Page 45 of Reckless: Chaos

Ryker rolls up the driveway like some leather-clad fantasy, because apparently the universe has decided to test my already fragile self-control. He’s the only one reckless enough to ride without a helmet, dark sunglasses hiding eyes I know are probably already disapproving. The leather jacket stretches across shoulders that have no business being that broad, andI’m pretty sure somewhere in his past he was definitely in a motorcycle club. No one wears leather like that without a criminal record.

He parks right in front of me wearing a scowl that should not be as attractive as it is. That’s fine—I don’t need to look at his face to appreciate all that... alpha. It’s like he’s too rugged for reality, and not in that fake country boy way. Give me a leather-wearing, motorcycle-riding alpha with anger management issues any day of the week.

“You should be in bed.” He hasn’t even put the kickstand down yet.

“Shhh. Don’t ruin it.” Why do men always insist on talking when I’m trying to objectify them in peace?

He swings off the bike in one fluid motion that makes my mouth go dry. Then he’s looming over me, hands on hips, radiating disapproval like it’s his job.

“Bed.” The word comes out more growl than speech.

“I’m done with bed.” I blink up at him innocently. “I want that motorcycle lesson we never got around to.”

He crosses his arms, which is just unfair given what that does to his biceps. But then—wait. His lips twitch.

“Alright.” He pivots toward the garage.

I narrow my eyes at his back. That was way too easy. Something is definitely wrong.

Who cares? I’m outside in actual sunshine about to possibly get my hands on actual horsepower. I follow him toward the garage, watching him fish keys from his pocket and hit a button that makes one of the five doors rumble upward.

The sound that escapes me is embarrassingly close to a moan.

“You haven’t seen the garage yet?” He doesn’t look down at me, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Clearly not.” I step into what can only be described as automotive heaven. “A Hellcat?”

“Jinx.” The name carries equal parts fondness and exasperation, like the car’s owner himself.

“Let me guess who’s who.” I trail my fingers along pristine paint jobs, cataloging horsepower and personalities. “The Range Rover with racing stripes is definitely Finn.”

“Obviously.”

“The Mustang is throwing me though.”

“Theo.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“Is it?” There’s something knowing in his tone that makes me think there’s a story there. “The Audi’s mine.”

“Of course it is. Practical but powerful, with just enoughfuck youmoney to make a statement.” I swipe a finger across its gleaming surface. “Very on brand.”

He leads me through another door into what turns out to be a full mechanic’s workshop. Tools line the walls in precise order, and the air smells of motor oil and metal.

“Is this where you hide?” I spin in a slow circle, taking in every detail. “Now I know where to find you.”

“Please don’t.” But there’s no heat in the words, just resignation.

“Alright, where’s my bike?” I clap my hands together, wincing slightly when my shoulder protests.

His grin turns predatory. “Right over here.”

He gestures to a corner where sits... what can only be described as a motorcycle having an identity crisis.

“What the fuck is that?”

“That,” he says with entirely too much satisfaction, “is a Can-Am Ryker Rally.”

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