Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Melody, a sweet name for a sweet woman. Rolls off the tongue.” The way Mad Dog flicks his tongue after saying it makes me suspect he thinks I’d roll pretty sweetly off his tongue, too.
“So now that we’re not strangers, how about we help you get a better view?” Rebel asks. “Our friend Riptide’s up soon.”
I give him a skeptical look. “View from where?”
He pats his shoulders. “You’ll have the best fucking seat in the house.”
I glance toward the track, where someone is announcing names. Being able to read the back of all the jackets is a great way to learn the names of motorcycle clubs, less interesting if I want to see what’s actually going on.
“You’re kidding, right?”
His laugh is deep and infectious. “Would I joke about getting my head between your thighs? Come on.”
Nervous butterfly wings flutter in my chest, and I feel my cheeks flush, but I find myself nodding anyway. I wanted to experience this thing for real, right?
“Okay.”
2
MELODY
Rebel’s strong hands go around my waist. “On the count of three. One, two…”
I squeal in surprise as he lifts me before even saying three. “Hey!”
One moment I’m on the ground, the next I’m straddling the back of his head. Mad Dog laughs, ready to catch me as I struggle to get my balance and nearly take us both down. Rebel’s hands are steady on my thighs, though, and his shoulders are broad enough to make it easy to stay put once I recover.
“You okay up there?” Mad Dog asks, still chuckling.
“Yeah.” I nod, feeling a little silly but loving it at the same time.
What am I supposed to do with my hands? Carefully at first, I rest one hand on my leg, but then I give in to temptation and put the other on Rebel’s head. The shaved part of his scalp is warm and fuzzy, begging me to rub my palm over it and feel the tickle of the tiny hairs. The rest of his hair is thick and dark, much softer than I expected.
Someone blows a high-pitched whistle. I look over the top of the crowd. The old runway has been cordoned off, and two motorcycles are revving as they prepare to race down the cracked asphalt. A girl in tiny denim shorts saunters out between the two racers. She swings her arms up, holding two flags so high that her bright pink bra is showing under her crop top. At two sharp blows of the whistle, she brings the flags down in a sudden motion, and the bikes jump forward, shooting down toward the finish at the other end, so far away I have to squint to see.
“I’m surprised they didn’t fire a gun or something,” I say with a laugh. It seems like the sort of thing that would fit right in.
Mad Dog snorts. “Too likely to cause a riot.”
“Really?”
“Unfortunately,” Rebel agrees. “Not everyone here is on the best of terms. Most of us are used to neutralizing a threat first and figuring out what happened later.”
I shiver at the reminder that this isn’t just a bike themed festival, but it’s hard to be scared when the crowd cheers as the bikes race down the tarmac. I hold my breath as they get close to the end. Is there enough room to slow down? They have to know what they’re doing, right?
Rebel pats my thigh. “If I’m gonna have your legs that tight around my neck, at least face the other way.”
“Sorry!” I try to relax, my face flushing with embarrassment.
The bikes reach the end in an impressive spray of dust as they shoot straight off the runway and onto the hard-packed dirt beyond. I can’t tell from here who won, but a checkered flag goes up on the right side, and a chorus of cheers and boos follows. Money changes hands. Two more bikers roll up to the start.
“That’s our boy,” Mad Dog says, pointing at the closer of the two riders. “Riptide.”
Deep golden hair hangs down to his shoulders, and a short beard frames his strong jaw. Straddling the bike, he pulls his hair back, showing off muscular arms. His face is a mask of concentration as he stares down the course to the finish line. A single whistle blows, and the flag girl runs a hand over his arm as she takes her position.
I feel a stab of possessive jealousy that I have no right to, considering I haven’t even met him. Riptide leans down, hands on the handlebars. He revs his bike as the girl cocks a hip to the side and raises her arms with dramatic flair. On the signal, the flags come down. Both bikes launch like missiles, leaving burnt rubber and a dust cloud in their wake.
Rebel’s fingers are tight on my thighs, but I’m too invested to mind. The three of us watch the two bikes as they race into the distance. I squint, trying to make out every detail. When they power over the finish line, I’m pretty sure Riptide is in the lead, but it’s hard to tell over the shower of dirt and grit that rains down in an arc as they spin to a halt.