same exact time, but how many times had he done that and not even washed after? Fuck. Bile rose into the back of her throat and she had to swallow hard to push it back.

  More tequila. That’s what she needed. If she was still thinking about Bill, she needed more tequila. Shanna slid off her chair. She had to reach out and steady herself and almost giggled as she nearly fell over. She tried her best to remain nonchalant and act like she wasn’t already a little more than half cut, as she made her way up to the bar.

  She set her arms on the counter and leaned into it, more so to keep herself upright. What was the bartender’s name again? He saved her by turning his attention her way.

  “Another margarita for you, miss?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Shanna made a snap decision. She pulled out the bar stool and managed to get on top of it instead of returning back to her table. She didn’t even lie to herself about why she’d done it. Her eyes tracked to the guy right beside her. He kept his gaze turned down to the amber liquid in his glass. His shoulders were hunched up, like he was trying to ward off some kind of non-existent chill. He didn’t look at her, but she was sure he wouldn’t hold out for long.

  After thinking about Bill and his pathetic, gross, cheating dick, the hot and dirty fuck up against some alley wall was pretty damn attractive.

  Chapter 3

  PERCY

  It seemed that another tourist found herself in a Mexican bar, drowning down her woes in syrupy form. Percy Johnston was willing to bet that more than a few of them wake up with a killer hangover after downing those margaritas. Too much sugar. It disguised the taste of just how much tequila was poured into them.

  No, when he ruined his liver, he preferred to do it straight up. No sugar. No disguises. Just the burn of the tequila sliding down his throat, warming his empty stomach, washing away all that shit that never quite left him alone.

  The only time he could forget was when he was on his bike. Riding, riding free, the wind rushing around him, the countryside flashing by, the endless sun above or the cloak of darkness. He’d ride for days, if he could. Sleep on the hard ground. No tent, no pillow. Nothing. Just him and the stars. He always slept best when he was uncomfortable. When he was back at home, the walls and the roof were suffocating. He’d dream, then. And he hated fucking dreaming.

  The woman beside him turned. He felt her eyes burning into him before he even shifted and stared at her sidelong. She couldn’t tell he was looking, but he could see her burning stare.

  She was pretty. Hell, she was more than pretty. She was g
orgeous. Tall, slim, curvy in all the right spots. Nice breasts. Probably a nice ass too. Long legs, short black dress. She had that pale skin of someone who just arrived. He was willing to bet it was her first night in Mexico. She was clearly drowning something out. Some set of problems. It was his guess she’d come down there as a refuge, to escape or rebuild or regroup or whatever people who talked about feelings actually called it. She was probably staying somewhere nice, a five star resort. Likely had a massage booked for the next afternoon. Would probably blow it off since she was so hungover.

  Finally Percy turned and got a full on look at the woman’s face. She was blonde and those honey locks spilled well over her shoulders and trailed down her back. She had perfect blue eyes, light blue, almost gray. Her features were flawless. Model like. Far too beautiful for the likes of him.

  Yet she was staring at him like she wanted something. Because she does. He’d seen women look at him that way before. For them, he represented something dark and illicit, something dangerous and sexual. An escape from ordinary life.

  Maybe it was his look. After getting out of the gang, he’d worked for years to make himself healthy. He generally tried to eat well and he worked out. He could run for miles and miles or swim endlessly. It was always a good distraction. Maybe it was his attitude. He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was because the women he fucked always sensed he was, at heart, decent. That something deep inside of him was wounded and broken and they wanted to heal it and make him whole.

  It was never going to happen.

  He liked fucking as much as the next person, so he gave them what they wanted. Fucked them hard and fast, brought them to screaming climaxes, gave them multiple orgasms, let them live out their fantasies for a brief span. If he was the one doing the fucking, as long as it was mind blowing for them and occasionally satisfactory for himself, he didn’t have to worry about the one being fucked. He was okay with giving pleasure. He was okay with scratching an itch, if that disgusting cliché could be used. He wasn’t okay being on the receiving end. Blow jobs, being touched, caressed, kissed... god, it wasn’t for him.

  He caught the blonde’s eye and the fact that she blushed deeper, above the flush that was already there from the copious amount of alcohol she’d consumed, told him that she was used to having manners. She was probably shy. Quiet. Reserved in her life back home. She was probably a good girl, the kind who went to college and got a good job, who stayed in a long term relationship, who had the nice house, the two-car garage, a cat and a dog and later a couple kids.

  She smiled at him and his cock stiffened. Which was pretty much a fucking first for him. It usually took a hell of a lot more than a smile. Usually he had to get himself pretty worked up first. Touch himself a little maybe.

  “Hey,” she said softly. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t mean to stare at you.” Her words weren’t exactly slurred, just slow and intentionally flirty. She blinked hard and fluttered her ridiculously long eyelashes. They weren’t goopy with mascara. She hardly had any makeup on at all. She didn’t need it. Hers was the kind of beauty that was rare and flawless without any artificial enhancement.

  “Yes, you did.” His voice was deep and that took people by surprise.

  “Sorry?” She blinked hard again, like she was used to her eyelashes fighting her battles.

  “You did mean to stare at me.”

  “I…”

  “It’s fine. Stare if you want.” He picked up his glass and downed the rest of the tequila. What do you know, Mateo was right there to give him a refill. He nodded his thanks and sipped the drink, slowing down the pace. He was chilled from the rain, but the alcohol was spreading through his veins, warming him.

