It wasn’t like he could come racing after this stranger to defend us all the way from Hell’s Kitchen.

What the hell had I been thinking by walking toward the unfamiliar, scary biker and not running far, far away? That cooled my budding arousal instantly. His rage simmered along the airwaves, a visceral force that replaced my curiosity with fear. Interest averted now that he saw I was jailbait, the stranger returned his focus to his cell phone, and as he did, as he thoroughly dismissed me, the front door burst open.Īnother biker, this one with a buzz cut, stormed out of the house, slamming the door closed behind him with such force that I thought the front windows shuddered in response to his wrath. I felt it as if he really were Charlie Hunnam and I was just some stupid bitch screaming in the stands as he trod down a red carpet toward another film premiere. Then his glance dropped, drifting over my prep school uniform, and I felt his dismissal to my bones. That made something burn to life in my belly. What was the point in getting hot over someone you couldn’t have?įor a second, the link between us burned brightly, a solid connection that settled inside me. The nearest it had gotten was Charlie Hunnam. Not like my friends who drooled over Jensen, the star QB, or Harry Styles. The tapping of my heels against the sidewalk finally drew his attention, and when our eyes clashed and held, I was sure I felt that connection in my soul. Enough that my curiosity at the reason behind the bikers’ presence in my driveway was minimal, seeing as I was more focused on trying to catch as many glimpses of the stranger’s face as possible rather than thinking about things like security or my mother’s safety. That mop on his head, which definitely should have been a deterrent, made him even more appealing, however.

With every step I took, the more I could see of him, and beneath all the hair, he reminded me of a brunet Chad Michael Murray. Perhaps that was why he caught my eye, though, and why I couldn’t stop staring as I walked down the street to my house. Oh, his hair was definitely tangled and in need of a brush, and combined with the bushy beard, he certainly wasn’t as elegantly attired as I was used to guys looking. He should’ve looked dirty, but he didn’t. One free from a rider, the other housing a biker with a mop of hair on his head that was tilted down as he stared at his cell phone. Two bikes outside our house in Westchester, where Daddy never stayed anymore and where Mom and I holed up most of the time until we were hauled into the city for our ‘family duties.’Īmid the pristine prettiness of suburbia were two bikes.

Filthy Lies by Serena Akeroyd