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Sugar (The Henchmen MC #12)
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Sugar had known a lot of women in his life. But he’d never met anyone quite like this mermaid-haired, tattooed, pierced, smartass woman named Peyton who made it clear she didn’t want anything from him except as many orgasms as he could give her.
So what was he supposed to do when he realized he did want more? How was he supposed to get this woman who was so committed to non-commitment to take a chance on him? Or convince the loansharks and ex-armed robbers that loved her that he was worthy? All the while trying to figure out how a dead man from his past had somehow come back to life… and why he was coming for him…
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In hindsight, agreeing to go to a gay rave in the woods on the back twenty of a cattle farm without permission from the very homophobic farm owner was, perhaps, not the wisest thing I had ever done.
But, well, I was never really known for being the most sane, rational person.
Besides, the stupidest of stunts always made the best of stories. Which I planned to tell my girls as soon as I found my way out of Bumfuck Nowhere. Preferably over a greasy pizza and far too many drinks seeing as I had, stupidly, agreed to be the designated driver since Ronny was fresh off a breakup and needed the booze.
He had been solidly stuck in the wounded stage for about six weeks, and after listening to him cry for the third time in as many days, I had had about enough. It was time to drag him out amongst a group of body-glitter-covered, ecstasy-fueled, fist-pumping, tight-tank-top-wearing dudes.
And get him fucked.
Plain and simple.
That was the goal for the night.
Which I accomplished.
And I was sending a prayer up to God, Allah, the fucking Triple Goddess… anyone who would listen, that this dude fucked the sadness right out of him.
Anyone who had ever met me would likely tell you that I was not the girl for touchy-feely. You wanted to go out and moon overnight truckers off the top of the bridge? I was your girl. You needed someone to be your accomplice while you shrink-wrapped your ex’s car? I was loading up my shopping cart with Saran Wrap. You needed someone to sing absolutely schnockered angry chick music with at karaoke? I am all in.
But I was not the girl to hand you tissues and rub your back while you cried on my shoulder.
I was not the kind of girl who did the feelings thing.
Emotionally inarticulate, that was me.
Besides, I was a firm believer in the idea that a good, solid fucking could fix all kinds of ails.
But I had sweaty body glitter sliding down my chest and onto my tits under an enormously uncomfortable gold sequin dress. My mascara was giving me the dreaded raccoon eyes. And my shoes felt as though they were likely full of blood at the moment.
I just wanted to get home, change, have pizza and too much to drink, witness a good kill, then get to sleep. Preferably before sunrise. Though, well, that was likely a pipe dream.
But this never-ending back country road was killing my eyes. I had left the party an hour and six minutes ago. My GPS said I should be home in another twenty.
You know, if a deer didn’t decide to commit suicide out here in the sticks. And take me down with him.
My hand went to the dash, cranking up the music, trying to fend off the road-weariness in a way that the energy drink in the cupholder was not managing.
There was nothing like some good death metal to wake up the braincells.
I had only been half-paying attention to the road that had been completely empty except for me for the past twelve miles.
If I didn’t think my headlights were shining off a set of glowing eyes, I would have missed it.
I would have missed him.
What my headlights caught wasn’t a set of eyes ready to jump out, make me over-correct, and smash into one of these gloriously creepy trees lining the road, ending my life before Die Muthafucker 2 came out. I’d heard rumors about a sequel. Even though the author had been MIA for years. And I had to be alive for that, damnit.
But oh no.
It wasn’t a deer. Or opossum. Or raccoon.
It was the chrome of a motorcycle.
On the side of a backwoods country road.
I slowed, but didn’t stop as I got closer, seeing that it was just sitting there all pretty and – what was the term – hog-like. But it wasn’t alone.
There was a man with his ass half-propped on the seat, but standing, head ducked, the darkness making it impossible to tell if he was of the hot-young-guy-who-watched-Sons of Anarchy-and-got-ideas sort or the old school greasy, leather-clad, and stringy-haired sort.
I knew, logically, that I was supposed to keep going.
I was supposed to be the smart girl who didn’t try to be a Good Samaritan and ended up raped and killed by the side of a street, not to be found until late the next morning with vultures pecking out my eyes.
But I was never really known for making the most prudent decisions.
This was evidenced by how I pulled my car up a few feet, parked, but left the engine running as I threw open my door, and climbed out, all the while cursing my blood-filled heels as they bit into my feet all the more.
The man’s head popped up, either because I stopped or – more likely – because my music was still blasting.