Page 6 of Desert King

“Here. Could you please take these over?”

She sees the incredulous look on my face.

“Please? I’m slammed.” She nods over to the fifty-plus parched bikers.

“Sure.”

Balancing the tray on one flattened palm with the edge tucked against my elbow, I carefully walk over.

It kills me to meet his eyes. He reaches for his drink, never breaking eye contact from me as his other hand moves low, rubbing the stripper’s mound over her bikini bottoms.

She moans, throwing her head back and thrusts her hips forward into his hand. He cups her sex; I can’t look away. His eyes. Those damn angel eyes are talking to me, asking me if I wish I were her…if it was me, those hands were on.

Truthfully, I don’t know. I’ve had long-term boyfriends in a previous life that seems so long ago. And even then, I never burned for any of them. Sex was cuddly; warm, but never a burning fire. I feel the small smirk on my face; no one’s ever made me bite my lip and moan the way the stripper is for Edge.

He notices my smirk and makes one of his own. “I am that good.”

“Please. Every guy thinks that.”

In his eyes, is the appreciation for my sass. That’s the one thing I have in spades. Placing the empty drink tray down on a chair, I keep moving past the smokey haze to the dimly lit hall. The door swings wide open and I squint as my pupils adjust to the light streaming in. A trio of heavy-set trucker drivers walk in—their rigs parked behind the rows of bikes. I lower my eyes, not wanting their type of attention and quickly move away, pushing the door to the bathroom open.

I cup cold water in my hands to rinse my face. I take more to rinse my mouth.

“Damn, Amber, no wonder why everyone looks right through you.” Meeting my eyes in the mirror, I inspect my face. Despite being from Florida, I’m pale as a ghost. I guess almost dying will do that to you, though. My clothes hang on my body. Despite the fast-food I grabbed on the road between Florida and here, I’m still too thin. My trunk filled with size six jeans don’t even fit on my new chicken ass. I need some meat on my bones. I need some health back.

The dry heat will be good for me. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. I never thought about the desert dust, though. Somehow it finds a way to cling everywhere.

My hair is the only thing worth noticing. It’s thick, wavy, and dark brown. My eyes I guess, are all right—there just a medium nondescript brown. I don’t even care about looks or any of that pathetic superficial bull shit. Almost dying is the best medicine for not giving two fucks about any of that or what people think of you.

Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin. “That’s right, Amber Walker, and you are a badass survivor. You flat-lined twice and came back to life.” My little pep talk does the trick. Fuck Edge, and his entire Bloody Scorpion MC. I’ve already been through the fires of hell. Nothing anyone can do or say can take that away from me. Spinning on my heel, I push the door back open and enter the hall. But I don’t get far.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A scrawny-ass new girl? Are you one of F.O.C.U.S’ East Coast virgins up on the auction block for later?” The trucker dude smacks his lips and moves in, forcing my back against the wall.

“I’ve never had virgin pussy,” a second guy sneers edging on to my left.

“Please,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. Despite every instinct telling me to scream and fight, I try to act tough. Because they are expecting that; me to be a screamer and them being able to get off on the fear. “Me? A Virgin? I’ve ridden more dick than Jenny J.”

The guy closest to me leans closer. “Is that right?” His hand squeezes my jaw. “Open your mouth. Let’s see how big it is.”

Tears threaten as his hand on my cheeks squeeze. My knee lifts, attempting to get him in the balls, but the second guy blocks the blow.

My head is pushed down to the floor. The sound of jeans unzippering makes me shut my eyes. I was wrong. There are worse feelings than the isolation of weeks upon weeks of the ICU hovering between worlds.

“What the fuck?!”

I open my eyes, seeing my bad angel. The head of the man hovering over me cracks into the wall. Screaming, I crawl between heavy black boots as punches and knives flash above my head.

Wide-eyed, I stay crouched in the hall corner. The brawling men block any escape. The loud music and hoots from men in the club prevent anyone from hearing the fight. I guess men do lose their minds over a good pair of tits and ass.

Edge is going wild. He is an avenging madman hammering punch after punch. It is three to one. The men gasp and heave, finally squaring off against him together as Edge stands guard in front of me. He eggs them on, gesturing with his hands for them to come at him.

But they don’t.

With a snarl, he barrels forward, kicking one in the gut while clipping the other two under the jaw. It’s a knockout.

On trembling legs, I stand. “Thank you.”

He turns and my eyes fall to the blood on his hands. His knuckles are split. Growling, he stalks forward. “Get the hell out of here. Turn around and go. New Mexico isn’t the place for a little mouse like you.”

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