Pulling Her Trigger (Ghost Riders MC #1)(2)
“You don’t move until I say,” I whisper to myself.
Pres points to the Five Aces VP, indicating for them to leave. When they finally clear out, I feel my phone vibrate against my ass. I reach back and pull it from my pocket.
“Yeah.”
“Cas, get your ass out of here. I’m sure the cops will show up soon if someone heard the shots. Don’t go to the club.” The line goes dead.
Crawling off my stomach I dismantle my rifle, putting it back into the box. I don’t have my motorcycle with me when I carry my rifle. I quickly make my way over to my truck and rub my chest as I climb in. The worst part about lying on the ground for hours is the pressure it puts on my breasts. Most women wish for bigger boobs, I, on the other hand, find them to be a hindrance.
Sliding the rifle under the truck seat, I fire up the engine and pull out, hitting the first highway I can. It’s still early and adrenaline is coursing through my veins. Only one thing ever fixes that. Sex. And it’s been too damn long.
Pulling my hair from my ponytail, I let the black strands fall loose and hit my shoulders. I’d love to head back to the club and hear about what was said on the ground, but the Pres told me to stay clear. Looks like sex it is.
Leaning back in my chair, I throw my booted foot up to rest on the table. The night is early and only a few people are in the bar. The same bar I always use when I’m looking for a quick and easy lay. Not only is it close to my little two-bedroom house, there’s also a cheap hotel next door.
This bar is my own place to unwind, away from my brothers. Sometimes I go with them to the bar down the road from the club, but never when I’m looking for cock. This place is mine. A place where no one knows who I am. I can sit back, enjoy a few beers and if I get lucky, see a few bar fights.
It’s better than heading back to my place alone with all this adrenaline still buzzing through my body. I’m sure in a few hours my brothers will be at our regular bar, Denim and Diamonds, but sometimes I feel out of place when trying to get laid there.
They call me Casper, the not-so-friendly ghost. They were calling me that before I was patched in. They like to say I pop up out of nowhere, and I guess the name just kind of stuck. Pres and most of the brothers had no problems when I got patched in years back. They knew me from our days in the service, and knew I was loyal to a fault. I saved their lives countless times. Times when they didn’t even know I was there, until the night air came alive with the sound of my bullets. But some of the other brothers did have a problem with me becoming a full member. The only female to be patched into the Ghost Riders. It’s nothing new to me. It’s something I’ve faced my whole life, so I let it roll off me now. I don’t give a shit if you don’t want me here. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere unless the Pres gives me the order, or unless I end up six feet under. The club’s the only real family I’ve ever had.
I’ve spent years proving myself, first to my father, then to my country as I busted my ass training to be a sniper, and then when I first joined the Ghost Riders. Now I just don’t give two f*cks. I know I’m the best at what I do. As does the Pres. That’s why when shit went down shortly after I got out of the service, and I still had fresh blood on my hands, he told me to get my ass to Kansas City, that he had a place for me. I was there the next day.
The waitress thumps my beer bottle down on the wood table next to my boot without asking for my order. She turns around and heads back to the bar without so much as a word. Reaching for my beer, I see a man walk through the door. His eyes instantly lock on mine, as if he knew I was going to be sitting right here.
The guy looks like a total badass but I’ve never seen him in here before, that’s for damn sure. Motherf*cker is gorgeous. He’s not something any woman would soon forget. His jet-black hair is cropped short with just enough to grab onto if you needed. His features are clean cut but rough around the edges. He looks like he’s trying to be a suit-and-tie kind of guy, but deep down he’s really a t-shirt and muddy jeans kind of man. His nose has a slight bump, like it has been broken a time or two, though it adds to his sex appeal instead of detracting from it. His mouth is grim yet sensual, with straight white teeth and canines a bit longer than his front teeth. It makes me think he likes to bite, and my nipples tingle at the thought. He’s handsome, if you go for that sort of thing.
But what stands out about him most are his eyes. They’re the same gray metal on the scope of my Mini Hecate .338 Lapua Mag—one of my favorite rifles. I don’t play with it often, because the concussion of the weapon is so strong, my ears hurt after only a few shots. I wonder if this man could make my ears hurt after a night of him screaming my name.
His eyes slide over me, like he can see through my tight jeans and black tank. His appraisal is cocky and bold, like I’m his to stare at. The idea makes my * clench. It has definitely been too long if I’m getting off from just a look.
Pulling my eyes from his, I take a long drink of my beer. I’m not surprised moments later when he’s standing next to my table.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks
I tip my bottle back and take another long pull from it, showing him mine is still half full. A drink isn’t what I want from him, and hanging out at this table isn’t either.
“A shot then,” he offers. “The night is still young.”