Dark Curves (Dangerous Curves Book 6) Read Free

other hellions, too. He was like the club’s great, white whale… and there were some pretty heated bets on who was going to land him.
    Lisa took one look at his face, guessed that it wasn’t going to be her. And definitely not tonight.
    “I said I’m out of here,” he said, his voice so cold, she almost shivered. “So get up.”
    “Aw, now,” said Nails. The club Vice-President was lolling in the chair next to Warren’s, already unzipping his jeans. “As long as you’re down there, darlin’, crawl on over here. Seems a shame to waste what’s being offered.”
    Right away, Lisa gave him a huge smile. “Sure thing, baby.”
    Warren turned away from the deeply disturbing sight of Nails’ dick bobbing around, made eye contact with Ace and Joker. Ace waved at him and with an internal sigh, Warren walked over.
    “Hey, Prez,” he said, paying the man the proper respect. “It’s OK that I’m heading out?”
    “Yeah, of course,” Ace told him. “I just wanted to let you know that I need you at the clubhouse at eight o’clock.”
    Warren glanced at the clock on his cell. Just over five hours from now. He sighed internally again. He hadn’t slept a solid eight hours in eight months, and he ached for a blissful, uninterrupted, untroubled rest. But Ace’s word was law, and no discussion.
    “Sure thing,” Warren said.
    “Good.”
    Warren nodded at his cousin, wished him dead for about the thousandth time, headed out the door of the bar.
    It was freezing outside, but he had to ride his motorcycle home in the sub-zero January night, since everything was about appearances. He had to wear the cut, ride the bike, plaster on the scowl, play the part of the big, bad, one-percenter biker asshole. All day, every day. Forever. Until the day he died.
    And when he considered the way that his life was headed, that day might not be so far off.
    Yeah. Dead end, that’s for goddamn sure.
    **
    Four hours later, Warren slammed the button on his alarm clock, rolled over with a groan. Jesus God , he was tired. He’d slept badly, far worse than usual, and his sheets were a tangled mess all around him.
    He forced his ass up, forced his ass in to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, took in his eyes all bloodshot from lack of sleep, his tousled dark-blond hair, his muscular chest covered in tattoos. He ran his hand over his beard, briefly considered giving it a trim, decided against it.
    Of all the the ways that he’d changed over the past eight months, there were only two that he actually liked. The first was the tattoos, though he hated that the large one on his upper back was the Fallen Angels tat, since it made him feel marked and dirty. At least it was behind him, so he didn’t have to look at it. The second was his beard.
    Warren was almost twenty-six years old, but he’d always looked way younger. He knew now that it had partly been a naturally youthful appearance, but it had also been a certain innocence that he’d had. He’d never been stupid – though he’d never been very book-smart – but he’d definitely been naïve.
    Once upon a time, that naïvety had been written bright and large all over his face, and had made every person around him call him annoying things like ‘kid’ and ‘sport’. The beard had been a stab at looking older, and it had worked… though Warren now wondered how much of his suddenly-much-older appearance was the beard, and how much was the world-weary, hardened look in his blue eyes.
    Sighing, he stripped off his boxers, stepped in to the shower. He turned it on as hot as it would go, then just stood under its relentless spray, his hands against the tile, his head hanging low, his eyes closed. Wishing hard for things that were too late to wish for; wishing away things that had strolled on in to his life and taken up permanent residence.
    Feeling the minutes ticking away, he pulled himself together. He shampooed and soaped and rinsed, then with nothing but regret, he