Crash (Brazen Bulls MC #1)(7)

He grinned, showing that cocky sumbitch side. “You like what you see?”

“Sorry. Just trying to get a read on you, Radical.”

“Rad. I pass muster?”

She looked back at the paramedic truck. Chase and his partner were packing up. Why was she not interested in handsome, clean-cut, heroic-type EMT Chase, but standing here getting all kinds of soft-focus over filthy, bearded, rough-hewn biker Rad? Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Wasn’t she a good student?

Apparently, her grades were slipping.

“Yeah, you do. A ride would be great. Thanks.”

His smile wasn’t serpentine now. He simply seemed pleased. “Good. Be nice to know your name.”

“Willa. I’m Willa.”

More pleasure shone from his face. “That was my granny’s name. It’s a good name.”

She thought so; it had been her grandmother’s name, too.



oOo



She went to collect her helmet—it was compromised now, and she’d need to buy a new one, but it would do to get her home—and limped back toward the cluster of bikes behind the crash site. The cops had finally cleared the scene and were opening the highway to traffic again.

Rad wasn’t around, and for a minute she stood like a guest at a party where she’d only known the host and had been abandoned by him. An older guy with a bushy beard and a thinning blonde ponytail came up to her. He wore a Bulls kutte, with a flash reading Vice President and another reading Dane. He had the Tested and True flash as well; not all of the Bulls on the scene wore that one, from what Willa could tell.

“Help ya, honey?” He nodded at the helmet in her hand. “You lookin’ for a ride?”

“Got her, Dane.” Rad trotted up. “Just gettin’ her bike on the flatbed.”

“Ah. Right. You’re the little sportster.” Dane cast his eyes up and down over her body, then gave her a paternal head tilt. “You took a spill. You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Thank you.”

“Alrighty then.” He turned to Rad and gave him a wry smirk. “Looks like you won’t be at the clubhouse tonight. Delaney wants us in church first thing in the morning, before the station opens. Seven.”

“Fuck, man.” Rad griped. But then he nodded. “Alright. See you then.”

Dane nodded, gave Willa something like a courtly bow, and then turned away, toward a small cluster of men in kuttes. Rad put his hand up in a stilted wave, and the men returned the gesture. A couple of them laughed, and Rad shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“You ready to ride?”

“Yeah. Thanks for this.” She put on her helmet. Rad didn’t seem to wear one. She thought that was dumb.

His Harley was a mammoth thing: big, black, highly customized. He walked it back onto the pavement and mounted. When the engine was running, he urged her to climb on with a nod of his head and an offer of his hand.

The passenger seat—Rad would, she was sure, call it a bitch seat—was elevated about four inches, so when she threw her sore leg over and settled behind him, she was too high to comfortably wrap her arms around his waist.

This was a good thing. She could tell simply by resting her hands on his sides that his body was carved from muscle as hard as granite, and she did not need to be feeling too much of him while they rode.

The engine thrummed under her ass and between her legs. Damn, she loved that feeling. On her own bike or riding with someone else, the sensation was deep and primal.

Rad turned and looked over his shoulder.

“Your leg gonna hold up okay?”

It was sore as hell but solid. She’d be able to keep it on the peg and move with him. “Yeah.”

He nodded but didn’t face away. “Need your address, darlin’.”

“Oh!” If one of the women at work were to tell her the story of having a night like this, here was the place where she’d interrupt and say, You told him where you lived? A guy you just met? A Bull? Were you high, or are you just stupid? Have you learned nothing?

But Willa couldn’t seem to feel worried or threatened. She was just tired and sore, her body ached and her brain reeled from the horrors of the night, and she felt a little better with her hands on this guy’s muscular body.

He and his club had spent the past five hours helping the cops and paramedics at the scene, making hurt people feel better. Was that something bad guys did? No, it was not.

“I’m on Vincent. On the corner at Elm. You know that area?”

“I know everywhere, darlin’. Hold on tight, now.” Facing forward, he goosed the throttle and pulled onto the highway.

Willa held on tight.





CHAPTER THREE



The last time a woman had been on Rad’s bike, it had been Dahlia, his ex-wife. Not this bike—he’d had his old Softail back then, and she’d ridden lower, made a habit of wrapping her arms around his waist and settling her hands over his crotch.

Sex on a stick, Dahlia was. Even now, after everything, he had to give her that much credit. She’d been a mighty fine f*ck. A fact too many \knew, he’d learned.

And yet he’d been the * in their relationship. Okey doke.

The woman riding behind him now, on his Dyna, wasn’t melting into him the way his wife had, and her hands were fists at his side, grasping hunks of his kutte. But she moved like the rider she was, and the trip was easy.