  “I… I’m sorry. Really. I’m quite drunk. I think.”

  Fuck sipping it. Percy swallowed back the rest of his tequila. He could see it in her eyes, the new mystery woman, his drunk admirer. She, like all the rest, immediately saw the depths of his unguarded soul, to the pain festering there. She, like every other, thought she could, for a time, make him well. Fuck that. Mateo filled up his glass once more. That pain is mine. I fucking earned it. There was a hell of a lot he hadn’t earned as well, but he didn’t think about that. He might dream it, but he didn’t think it.

  The blonde’s eyes traveled to his glass then up to his mouth. They rested there, a second too long. Her gray irises darkened. He’d bet his life she was thinking about kissing him. That would also never happen, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “You just get in?” He thumped down his empty glass and it was magically refilled. He wished he was the kind of person who could get drunk off a couple drinks. He wasn’t. Never had been. Never would be.

  “In here?” Her eyes flew around the bar.

  “No. To Mexico.”

  She smiled slowly, her rose hued lips turning up, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth. Of course they’d be white. And perfect. They matched the rest of her like a good blazer to a fucking pants suit. Real fine analogy. He wasn’t sure how he knew what a damn pants suit was. Or a blazer for that matter. When it came right down to it, he knew a lot of useless shit.

  “Oh. Right. Yeah. Just this afternoon.”

  “And now you’re drunk.” He didn’t smile, but his voice gave that impression.

  “I’ll have you know,” the blonde started, humor flitting over her face. “That I have a perfectly good reason to be drunk.”

  “Let me guess. That nine to five is killing you.”

  “Not exactly. I- I actually am one of those rare people that likes my job.”

  “Which is?”

  “I work in retail.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her brows knitted together in a tight frown. If Percy was the kind who actually smiled, he would have.

  “Nothing. Nothing offensive, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just that you’re well put together. You have a pretty dress.”

  “A pretty dress?” she echoed. Her lips parted. “You don’t sound like the kind of guy who says the word pretty and dress together. Or separate. Ever.”

  “Why not?” He slammed back the rest of his tequila, but waved Mateo away when he went to refill the glass again. He was pleasantly warm and nicely numbed out. He didn’t need to go beyond that.

  “I- well I guess-”

  “Because I look better suited to being in a biker gang than I do talking about women’s fashions?”

  “Maybe,” she admitted wryly.

  “How very apt.” It was funny, only because it used to be true, but she didn’t know that. She’d never know that. Most days he didn’t either. The thing about leaving your past truly behind was that some days it didn’t even feel like it had ever happened.

  “You’re very well spoken.”

  “For someone that looks like they belong in a gang, you mean?”

  “No.” She laughed a little, but it came out as a snort. She slapped a hand over her mouth. “God. I’m drunker than I thought.”

  “That’s alright. Isn’t that what Mexico is for?”

  “So I’ve heard. It was one of the reasons I decided to come here.”

  “Then you got what you came for. Most people spend their entire lives trying to achieve that feat. Congratulations.”

  She stared at him like she was trying to decide if he was mocking her. She must have found his face friendly enough, no traces of intended mockery, because she slowly smiled again. He liked seeing her smile. Way too much. His cock jumped again, shocking the hell out of him. He wasn’t the kind of person who walked around with a hard on or even thought or craved sex until it literally fell into his lap.

  “Thank you. Our friend with the free pouring here, definitely helped.”

  Percy glanced up, searching for Mateo. He wasn’t standing behind the bar by them anymore. The guy was off in the back, likely doing up the dishes, since they were the only clients in the bar at the moment and they’d had enough for the time being. “He is known for some stiff d
rinks. He’s a good bartender. Always remembers everyone’s orders.”

  “That’s nice. He seems very nice.”

  “Aren’t all bartenders? The drunker they get you, the better the tips.”

  “Oh really?”

  “You clearly don’t get out much, do you?”

  She flushed a bright red and glanced away. He didn’t. He stared openly at her. God, he liked what he saw. His dick was now at full mast, hard and aching. What the fucking hell?

  “I had my reasons,” she said quietly. She extended a hand a second later. “I’m-”

  He shook his head. “No. No names. You can be whoever you want to be for tonight. And I can be whatever it is you came looking for.” The blonde’s brows knitted together in confusion. Even the line that appeared on her forehead was beautiful and sensual. Jesus, really, what the fuck?

  “I didn’t- I mean- I came over just to get another drink. I’m a little drunk to- to make it back, but I feel better now.”

  “You could have taken any seat. You were staring at me for a good five minutes before I turned around and let you know that I was aware of it.”

  “Seriously? You knew?”

  “Yes. I knew.”

  “I guess I should apologize.”

  “Why?”

  “For being rude.”

  “Maybe you were just being direct. Maybe I appreciate a hint of honesty here and there. Maybe it’s a little refreshing to just have people say what they want. To just be real for a second.”

  “How- how do you know that I- that I want anything?” She swallowed hard, audibly.

  Percy didn’t blink. His gaze remained on her, unwavering. He could tell he was making her a little uncomfortable by the way her hands clenched in her lap. Good. It’s good to be uncomfortable sometimes. “Don’t you?”