She stares at me like I just asked her to solve an advanced calculus problem, and I lift the visor up on my helmet to repeat my question. “You okay?”
She shakes her head and digs her teeth into the meat of her full, red-painted lips. But just as she opens her mouth to respond, a man in a well-fitted suit comes bursting out of the entrance doors, yelling, “Daisy!”
The beautiful but possibly insane woman shuts her eyes on a heavy sigh, and by the sag in her shoulders and frown on her lips, I have a feeling she’s the Daisy he’s calling for.
“Daisy! Honey! Wait up!”
“Fuck,” she mutters, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Crazy Daisy wants nothing to do with this guy.
Maybe he’s the reason for her abrupt departure and reckless sprint out of the casino?
This guy could be her boyfriend. Fiancé. Husband. I don’t fucking know what. But whoever he is, she wants distance. That much is apparent.
And even though I’m supposed to meet my brothers at one of the Wynn’s bars in about ten minutes, the urge to help her is too strong to ignore.
It’s a rare thing for a guy like me, to be honest. I don’t meddle in other people’s shit, but the panicked look on her face makes me want to give her the escape she needs.
But before I know it, before I can even offer the help, she takes it for herself.
One leg over the seat of my bike and her arms around my waist, she leans into my back harshly and declares her intentions without pause. “I need a ride.”
Daisy
I wait there, shaking and quivering as I cling to this stranger’s back like an uninvited monkey. He seems paused in time, a boot to the ground to hold the bike steady, and his stormy blue eyes fixate on me over his shoulder.
Gah. I need this more than I need the air in my lungs, and the thought that he might deny me makes a knife cut at the sensitive lining of my stomach. Frankly, I need a lot more than a ride to fix this monumental fuckup, but I can’t think in sweeping measures of time—I can only consider right now, this moment, and how glorious the feel of a cool wind blowing on my flushed face will feel. In fact, I’m truly surprised at how much I like the idea of hopping on the back of a complete stranger’s bike altogether.
“Please,” I say then, the shake in my voice apparent to even my own ears.
I can only see his intense—and eerily familiar—blue eyes through the flipped-up dark screen of his black helmet, but the combination of those mesmerizing eyes and his visibly fit body that’s currently clad in dark jeans, black boots, and a James-Dean-Rebel-Without-a-Cause-style black leather jacket, he’s…pretty damn enticing. If all the women in the world combined their fantasies of the quintessential bad boy to experience hot and wild fun with, this guy would be the poster child.
“Daisy, what are you doing? Come back inside!” I glance over my shoulder to see Duncan standing at the entrance doors of the Wynn, and a sigh escapes my throat.
I have nothing against Duncan Jones, but also, I don’t want anything to do with him. Especially right now. I have no actual concrete reason for this internal response, but it’s undeniable. He’s the very last person I want to deal with.
I look back toward Mystery Guy, and he slides his helmet off his head, and I don’t miss the stark reality that the rest of his face is the same caliber as his eyes. Strong jaw, sexy, full lips, this guy could actually have given James Dean a run for his money back in the day. And when you add in the perfectly messy dark hair that sits on top of his head, it’s almost too much to comprehend.
Goodness, where did he come from? A fucking fantasy?
And then it hits me. He’s the guy. The silent, mysterious man who commanded his drunken, five-hundred-dollar-chip-bestowing companions without even a word.
“I know you,” I announce. “Your friends chatted me up this afternoon at my slot machine. One even gave me a five-hundred-dollar chip.”
“My brothers, actually,” he corrects.
His brothers? No wonder all four of them were insanely attractive. Only strong genetics could make something like that happen.
“Put this on.” He turns his body enough to hand me his helmet, and then he kicks his heel down to throw the motorcycle into gear. “And hold on tight,” he adds quietly, and I don’t hesitate to obey, sliding the helmet over my head and wrapping my arms around his firm waist once again. The material of his black leather jacket is rough against my forearms, but for some reason, I don’t hate the sensation.
Just as the engine revs, I look toward the entrance again and spot Duncan standing there with wide, shocked eyes. And before he can even open his mouth to say something, Mystery Guy releases the brake, cranks the throttle, and we’re off on a slight jolt.