Reckless Temptations (Tempted #4)(7)

“You again?”

“Get the fuck out of my way Duncan! I’m in no fucking mood.”

Lou pushed the guy at the door back so I couldn’t see him but the intruder started hollering.

“LAUREN BIANCI IF YOUR ASS IS IN THERE YOU BETTER GET IT OUT BY THE TIME I COUNT TO FIVE!”

“What is that? Oh, my God, he’s not starting a scene in the hospital is he?”

“Mom, focus, who is he, exactly?”

“One of your brother’s friends. There was trouble tonight—”

“Is he okay?” I interrupted.

“Yes, he’s with Adrianna and the baby but he sent this dope to come and bring me to your apartment. Your brother wants us both in the same place until things calm down. Fucking Victor Pastore, I could kill that man with my bare hands!” My mother said, sounding exasperated. “You know your apartment is a mess? And Mia, is she on drugs? The girl hasn’t shut up since I got here.”

“ONE!”

“Do you know this clown?” Lou asked me over his shoulder.

“Mom, did you send this guy here?”

“I didn’t send him. Blame your damn brother, actually, blame Victor Pastore. It’s all that son of a bitch’s fault.”

“TWO!”

“Lau?” Lou persisted.

“I’ve got to go mom, see you in a few.” I said, quickly ending the call and hurrying to Lou’s side before he broke Anthony’s friend’s nose and there was bloodshed.

I wonder which of the dons he sent this time.

“It’s okay Lou, I didn’t know my brother was sending someone for me,” I answered, reaching up to kiss Lou’s cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You sure you want to go anywhere with this guy?” He said, turning his attention to my ride, causing me to turn around and look at him too.

It was him.

The guy from earlier, the one who grabbed my wrist and I thought was just another creep trying to get in my pants. Only, instead of looking like sex on a stick, he resembled a mass murderer.

“Hiya handsome,” I said, offering a smile as an apology for all the trouble I may have caused him.

He grunted.

So it would take more than a smile.

I had waited most of my teenage years for this moment. You know the one—when having an older brother finally has its perks because his friends are hot and not twice his age or mobsters. At twenty-one I had given up on the dream, but now I was staring at one of Anthony’s friends—and he wasn’t an old geezer. I leaned forward and stole a glimpse of the fingers he was cracking as he glared up at Lou. Nope, no pinky ring either! Score.

His eyes met mine, and holy fuck! He looked at me confused for a minute. It didn’t take me long to understand why. It was because I had changed and I wasn’t wearing six layers of paint on my face anymore. It was just little ‘ole me, plain Jane, Lauren. I frowned, pushing my glasses further back onto my nose with my index finger nervously as I took him all in.

He was well over six feet and when I moved to stand closer to him, he towered over me. He had chocolate brown eyes that probably melted the panties off of any girl he ever looked at—I’d gladly throw mine away. The pair of well-worn jeans hung low on his hips and cut at the knee. He was wearing Timberland boots—(my favorite, but I was a sucker for fresh white kicks on a guy too), oddly the laces were missing from his boots. The heather gray thermal he wore stretched over his broad chest and shoulders, molded to his skin perfectly. He also wore a leather jacket type thing which had patches sewn into it declaring him a prospect, whatever that meant.

A real deal biker.

Thank you, Anthony.

“You’re staring,” he mumbled, taking hold of my wrist and dragging me away from Lou and The Pink Pussycat.

“Sorry,” I shrugged. “It’s just you’re not like my brother’s other friends.”

“Thank Christ for that,” he said, as he took big strides across the parking lot dragging me behind him. “Why’d you disappear from me before?” He grumbled over his shoulder.

“I thought you were a creep,” I admitted honestly.

“You Bianci women really know the way to a man’s heart,” he hissed, pulling his keys from his pocket and unlocking the doors to a truck, shooting down my dreams of catching a ride on the back of a bike.

His phone rang.

“Why? Why can’t this night just end?” He cried up to the heavens, before bringing his phone to his ear.

I think he might have a screw loose.

“Yeah, Prez,” he said into the phone, nodding toward the passenger door. “Get in.”

And his attitude sucked too.

“Yeah, I got the sister,” he continued, to whoever was on the phone. “I’m dropping her ass off to her loony toon of a mother and getting the fuck away from anyone with the last name Bianci,” he said, climbing into the truck beside me.

Well, that was rude.

He disconnected the call, throwing his phone into the console and glanced at me.

“What?” He demanded.

“You’re kind of a dick,” I commented.

“And you’re a pain in the ass so we’re even,” he argued, starting up the truck. “It was supposed to be an easy job. Pick up the mother and the kid—take them to Bianci. That was it, the Bulldog said. But no, God wanted to fuck with me by adding to my misery—getting whacked with a frying pan by that lunatic of a woman, tying the bitch up and dragging her to Long Island just wasn’t enough. I needed to get saddled bringing “Mama Leone” upstate to spend quality time with her daughter while the gangster son goes off the grid too. Fuck this shit!” He said, punching the steering wheel. “And instead of dropping off “Carmela Soprano” and running the fuck away from her, I get stuck in more Bianci family drama,” he continued to rant, piercing me with a look. “Picked a fine time to become a stripper little girl,” he hissed.