Is he asking me out on a date? Or maybe this is the biker version of a coffee? In theory we’re old high school friends who haven’t seen each other in years, so this could be strictly platonic, or him just being nice because he’s aware my life is a mess.
“You’re thinking too hard.” He looks amused as he pulls a business card out of his jacket pocket and scribbles an address on it. He takes my hand, tucking the card into my palm and closing my fingers around it. His thumb strokes over my knuckles briefly. “Say yes. I promise I won’t forget you this time.”
His eyes dip to my mouth. Is he thinking about kissing me? Am I thinking about kissing him?
“Maybe,” I blurt out, my good intentions melting like my panties.
I’m still trying to decide as he saunters back to his bike, straddles the seat and rides off. Usually, I’d just admire the view and get on with my life, but nothing about today has been normal. I’ve been rendered homeless, dumped and inked. And after an evening of downing way too many cocktails, I’ve also got a monster-size thirst to go with the start of a headache—and the contacts I’ve been wearing all day aren’t helping. Hooking up with a biker and tattoo artist is also something I wouldn’t usually do.
But I’m painfully aware that the man’s ass and thighs are a delicious work of art that deserve appreciating. Biker. Charmer. Player. Vik is all of these and more, and the sex appeal just rolls off him. Maybe we could hook up, but it couldn’t end any better than it did the first time.
Trouble.
That’s what Vik is. He’s Capital T Trouble.
He’s not the Mr. Right I’ve been searching for, he doesn’t fit into my life plan, and that makes him most definitely not the person I need in my life right now. If I were smart, I’d sit out on dating for a few months even if said life plan calls for marriage and kids before I’m thirty-five and my eggs start drying up like water in the desert. It’s just that I’d swear Vik looked at me like he liked what he saw. I mean, really, really liked what he saw. And he walked me out and gave me his card and God I need to find a life somewhere. I’ve already taken his dick for a ride, so it’s not like I can even blame curiosity for the warm sensation licking my belly and melting all my resolve.
I settle slowly into the seat as the taxi pulls away from Ink Me. Brooklyn makes a face like she’s giving serious consideration to puking, so I rub her back and try to not hear the wounded animal sounds she’s making.
I should throw Vik’s card away. Instead, I turn it over. It’s the general card for Ink Me, with all the basic contact information for hitting up the tattoo parlor for an appointment. On the reverse side, however, Vik has scrawled an address and two words.
Come over.
Oh, and he’s also sketched a cartoon Viking that’s...
Doing something downright obscene.
To a very large penis.
That has...
Ink?
I shove the card into my purse and try not to wonder if Vik has tattoos in some very personal areas. How likely is it that a guy would let a needle and ink anywhere near his favorite body part? Plus, the pain. And how would that even work? Do you ink when you’re hard or soft?
He has to be exaggerating.
I make a mental note to Google penis sizes and hand-to-dick ratios. After that, I’ll clear my browser cache and get on with my life, curiosity satisfied.
Really.
I will.
Bad boys and bankers don’t mix.
CHAPTER FIVE
Harper
MY LIFE DOES not magically sort itself out overnight.
This comes as no surprise, although part of me wishes I’d inherit a fairy godmother or some magic beans. Instead, I wake up alone in my Bellagio hotel room. Since I’m only here for a week or two until I find a new place and I’m paying for my reservation with the Douche’s lifetime hoard of frequent flyer miles, I upgraded to a room with a fountain view. This means I don’t even have to get out of bed to see the watery fireworks. One push of a convenient bedside button and the blackout drapes part with a dramatic swoosh, sunlight pouring inside as the water below shoots upward to the sounds of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”
I go all in and order room service pancakes. A pot of overpriced coffee, hothouse strawberries and a pound of butter improve my mood substantially. I send emails and make calls, setting up appointments to view various condos because unfortunately I can’t live at the Bellagio forever.
I do Saturday things after I’ve done what I can to organize my life, because it would be a shame to be camped out at the Strip’s fanciest hotel and not take advantage of it. I swim in pools surrounded by faux-Grecian statuary spouting water. I lose ten bucks in the slot machines. I pass on visiting the art gallery in favor of the ginormous chocolate fountain in the hotel’s candy shop because everything is better with chocolate.
And the whole time I keep thinking about last night. About Vik’s casual invitation to join him at an MC party. He might be hot and uninhibited, but he’s also a biker, and he’s the guy who banged me in the back seat of his car after high school prom...and then promptly forgot my name, my face and every detail of that encounter. I’ve probably idealized his bedroom skills. He’s not worth pursuing, and he likely has zero interest in me that way, even if he did offer to be my booty call. Who says those kinds of things?
Other than company events, I can’t remember the last party I went to. There aren’t many festive moments on my calendar. Okay, so I could swing by Vik’s clubhouse and
