Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC #5)(36)

I creaked one eye open, then another. “I was busy,” I moaned, cracking my neck and straightening from my slumped position in the seat. The motion also moved me far away from Lucky’s proximity and his endearing scent, my sleep-addled mind having leaned into it for a split second.

He put his hand to the back on his neck, his face relaxing. “Busy?” he repeated.

I tried to subtly wipe the drool from the side of my face and tame the rat’s nest that was my hair. I had a feeling I looked like a Halloween mask. One I couldn’t take off. “Busy sleeping,” I informed him, yanking my dress into place. His hungry eyes touched my bare legs, sending shivers up my thighs.

“Jesus, Becky. You sleep like the f*cking dead. I was worried I’d have to get some smelling salts or some shit. I even checked your pulse. I can still do CPR, and I think you look like you need it.” His grin came back, but it was crooked at the edges and didn’t reach the sides.

I swatted his body away. “I’ll say no to opening myself up to the plethora of STDs that reside in your saliva.”

He stepped back, grinning easily in that way that didn’t reach his hazel eyes.

I placed my boots on sand, then tasted the salt in the ocean air. We’d been driving the coastal road for a couple hours, so it wasn’t a surprise we were by the beach. I just didn’t expect to be on the beach. The roar of the waves filled my head and I welcomed the noise, drowning out the whispers of the little devil on both of my shoulders. There wasn’t an angel in sight.

Beyond Lucky, who had his arms crossed and was regarding me, was a little bungalow thing. It was nothing fancy, which was good; I didn’t do well with fancy. In fact, I despised fancy. Not that I had much experience with it.

It was small and there was a concrete footpath snaking around the front of the house, leading down to the beach. The house was mostly windows with faded black wood on the outside. A couple of beat-up old sun loungers sat on a small grassy area behind the sand.

I glanced back to Lucky. “Whose place is this?”

“Mine.”

I raised my brows. “Yours?”

He nodded. “You sound surprised.”

I chewed my lip and looked from Lucky to the house. I pointed to him. “Badass biker wearing a cut, covered in tattoos.” I pointed to the house. “Cute beach bungalow that looks like it belongs to a person with dreads and a surfboard. Yeah, I’m surprised.”

Lucky stepped forward, right in my space. The salt air was replaced by his enticing scent, which wasn’t gross despite the fact we’d spent multiple hours in a car.

“I like that,” he murmured. “Surprising you. Showing there’s more to me than what you see. What everyone else sees. ’Cause there is, Becky. A f*ck of a lot more. Just don’t show it to people. But you’re not people. Hope you get that.”

I swallowed, like I was downing a handful of the sand beside my feet.

“I need coffee,” I declared, stepping out of his orbit. I ran a hand through my hair. “And a shower.” And a lobotomy. I glanced at him. “Though, I didn’t have time to pack for this kidnapping, so I’m afraid my outfit choices consist of a bridesmaid’s dress. That is not okay with me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a dress kind of girl.”

Lucky quirked a brow. “Oh, I’ve noticed,” he drawled. All residual intensity from his previous statement drained away.

I scowled at him and inwardly at myself for responding to the sex dripping in his tone. “Can you ever just speak normally?” I snapped. “Not like a f*cking male phone sex operator or a caveman? There’s an in-between, you know. It’s called English.”

Lucky’s gaze darkened. “You think I sound like a phone sex operator?” he asked, his eyes dancing. “Does that mean I turn you on?”

I threw up my hands. “You’re impossible!” I stomped around him and to the door.

“Becky, think quick.”

I whirled just in time to catch the keys he’d launched at me.

“Good reflexes.” He sounded impressed.

I ignored that and continued my stomp to the door. I had a feeling I’d have to ignore a lot for the two days I’d already begun to regret agreeing to. I’d have to ignore it or I’d be running from one destruction to another.



After I’d gotten inside and caffeinated, Lucky declared he was going into ‘town,’ wherever that was, to ‘pick up some shit.’

“Write down what you need—clothes, shoes, food.” He paused. “Period-related things.” He didn’t even look like the standard awkward male broaching the subject.

There was a multitude of things wrong with that sentence, but the last thing caught me off guard. “Period-related things?” I repeated, scrunching up my nose in confusion.

“Well, I don’t know how long all those”—he nodded to the plastic bag—“will last. I know I got a lot, but maybe you need that much? How am I to know? They could last a day, a month, a year. It’s a mystery. So if you need more, or anything else that you require at this time of the month, tell me. I can get some Ryan Gosling shit if that’s how you need to roll.”

“Ryan Gosling type shit.” I’d totally forgotten he thought I was on my period thanks to my little stunt that didn’t go as planned at the gas station.