Page 12 of Wild Ride

Sinking down onto the bench cushion, I slide over until I’m completely against the window. Justin sits beside me, though we spread our thighs and take up the entirety of the bench. Dakota has no choice but to sit alone across from us.

This is strategic.

This is us focused on her and trying to figure out what the actual fuck is going on here and what her purpose is. It no doubt feels like us ganging up on her because that’s exactly what we’re doing.

A waitress comes over, slowly turning to look at her. I give her a wink. Her cheeks flush pink as she sets down two beersthen turns to Dakota and clears her throat but doesn’t actually speak to her. I’m sure she is wondering who the fuck she is because none of us have ever brought a woman in here before—or anywhere for that matter, except a bed… sometimes a bathroom stall, sometimes a pool table, whatever is available, but out to eat a meal? Never.

“Can I just have a glass of water, please?” Dakota asks.

“Sure,” the waitress mutters before she turns and walks away.

I expect Dakota to complain about her being rude, but she doesn’t. Instead, she looks down at her menu, then shifts her gaze to meet mine, but quickly slides it over to Justin’s before she speaks.

“What’s good here?”

Justin swallows, then leans back in the seat. “They have a good salmon salad,” he offers.

Chick food.

Dakota nods a couple of times. “That sounds good,” she murmurs.

A couple minutes later, we’ve all ordered. I ask for my usual, which is a bourbon-glazed burger with Swiss cheese and onion rings, along with a hefty pile of bacon, and for my side, a German potato salad.

Justin ordered his usual as well, which is a turkey, Swiss, avocado, and bacon wrap with a side of sweet potato wedges that have been baked and not fried. He’s much healthier than me, although anyone could guess that by our pants sizes.

I don’t eat to live. I live to eat.

I get enough physical activity that it hasn’t affected me too much, so until it does, I’m going to continue having a good fucking time and avoiding all salads. And speaking of salad, Dakota orders a salmon salad… with no dressing.

None.

I blink at the sight of her fork stabbing into the lettuce and watch in abject horror as she brings it to her lips without an ounce of flavor on it, just plain iceberg lettuce.

“You part rabbit?” I ask. The first words I’ve really spoken to her.

Her eyes widen as she chews. “No,” she whispers.

“You eat lettuce with nothin’ on it?”

She shrugs. “When I grew up, we didn’t have dressing unless it was a special occasion, so I guess I’m just used to it.”

And there is my in.

“So, where are you from, then?” I ask, but it’s not really a question as much as it is a demand for an answer.

CHAPTER FIVE

BULLET

Oregon.

Hearing Dakota tell me that she’s from Oregon feels funny. I’ve never, not once, known Shade to go anywhere west of South Dakota, and that was only to go to the Sturgis motorcycle rally. Something we’ve done as a group about every other year.

How the fuck?

My phone buzzes, and I look down to see that it’s a text from Piggy.

PIGGY: Dakota Vaughn. Born in Asheville, NC. Raised at Willamette Haven in Oregon. Thirty years old. No high school education. No college. Works remotely as a virtual assistant for a nationwide real estate company.

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