Anne Marsh - Ruled

I treat myself to a second glance at his leathers, the faded T-shirt that hugs a muscled chest and the boots. God. The boots. You know how some boots are made for dancing? These boots are made for pain, for kicking ass and for getting a point across one steel-toed tip at a time. And just in case there’s any question at all about where this man falls on the naughty or nice side of things, he rocks a leather vest with a club patch on it. Whatever Rocker’s done this time, he’s in deep. Pulling him out is going to be a bitch.

Ergo, despite my pressing need to get him away from Perfectly Princess Parties’s current place of business, I stall. Big-time. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Rev. You tell him Rev is looking for him.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth hangs open for a minute, because Rev looks amused. What kind of a name is that?

Since that’s not the kind of thing you ask a man, I go for the obvious. “Why?”

“Club business,” he says tightly.

In other words? Penis business. Also known as none of my business. I love my brother, but he has his head up his ass about things like sticking on the right side of the law and boy things versus girl things. When I try to duck under Rev’s arm, the man moves effortlessly with me. Shit. Pretty soon, we’ll start attracting attention.

“If I let him know you’re looking, you’ll leave?” Giving Rocker a heads-up that trouble is knocking on his door seems like my best two-for-one solution at the moment, so when Rev nods, I fish inside the bodice of my dress. I also do my best to ignore the slow grin spreading across Rev’s face as I retrieve my phone from its hiding place. What is it about men and boobs? He doesn’t back off and give me any space either, which makes dialing awkward.

“What’s up?” Miracle of miracles, Rocker actually answers his phone on the second ring.

“I have a friend of yours here who wants your number,” I say carefully. Pretty sure this is the trouble he mentioned back at the lake.

“Sure.” There’s enough background noise for me to be almost certain Rocker’s parked at a bar somewhere.

“He says his name is Rev.”

As my brother silently digests that revelation, Rev moves closer still and traces a finger over my ear. He smells good, although I wish I didn’t have a secret thing for leather and man. Plus, he has no business touching me. I shake my head as if he’s some kind of annoying gnat, but he just drops his fingers to my jaw and then plays with my hair as if I’m his own personal toy. Big fingers carefully untangle a snarl and smooth the strands down. I slap at his fingers with my free hand and he grins.

Rocker promptly proves that his brotherly radar still works fine. “He right there?”

“Couldn’t get much closer,” I tell him.

“Rev’s not a nice guy,” he says slowly. “And I don’t want him around you.”

News flash—I’ve already determined the not nice part for myself. In fact, it’s probably twelve inches long and located directly behind the zipper of his jeans. I look him up and down, or as much as I can since the man still has me pinned up against the RV. Somehow, I can’t work up any indignation. Later, I’ll regret letting him walk all over me in public view, but right now I’m enjoying the feel of his big, muscled body touching mine. It’s been way too long since I had someone just hold me.

I focus on breathing in, hold for a count of three, and then out, because maybe then I won’t say something I shouldn’t. “Good to know, but I think he still wants to talk to you.”

“He absolutely does, princess.” Rev plucks the phone out of my hand. While I’m trying to figure out how I feel about that, he and Rocker go back and forth on a possible get together. Rev doesn’t stop staring at me, either, one hand braced by my face and the other wrapped around my phone. The man’s a talented multitasker, because his fingers keep grazing my cheek, sending little skitters down my spine.

Why am I standing here letting him take charge? Because you like it, my bad voice whispers (or shrieks gleefully in my head). Damn. It. I reach for his wrist as he signs off the call. I still can’t tell if he and Rocker are friends, if Rocker owes him money (which would be a bad idea), or if there’s something else entirely between them (which would be even worse). But there’s something. There’s definitely something.

“Return my phone.”

His face doesn’t reveal a flicker of emotion. Bet he could make a killing playing poker on the Strip. “This isn’t a democracy. You got a pen hiding in that dress, sunshine?”

His gaze flicks over me. Maybe he’s looking for said pen—or maybe he just likes looking...at me. Shit. The hard-eyed steely-stare thing he’s got going on is not supposed to be a turn-on. My inner bad girl, however, won’t be shut down without a fight. She thinks we should jump him. Right here on the sunburned, stabby lawn works for that hussy. I opt for going on the defensive.

“Don’t call me sunshine.”

He shrugs. “You’re the one in the big yellow dress.”

“Occupational hazard.” I yank a business card out of my cleavage and slap it in his empty palm. The move may not be the classiest, but the look on his face is worth it. Naturally, birthday parties for the two-to five-year-old crowd are not his territory. He’s undoubtedly more into murder and mayhem.

“You want a princess to grace your next party? I make it happen. Forty dresses that drip sparkles, fairy wings, tiaras and enough faux glass slippers to shoe an entire beauty pageant—we’ll have a real good time. I promise.”

He makes a rough sound. Can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or if I’ve actually managed to shock the big, bad biker. “Since when do princesses have wings?”

Clearly, he has limited knowledge of five-year-old girls.

“All the best princesses can fly,” I inform him. Unlike him, I have extensive knowledge of five-year-old girls, and their preference for fairy princesses have been made abundantly clear to me. Ergo, I’ve responded to my market demands (and hey, I like wings and sparkles, too).

This time, he definitely snorts. “Why don’t you fly your ass on inside that RV and grab a pen?”

I don’t have to think about that “request” too hard. The man needs to work on his manners.

I don’t budge. “Rocker’s not your number-one fan.”

He grunts and returns his gaze to my phone. “He wants you safe. You should listen to him.”

“You should know something about me,” I tell him.

“What’s that, Evie?”

“I’m not big on orders.”

He actually winks at me. “Bet you’d feel differently in bed.”

I really shouldn’t hit him, not when there’s a birthday party happening in the backyard behind us, but the urge is almost overwhelming. This man has no filter. “Do you have any idea how insulting you are?”

He shrugs and texts something from my phone, before looking me in the eye. God, the man might be filterless, but he does have gorgeous eyes. “Put my number in your contacts.”

Um. Okay. And perhaps hell will freeze over despite the record hundred-and-something-degrees Vegas weather. I reach for my phone, but he holds it just out of reach. “If I change my position on order-taking, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

“Thought maybe we could get together sometime,” he says.

Didn’t see that one coming.

“You want to go out on a date with me?”

“It’s a free country—you don’t have to say yes. Thought you might like a ride on my bike or a drink.”

He wants to give. Me. A ride. My brain stutters. The bike parked by the curb is a big, death-defying, powerful menace. Black leather saddlebags hang off the side that I’d bet my sheet cake he doesn’t use to transport groceries or crap from a Target run. Riding anywhere with a strange man would be crazy.