Price McNealy was a modern-day outlaw. He thumbed his nose at society's rules, regulations, and laws, not caring what anyone thought of him, or the actions he somehow justified.
If I made a list of why "not" to be with a man, he'd check all the boxes.
He was also confident, trustworthy, and loyal. When he wanted to make a point, he did so with a brash elegance that I wouldn't expect to come from a self-proclaimed thug.
In short, Price McNealy was trouble.
Big trouble.
I had every reason in the world to refuse him service when he sauntered into my bar.
For a fleeting moment, I thought about it. The next thing I knew, I was bent over with my pants around my ankles.
My bar was packed at the time, but I simply couldn't say no to him. When it came to denying Price's desires, I was in trouble.
Big trouble.
This book was a #1 bestseller, with an ovefrall Amazon ranking of 200 upon its release.
I wiped my sweaty palms against my denim shorts and cleared my throat. “This is a Rebel hang-out,” I explained. “You can fit what I know about your motorcycle club in a thimble, but I know this: The Rebels and the Hard Eights don’t get along. So, although I may look lost, I’m not. I’m just…” I gave him a quick once-over. “Shocked. I guess you could say I’m shocked. To see you, that is. In here, anyway.”
He raked his fingers through his thick black locks and glanced over each shoulder. His hair was peppered with much more than an occasional strand of gray. He wore it long enough to fall into his face, but not so long that it looked awful or unkempt.
I decided it fit him well.
“Rebel hang-out, huh?” He chuckled a dry laugh. His eyes darted from table to table before meeting mine. “Looks like an empty bar to me. Hell, I guess they could be in here, and I just can’t see ‘em. They run, what, about two deep?” He glanced beneath the adjoining table, as if someone could be hidden beneath it. “Maybe three?”
I was sidetracked by his tattoo-covered biceps. Hoping to seem disinterested in his presence, I looked away. “I think there’s ten or twelve of them,” I said, stretching the truth of the Rebel’s small existence. I wondered if it would be enough to thwart any ideas Price had of causing trouble in my bar.
“Twelve, huh?” His brows raised in false wonder. “Must have doubled membership in the last few days. Maybe they lured a bunch of new prospects in with Jolly Ranchers, ice cream cones, and delusions of grandeur.”
