Ride Me Hard: A Biker Romance Serial (The Devil's Host Motorcycle Club Book 1) by Shari Slade Page B
Authors: Shari Slade
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the specials?”
I’ve offered that same greeting to hundreds of customers. Maybe thousands. Why does it sound exactly like eat me when I say it to him?
“That wasn’t so bad, was it? Unfortunately for both of us, this stop is business, not pleasure. Now be a good girl and go tell that tweaker in the kitchen I’m here for Dev’s money.”
Shit. I turn toward the kitchen and barely register the bolt of fire zinging up the back of my heel and into my calf. Before I can take a single step, I hear the unmistakable thunk of the back door slamming shut.
Harry has left the building.
A hand snaps around my wrist, shocking the breath out of me and forcing me to turn around.
“I-I’m sure he’s just taking out the trash. He’ll be right back,” I stammer.
“He better be, for your sake.”
Chapter Two
T he bells on the front door jingle. The big scary biker releases my wrist and slips back into his booth seat. Smooth as silk. Just another customer. Nothing to see here. He nails me to the floor, though, with his eyes and a single whispered word. “Don’t.”
Don’t what? Don’t run? Don’t scream? Don’t…try anything? I’ve seen this movie. I know what happens, especially in these shoes. Me flat on my face in the parking lot, him looming over me. I shiver.
I just need to find a way to give him what he wants and get him the fuck out of here. I can do this. I squeeze my eyes shut and say a silent prayer that whoever just walked in the door isn’t a friend of his. Or a little old lady with a heart condition. Or Harry.
I know for sure it won’t be Harry. Goddamn cowardly idiot.
An oily voice crawls over my skin. “Everything okay in here, Star?”
Fuuuuck. If this situation is a brush fire, that voice and the body it’s attached to are gasoline.
“Good evening, Officer Wade.”
Officer. Officer. Officer. I mentally telegraph that to the biker glowering in the booth beside me.
Don’t.
It echoes in my mind. It echoes in his too, because I watch him slowly curl his fingers around the handle of the steak knife on the table. Is that a threat for me? Or Officer Wade?
Officer Wade helps himself to a slice of pie from the dessert case next to the counter, struts over to his regular booth, and slides into its vinyl embrace. “So formal. I’m not even in uniform.”
“That’s a shame.” And I mean that deeply. If he had his uniform on, he’d have handcuffs and a gun strapped to his belt. He’d have a patrol car out front instead of the little sedan with worn leather seats that smell like french fries. If he had his uniform on, he’d be here in a professional capacity and not trying to get me into the back of his car again for recreational purposes. “We close in ten minutes.”
“I know. I came to give you a ride home.”
The way he says ride makes my stomach twist, and I have to force myself to swallow the no, thank you that’s become automatic.
Shit. I should be relieved, but the last ride home was all unfortunate hands and his unpleasant mouth slimy on my neck.
And I’ve been putting him off for weeks. I try to be nice, but it only makes him more aggressive.
I don’t know what’s worse, the biker clutching a dull knife and vibrating with hostility or the upstanding member of the community who thinks his badge gives him permission to take whatever he wants.
The biker stands, leaving the cutlery on the table, and pulls a worn wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He drops a wrinkled ten and grabs his gear.
My heart drops, and I have my answer. Officer Wade is worse.
“My compliments to the chef.” He hands me the menu. “I can’t wait to try the meatloaf.”
Tomorrow’s special. Message received. He’ll be back.
That’s fine. I don’t work tomorrow anyway.
The door closes behind him, and it’s like all the air rushes back into the dining room. Officer Wade barely seems to register the near miss other than to blink at the exit. He just eats his pie. “You about done
I’ve offered that same greeting to hundreds of customers. Maybe thousands. Why does it sound exactly like eat me when I say it to him?
“That wasn’t so bad, was it? Unfortunately for both of us, this stop is business, not pleasure. Now be a good girl and go tell that tweaker in the kitchen I’m here for Dev’s money.”
Shit. I turn toward the kitchen and barely register the bolt of fire zinging up the back of my heel and into my calf. Before I can take a single step, I hear the unmistakable thunk of the back door slamming shut.
Harry has left the building.
A hand snaps around my wrist, shocking the breath out of me and forcing me to turn around.
“I-I’m sure he’s just taking out the trash. He’ll be right back,” I stammer.
“He better be, for your sake.”
Chapter Two
T he bells on the front door jingle. The big scary biker releases my wrist and slips back into his booth seat. Smooth as silk. Just another customer. Nothing to see here. He nails me to the floor, though, with his eyes and a single whispered word. “Don’t.”
Don’t what? Don’t run? Don’t scream? Don’t…try anything? I’ve seen this movie. I know what happens, especially in these shoes. Me flat on my face in the parking lot, him looming over me. I shiver.
I just need to find a way to give him what he wants and get him the fuck out of here. I can do this. I squeeze my eyes shut and say a silent prayer that whoever just walked in the door isn’t a friend of his. Or a little old lady with a heart condition. Or Harry.
I know for sure it won’t be Harry. Goddamn cowardly idiot.
An oily voice crawls over my skin. “Everything okay in here, Star?”
Fuuuuck. If this situation is a brush fire, that voice and the body it’s attached to are gasoline.
“Good evening, Officer Wade.”
Officer. Officer. Officer. I mentally telegraph that to the biker glowering in the booth beside me.
Don’t.
It echoes in my mind. It echoes in his too, because I watch him slowly curl his fingers around the handle of the steak knife on the table. Is that a threat for me? Or Officer Wade?
Officer Wade helps himself to a slice of pie from the dessert case next to the counter, struts over to his regular booth, and slides into its vinyl embrace. “So formal. I’m not even in uniform.”
“That’s a shame.” And I mean that deeply. If he had his uniform on, he’d have handcuffs and a gun strapped to his belt. He’d have a patrol car out front instead of the little sedan with worn leather seats that smell like french fries. If he had his uniform on, he’d be here in a professional capacity and not trying to get me into the back of his car again for recreational purposes. “We close in ten minutes.”
“I know. I came to give you a ride home.”
The way he says ride makes my stomach twist, and I have to force myself to swallow the no, thank you that’s become automatic.
Shit. I should be relieved, but the last ride home was all unfortunate hands and his unpleasant mouth slimy on my neck.
And I’ve been putting him off for weeks. I try to be nice, but it only makes him more aggressive.
I don’t know what’s worse, the biker clutching a dull knife and vibrating with hostility or the upstanding member of the community who thinks his badge gives him permission to take whatever he wants.
The biker stands, leaving the cutlery on the table, and pulls a worn wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He drops a wrinkled ten and grabs his gear.
My heart drops, and I have my answer. Officer Wade is worse.
“My compliments to the chef.” He hands me the menu. “I can’t wait to try the meatloaf.”
Tomorrow’s special. Message received. He’ll be back.
That’s fine. I don’t work tomorrow anyway.
The door closes behind him, and it’s like all the air rushes back into the dining room. Officer Wade barely seems to register the near miss other than to blink at the exit. He just eats his pie. “You about done
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