Page 10 of Cocky Jerk

We go back and forth for a moment and she offers to leave the tip. When I finally convince her to put her goddamn money away, she hitches her purse over her shoulder and tosses me a saucy grin, advising me to make nice with her new intern the next time I drop in for a party planning session.

She’s barely out the door when my phone dings with a text.

Soraya: You should send her one of those edible fruit arrangements. I hear she’s a fan. Oh, and don’t forget to figure out a way to get Tig and Delia to the party.

There’s no use in arguing with Soraya and so I don’t bother with a reply. Instead, I order myself another pastrami sandwich to go, pay the bill and drag my ass out the door. Before I start my journey back to Brooklyn, I make a pit stop to where I pulled Antonia over. I decide if I find her license in the street, it’s a sign to make nice with the fiery intern. If it isn’t there, well, then I guess I’ll push her out of my head, like all the others.

It’s a good plan.

A solid one.

So tell me how come I don’t follow it.

Chapter Four

Antonia

Stalking through the clubhouse, Islam my helmet down on top of the wooden bar. My eyes connect with the man standing behind it and a groan erupts from the back of my throat. How do you make a horrible day worse? Throw the guy you once thought you loved into the mix.

Sergio, more commonly known around these parts as Hound, turns around from the fully stocked shelves behind the bar and meets my gaze. Raising a pierced eyebrow, he drinks me in. There used to be a time when the way he looked at me excited me and made me feel wanted. Then I realized I wasn’t special, that he looked at everyone with a pair of tits and a vagina the same way—hence his road name.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the princess,” Hound taunts playfully. A frown ticks the corner of my lips as I continue to stare at him. It’s a shame he’s such a jerk because he’s a Rockstar in bed and he’s not all that bad to look at. He’s a lot more rugged than the hunky cop, and his eyes aren’t nearly as intoxicating—Christ.

Did I just admit to myself that I find a cop’s eyes intoxicating?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Shaking my head, I divert my attention away from my ex-bedmate and step behind the bar.

“Fuck off, Hound, I’m not in the mood,” I sneer, plucking a bottle of tequila from the shelf.

“Hey, I didn’t log that, yet,” he says, trying to snatch it from my hands.

Ignoring him, I move the bottle out of his reach and unscrew the top. I don’t waste time reaching for a glass and bring the bottle to my lips, taking a long swig. I welcome the burn that spreads down my throat and warms my chest. A couple more shots and maybe I can forget all about this day.

“Whoa,” Hound says. “You might want to go easy on that, Princess. That’s the hard shit. But you like it hard, don’t you?”

Such a jerk.

Lowering the bottle from my lips, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and roll my eyes.

“You know what I hate more than someone telling me what I should and should not do? Having someone call me princess. I fucking loathe that.”

“Everyone here has been calling you princess since you were in your mother’s womb,” he says. “Now, it’s suddenly a problem?”

Nope, it’s been a problem for years, but no one wants to acknowledge it. They say I’m spoiled and call me a bitch. To everyone with a patch, I’m an ungrateful pain in the ass they’re stuck protecting.

Tank DeLuca’s princess.

Untouchable.

Unfuckable.

Unlovable.

One and three only applied to Hound. He had no problem fucking me just so long as my dad didn’t find out. Heaven forbid his patch be in jeopardy because of little old me.

Taking another pull from the bottle, I set it down and meet Hound’s gaze.

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