and he wondered if the fact that he preferred this faceless woman, a woman he’d never met, over Jennifer only proved their assumptions.
Good thing he didn’t give a shit what the people at that party thought of him. And he would give anything to be alone in his house, sitting in the dark, listening to Layla’s voice, that sweet voice with the country twang and the nervous laugh. What he wouldn’t give to have his hand around his cock, pushing her to try more. To do more. To test the edges of that pleasure and pain.
But he had to put in another hour or Blake would kill him.
Dylan: you’re going to have to do it alone tonight.
Layla: but it’s better with you
Groaning, Dylan texted back: But I’m still at this party.
Layla: I was at a party 2! There were buckets of booze. And I dyed my hair.
He wondered briefly what color her hair was. What she looked like. But as the reality didn’t matter, he pushed those thoughts aside as useless and irrelevant.
Dylan: Sounds like a much better party than this one.
Layla: What kind of party is it?
DON’T. The word was loud and clear in Dylan’s brain. Do not do this thing.
But in the end, because he was bored, because of the way the people at that party made him feel like an animal and not a man—and because somehow she’d cracked a hole in his life that he kept trying to stuff more work into, more deals, more money—his warnings were to no avail. He turned the phone around and snapped a picture of himself. From the chin down.
And sent it to her.
Her response came back fast and in all caps.
Layla: IS THAT YOU?
Such a fucking mistake. What happened to cross-contamination? What happened to the rules? His life worked because everything was controlled. He knew this, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Dylan: Me and my monkey suit.
Layla: send me another
Dylan: Can’t. Have to go. Call me tomorrow night.
Layla: boooooooo
Dylan: tomorrow night.
Dylan put his phone back in his pocket. The rules he was breaking were piling up around his feet like metal shavings, razor sharp and about to cut the both of them.
Inevitably, someone was going to get hurt.
—
An hour later he managed to make his goodbyes and leave the party. He ignored the valet and went to get his own car. His F-150, the same truck they used to tow the 989 trailer, looked like a giant beast among all the sleek European cars and the refurbished American muscle cars that surrounded it.
This parking area was a gearhead’s wet dream.
He climbed into his bare-bones pickup and pulled off his tie. The engine, one he’d rebuilt himself, roared like it couldn’t wait to get off this damn property too.
The back roads leading from the house to the highway were dark and still. He was alone on the road, except for the sound of the engine on a distant motorcycle.
A Harley Fat Boy, if he heard it right.
A Harley Fat Boy that needed a tune-up.
It was the sound of his youth, one that used to wake him up in his bed at night. It was the sound of his father and his brother, coming home or leaving.
Outside the dark trees blurred and he kept his speed, enjoying the night and the open road. He unrolled the window, and the smell of the road and the forest filled the cab. He’d be home soon and then…Layla.
The motorcycle showed up in his rearview and Dylan put his hand out the window, indicating the guy could pass if he wanted.
The biker flashed his lights.
And then again.
The fuck?
They were entering the suburbs, and Dylan slowed down for a stop sign at an intersection and the motorcycle pulled up alongside him.
Out in this neighborhood he wasn’t much worried about being mugged. Probably a guy looking for the highway.
“You need something?” Dylan asked. The murky light from a distant street lamp picked up the flash of a dirty white badge on black leather.
A cut.
The rider was in an MC.
“I guess you could say that.” The guy rolled forward until his face was in the light.
It took Dylan a second to place the man, who seemed vaguely familiar. And then the guy grinned, revealing the two, rotting front teeth that bent inward, tilting toward each other.
“Rabbit?”
“Hey there, son.”
“Holy…” He couldn’t deny the fact that for a heartbeat he was happy to see the man. Rabbit had gotten Dylan started in racing, supported him, found him races. Illegal backwoods