High-Sided (Armed & Dangerous #3)(70)

“No thanks. I’ll do it on my own.”

He revved his engine, his smile fading. “No, you’re not, Lara. Now get on the damn bike.” Turning around, he unhooked the extra helmet from the back and held it out to me. “It’s a hundred degrees out here, you’re being ridiculous.”

I huffed and continued walking. “I’ll be fine.”

Slamming on the brakes, he got off his bike and stalked toward me. “You don’t have any water, and I don’t see anyone else stopping to give you a hand. Now stop being a silly woman, and get on the f*cking bike.”

“What, are you going to make me? Get over yourself. I’ll be fine.”

He cracked his knuckles. “I’ll chase you down. You can’t outrun me, cupcake. I wouldn’t even try.”

He was right, and it drove me crazy. I didn’t want to be indebted to him under any circumstances, but would I really cut my nose off to spite my face? It was scorching out, and I didn’t need to get heatstroke over this. “Fine, I’ll come with you,” I said, giving in.

A triumphant smile splayed across his face and I wanted to smack it off. He held the helmet out to me and I put it on, not having any idea how to work the straps.

Grabbing my waist, he pulled me toward him. “Here, let me fix it.” His fingers brushed against my neck as he tightened the straps. After he was done, he stared at me with his sea-green eyes. “Feel okay?”

I nodded, though my patience was shot. “Peachy.”

He got on his bike first and held out his hand. “Have you ever ridden before?”

“No.” My stomach turned in knots.

He smirked. “You’ll be okay, I promise. We don’t have to go far. All you need to do is reach around my waist and hold on tight. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Taking my hand, he held it while I straddled his bike. It wasn’t one of those big Harley ones either; it was a sleek, black sport bike. I reached around his waist to hold on, and my body was flush with his. After he put on his helmet, his hand landed on my thigh and my body tightened.

“You ready?”

“I think so.”

He patted my leg and I sucked in a deep breath. Here we go.





A light snore reminds me that I’m not alone. The heaviness of a body sprawled out, sets me off immediately. The stale smell of day old perfume lingers in the air and on my sheets.

The curtains are pulled back, the sun shining through the large window, which affords me the best view and privacy.

Rolling over, there’s a face I don’t remember. A face that holds no name in my recollection or any vivid memory of how she ended up in my hotel room let alone my bed.

The bed part I can probably figure out.

The blonde hair tells me that I didn’t bother to get her name or ask her what her favorite drink was. Guaranteed our conversation was eyes, hands and lips only. There is one hair color that can make my heart beat and blonde isn’t it.

Neither is red.

Eyes too.

Never blue.

They have to be brown or green, never blue.

This isn’t a downward spiral or some drug induced moment. I don’t do drugs, never have, but I may drink excessively on occasions like last night. This is me coping with my mistakes and failures. I may be successful when I’m on stage, but at night I’m alone.

And so freaking scared of dying alone.

I reach for my phone to check the time. Instead I pull up the gallery that holds her image, my thumb hovering over her face. I’ll see her when I go home and I don’t know what I’ll say.

I know she hates me.

I hate me.

I ruined her life. That is what her voice message said. The one I’ve saved for the past ten years. The one I’ve transferred from phone to phone just so I could hear her voice when I’m at my lowest. I can recite every hateful word she said to me when I was too busy to answer and never found the time to call her back.

Never found one second to call and explain to her what I had done to us. She was my best friend and I let her slip through my fingers just to save myself from the heartache of hearing she didn’t want me anymore.

I had dreams too.

And my dreams included her, but she would never have gone for it. I’m not living her American Dream. I’m living my own.

My decision destroyed everything.

My nameless bed cohabitant reaches out and strokes my arm. I move away quickly. Now that I’m sober, I have no desire to be anything to this person.

“Liam,” she says through her seductive tone that sounds like a baby. It makes my skin crawl when women talk like this. Don’t they see that it makes them sound ridiculous? No man worth his nuts likes this sort of thing. It’s not sexy.

Wrapping the sheet around my waist I sit up and swing my legs over the edge, away from her and her wandering hand. My back tenses when I feel the bed shift. Standing, I pull the sheet tighter to keep myself somewhat covered. I shouldn’t care, but

I do. She’s seen me in the dark, but I’m not affording her or her camera another look.

“I’m busy.” My voice is strict, a well-practiced monotone. “Jorge, the concierge, will make sure you get a cab home.”

I sleep purposefully facing the bathroom so I never have to look at them when I tell them to leave. It’s easier that way, no emotions. I don’t have to look at their faces and see the hope fade. Each one hopes they will be the one to tame me, to make me commit.