Page 22 of Savage Daddies
If it wasn’t for the hurricane that spun to our side of the desert and wiped out everything, I’d still be there. Life would still consist of rooster alarm clocks and family dinners, carefree days riding through the desert, and iced lemon tea to finish off the day. Instead, guilt laces my days. If the hurricane hadn’t happened, I would never have had to see Sheila die right in front of my eyes.
I can still see the blood oozing out of her temple, spilling onto the sand. The grains curdled into balls, and they remained there for a few days until rainfall washed it all away. She lies under the sand now, three miles north of here, and she was my only chance at love.
Sometimes, I wonder why I’m still riding for Venom Vultures. I was scouted, and apparently that’s very rare. To escape the devastating aftermath that no rain seemed to wash away post hurricane, I vacationed in Vegas for a few days to distract my mind from the fact that the wind had toppled my horse’s shelter and subsequently killed my girlfriend.
My family had fallen into a depression, so to make myself feel better, I lined up to enter some gentlemen’s club on the strip that apparently had the, “best women with the best tits.” Decent girls were the only things, pre hurricane, that we had been short of on the ranch, so my eyes craved something sweet. It was the place where I had first met Sheila, where I immediately knew I had to do everything in my power to get her out of the club and into my arms.
Anyway, I was about to enter the club when a hand palms my chest. “Sorry. No boots.”
They were fucking expensive boots too. Lucchese, one-hundred-percent leather.
I question the man, and he repeats himself.
That’s when I decide to floor him.
I had so much built-up anger. My home had just been destroyed and I had no fucking clue what my future held, but taking out a good-for-nothing security guard who weighed twice as much as me felt good.
That’s when Grizzly approached me and said I’d be a good fit for his club.
Expensive bikes had never been my thing, but hearing the wind whistle through my ears early in the morning wassomething, even if the ride revved instead of neighed.
Paychecks were handsome too, and I sent big wads of it back home to my family who started to use the money to rebuild.
A house is all they own now, not a ranch, and my parents have retired in it together on the same stretch of land that used to be home to all the cattle that either lost their lives or ran away post hurricane.
To be honest, the only reason I ride for Venom Vultures is to send my parents money, and to ensure they have comfortable living. It’s the least I can do for what they gave me—the best childhood a man could’ve asked for.
Riding for the club has been OK.
Until now.
Until Miss Princess Diana herself made a dramatic entrance into our lives.
Her eyes close softly, dark lashes fluttering gently in sleep. Her chest rises and falls, and red hair splays around her shoulders like lava. This woman has what all the club whores lack—fire in her heart.
And it’s gonna make everything go up in flames.
5
ZOE
Darkness fillsmy eyes when I open them.
Shit.
I bolt upright and examine my surroundings. Moonlight penetrates weakly through the window behind me, outlining a lamp on the nightstand that I switch on.
I wince. Give my eyes a minute to adjust. A four-post bed comes into view, ruby-red bedsheets too. The red-and-black floral wallpaper decorating all four walls tells me exactly where I am.
And it’s the one place I hopednotto have fallen asleep in.
A motorcyclist clubhouse.
Fucking dicks should’ve woken me up.
Throwing the comforter away, I roll out of bed, buff my hair and fasten my heels. They clack against the wooden planks as I march out to give the men a piece of my mind. Except…they’re nowhere to be found. I turn a corner which opens out into another corridor. One of the whores strides toward me in heels even higher than mine, huge, naked breasts knocking together. She greets me with a smile.
One I don’t have time to return.
