Anarchy Found (SuperAlpha, #1)(3)

I push myself up with a hand on his back, stand up, and wait for a response. He looks over his shoulder again, grinning. I’m fighting the urge to kick him in the teeth when his hand sweeps out, grabs my ankle, and pulls. I tip back, instinctively reaching to break my fall, and feel the sting when my palms crash against the asphalt. “You f*cker.”

And then he’s on top of me. He pulls my gun out of my pants, throws it so it goes skidding under the trailer, and sits all his weight down on my stomach as he pins my hands to the road. “I said easy, girl,” he growls. “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Right.” I laugh. “We’ll just forget I took you down in two seconds and pretend that I’m not the one who’ll hurt you.”

He cocks his head to the side, doubling over and grimacing from the crash, or maybe considering me for a second. Then he takes a deep breath and stands up, offering me a hand. “Let’s start over. Hey, gun girl.” He smirks. “I’m bike boy. I crashed my bike over there and need a ride home. And since you’ve got this pretty trailer built for hauling bikes, I was wondering if you’d help me out?”

I eye him for a minute. He leans down and whispers, “This is when you take my hand.”

I reluctantly take it since he’s towering over me and I’m pretty sure if I attack him again, things will get serious. His black gloves are soft against my skin, and his palms are so warm, the heat radiates up into my chilled body. He grips my hand tightly as he pulls me to my feet and looks me up and down real fast. “OK, we’re good? I’ll pay you for your time. Make up for the fact that I ruined your afternoon. Just drop me off a couple miles down the road and we’ll call it quits. Deal?”

I sigh heavily as the rain picks up and starts rolling down my face. I pull out my phone, check the time, realize I’m late and I have no signal up here in the mountains, and give in. “Fine. Just hurry, please. I have business today.”

He’s walking off towards his bike before I even finish the sentence. Asshole.

But damn if he isn’t one sexy * in that leather jacket, the tight jeans that show the muscles in his legs, that black t-shirt clinging to his chest like it’s painted on, and a face I might be thinking about when I’m alone tonight.

Jesus, what is wrong with me? No, Molly. Asshole. He’s an *. For too many reasons to list.

“Hey, help me out here?” he calls from the ditch.

I roll my eyes like a teenager as I walk over to him. He’s got the bike upright again and he’s pointing to the rear fender. “Just lift it up a little bit while I push it up the embankment.”

I slip on my way down, slide on my ass, and then sit there at the bottom of the ditch wondering if my day could possibly get any worse.

“Need another hand?” he asks, looking down at me.

“I got it, thanks.” I get up, slip in the mud one more time, and then lift up on the back end when he counts down from three. He heaves hard, trying to force the machine up, but it rocks back and the rear tire settles in the mud near my feet.

“OK, this is pissing me off,” he says. “This is really pissing me off.” He takes off his leather jacket and throws it down on the road. His biceps are popping out of the short sleeves of his shirt like cannons, and the rain is plastering the thin fabric against his back where my eyes rest on the corded muscles.

I almost don’t look away in time.

“Ready?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.

“I’m ready,” I say, looking down at the tire.

“On one.” He counts down again. I push harder this time, giving it all my effort. I just want to get out of this ditch and be done with this day. So I lean into it, my boots slipping in the mud. His boots slip in the mud above me, and just when I think we’ll have to give up and call someone else to help, he grits his teeth, strains his muscles, and yells as the bike finally gets past some threshold and eases back up onto the road. He pushes it forward a few paces and then drops the stand and comes back to help me out of the ditch.

“Thanks,” he says, pulling me up from the ditch in one smooth tug. His eyes meet mine and hold there. I squirm under his intense inspection. “I really do appreciate it.”

His eyes are a striking amber brown. And he’s so close I can see little flecks of gold in them. We are stuck like that for several seconds. He squints at me, like he’s thinking about something. But then he shakes his head and turns away.

“No problem,” I say, tugging on my light jacket and straightening it out. I don’t want strange bikers thinking too hard about me. “I’m soaked though. So can we get that thing loaded and go?”

“Right,” he says, walking back to the bike. “Just get inside the truck and I’ll load her up.”

I can’t wait to get in that truck. But the thought of him sitting in there with me makes me nervous. Not because I’m scared. I can take care of myself. But because this is a very hard day for me and I don’t want to share it with anyone. Least of all this douchebag of a stranger.

I go looking for my gun, find it on the road on the other side of the trailer where he kicked it, and then get in the driver’s side and take my jacket off so the heater can warm me up and dry me off. The clock on the dash says four-thirty, so I only have an hour to get to the bike shop before it closes.