Read Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club) for Free Online Page B

listened for the sweet drift
of old music, and let a familiar melody seep into my hips—Jackie Wilson. “To Be
Loved.” Ha.
    The patio was as I remembered—I mean, of course it was.
Several older couples were swaying back and forth to the music, their heads
thrown back with laughter. There were also a few scattered clusters of
whippersnappers my own age—likely local-yokels, from the looks of 'em. It
suddenly seemed like I'd made an awful mistake, returning to the scene of the
crime. There were just too many people in love here, each pairing looking for
all the world like they belonged together.
    As I've said before, growing up in an MC will rid a girl
quick of any of that happily-ever-after mythology. Love at first sight seemed
totally ridiculous to me. The men and women I knew came together for sex, and
that was largely it. Even my parents' vaguely romantic meet-cute didn't sound
like a fairy tale—their coupling, after all, had sprung from violence and ended
in death. So it was strange to see these swaying duos, clutching one another
like life rafts, giggling in tandem. For maybe the first time, I imagined what
my life would be like with a partner—an equal. Someone I could talk to, and
care about. Someone to ride with. Someone to care, someone to share... oh,
that fucking Jackie Wilson.
    And then I gave myself a little mental-shake. Ick. Remember,
Gizzy: you never played with dolls, you never even dreamt of being anyone's old
lady. Real riders rode alone. Everyone knew this.
    Moving towards the back bar, I glimpsed Scotty fussing over
a margarita machine. He had one plump hand covered in a glop of
what-looked-like-raspberry puree. Once he saw me, his round little face cracked
wide into an unexpected grin.
    “Lady love!” he hollered. “I knew you'd be back! Scotty
always knows these things! Wait here!” I'd never sat on Santa's lap before (on
our childhood trips to the mall, Tati and I had been closely instructed to
speak to no one—having been mainly installed as watchmen while our father
shoplifted)—but in that moment Scotty looked to me just how I imagined a merry
St. Nick might. I couldn't help but match his enthusiasm. He put a finger to
his lips before scurrying away, looking pleased.
    “Can you pour me a Maker's Mark, one ice cube?” I trilled to
the other bartender—a skinny girl with ratted hair and neon blue leggings. She
didn't quite live up to the classy aspect of the club, that was for damn sure.
    “You sure you don't want a daiquiri? House special.”
    “Not in the mood for a fruity cocktail.”
    “Huh. Not too many girls like bourbon around here.”
    “Well, I'm not too many girls. ”
    Just then, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. Jumping
reflexively, I turned to see... Carter. Fucking. Knox. Dapper as he'd
been the week before. No—more so.
    “Didn't I say I'd find you?” he smirked. And with that, the
whole day's miserable events began to fade straight from my mind. Sure, half of
me wanted to punch his teeth in, but the other half was failing to fend off a
flood of joy. His face, I realized, had already imprinted in my memory—unknowingly,
I'd memorized every contour. The thick, full eyebrows tapering gracefully
across a strong forehead. The lush, dark hair. Those crackling, colorful eyes
with their impish purple hue. That nose! In this light, I caught flecks of
green in his irises. His face already struck me like the face of a friend, the
face of someone I'd known for years—as opposed to, you know, fifteen minutes
(give or take).
    Carter was in fine form this evening, his leather pants
snug. He wore a white wife-beater and a tattered denim vest, clipped through
with rows of safety pins—the tight shirt accentuated his form, so I could see
every raised curve in his chest. A tuft of dark hair spilled from the lip of
his collar. He wore shredded bike gloves on flexing fingers. I took note of a
wending shoulder tattoo, something I hadn't noticed before: a cobra, coiled,
prepared