“Oh my God,” the blonde cried out. She jumped off the front porch of the Blue Angels’ clubhouse and sauntered toward me. She was all legs and confidence.
“Oh my God, what?” I asked warily.
She grinned. “Your jacket. Is it vintage?”
I nodded and smiled slightly.
“Wicked.” Her blue eyes raked over me, lingering on my feet. “First time?”
“First time what?”
“First time at a biker party?”
I paused. “Is it that obvious?”
“Kinda. It’s the shoes. Dead giveaway.”
I looked down at her feet to see what she was wearing. Black ankle boots with spikes that were somehow tasteful.
“Love the color of your toenails, though,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“I’m Willa.”
“Brooklyn,” I replied.
“So, are you here alone?” she pressed.
I nodded.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I feel like it’s my duty to stick to your side and make sure nothing happens to you.”
“What do you mean, make sure nothing happens to me?” I asked in alarm. “Are you saying—”
“Shit.” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out. It’s just, well, these parties can be a lot. Especially if you’ve never been to one. They’re good guys though, trust me.” She gestured over her shoulder to the two men on the front porch who were watching us with interest.
“Are you…dating one of them?” I asked.
Her eyes widened and she burst into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” a dark-haired guy called out.
“She asked if I was dating one of you,” she replied.
They both started to laugh, and I felt my cheeks heat.
“I’ve known those two since we were kids. We’re like The Three Musketeers,” she announced.
“Oh.” I smiled sheepishly.
“Duke.” She pointed to the man with dark hair and dimples. Then she gestured to the blond. “Savage. Come meet them, then we’ll get you a beer. Promise.”
She stepped away from me, toward her friends. I began to follow her when the front door of the clubhouse burst open. Two men covered in leather and ink spilled onto the porch, their fists colliding. One of the men clocked the other in the jaw, sending him reeling.
I couldn’t move out of the way fast enough and the heavily muscled man who’d been punched rammed into me, sending me flying. I tumbled off the porch steps and landed on my back, my head smacking the ground. Air whooshed from my lungs as my bones rattled from the impact.
“Enough!” a man yelled, drowning out the sound of the Allman Brothers in the background. “I said enough!”
The music shut off inside the house, and suddenly there was a deafening silence.
I stared up at the night sky and saw stars, though I wasn’t sure if they were real or not because I’d hit my head.
A swarthy face covered in gray stubble appeared over me. I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, and my attention was drawn to a jagged scar that graced his forehead. It bisected his eyebrow, missing his left eye, and disappeared as it thinned out down his cheek. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair fell into his face, and he hastily ran a hand through it, trying to get it out of the way. It didn’t stay put.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was raspy, like he hadn’t spoken in a long time.
“Hey,” I wheezed.
“I’m gonna help you sit up. Okay?”
“Okay.”
His arms came around me and he helped me into a sitting position. My head swirled and my vision danced with black spots. I collapsed against the stranger, my cheek brushing his shirt.
His chest was taut with muscle. It felt strong. He felt strong.
“Brooklyn,” Willa cried, suddenly crouching next to me.
“I’m okay,” I said. It was a half-truth, and I grimaced as my vision winked in and out.
“Like hell you are,” the man holding me grumbled.
“I’m fine,” I insisted and made a motion that I wanted to stand. Willa and the stranger aided me. Willa let go, but the man kept his arm around me.
Good thing, too, because I crumpled into him when I tried to stand.
“I think she might have a concussion,” the stranger said.
“Your shoe heel is broken,” Willa lamented. “Damn. It was cute.”
“My heel is broken?” I asked, my voice sounding way more forlorn than it should have.
“Your shoe is the least of your problems,” the man holding me said.
I gained the strength to push away from him. I looked up.
And up.
And up.
I found myself glaring at his chin because he was nearly a foot taller than me. “You don’t understand. The shoes made the outfit.”
He arched a brow and absently rubbed a thumb across his cheek. The raspy sound of his whiskers against his finger sent an unwanted curl of desire through me. It was inherently masculine, and I noticed.
The man radiated testosterone.
“You look like you want to say something,” I said.
“I don’t,” he stated.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
He paused for a moment. “Slash.”
My gaze instantly went to the scar across his forehead. “Slash,” I murmured. Our gazes met and everything else around me seemed to fall away. The lights from the clubhouse illuminated his sculpted jaw, the angular planes of his face.
“You need to see a doctor,” he commanded.
I bristled at his dominance. “I don’t need to see a doctor.”
“You hit your head. You can barely stand up straight.”
“I don’t want to go to the ER.”
ERs were expensive. Money, I didn’t have.
A voice came from behind Slash. “Linden is still at the clinic.”
I looked at the man who’d spoken. A scruffy blond biker stood a few feet away, along with Duke, Savage, Willa, and another biker I didn’t know. The two men who’d come out swinging were nowhere to be found.
“Linden can look her over,” the blond biker continued. “I’ll give her a call and let her know you’re coming.”
Slash nodded. “I’ll drive her.”
“Drive me?” My eyes widened. I didn’t know these people. I glanced at Willa—the only person I was sort of acquainted with, for all of thirty seconds.
“I’d drive you, doll,” she said. “But I’ve been drinking.”
“I haven’t,” Slash said. “I’m sober.”
“I’ll take an Uber,” I protested.
“Woman,” Slash growled. “You’ll be safe with me.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him. “You do not get to be offended that I’m reluctant to let a stranger drive me to an unknown destination so this Linden person can check to see if I have a concussion.”
Slash sighed and glanced at the blond biker. “Boxer?”
“On it,” Boxer said. He whipped out his cell phone from the breast pocket of his leather cut and quickly dialed a number. A moment later, a smile flitted across his face. “Doc, I need you to reassure Brooklyn that Slash isn’t going to carry her off into the night instead of bringing her to see you.”
He paused a moment and then said, “She fell and hit her head. We wanna make sure she doesn’t have a concussion.” Boxer handed me the phone. “Talk to Linden.”
I put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hi,” a woman replied. “I’m Doctor Linden Ward. I run the Waco Health & Wellness Clinic across town. If you’ve hit your head, I’d really like to examine you.”
I turned away to pretend to have privacy. “Someone named Slash wants to drive me to see you…”
She snorted out a laugh. “I think I see where this is going. You can trust him. You can trust any man who wears a Blue Angels cut. I promise.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “All right. I’ll let Slash drive me.” I hung up the phone and handed it back to Boxer.
“Did you drive here?” Slash asked.
I nodded.
He held out his hand. “Keys.”
“Do you think you can try and be a little less bossy?”
Willa let out a tiny gasp, and the bikers standing around chuckled.
Slash’s expression didn’t change. “No. Keys.”
With a sigh, I pulled my key ring out of my jacket pocket and plopped it into his outstretched palm. I took a step forward and wobbled on my broken heel and would’ve fallen over if Slash hadn’t been there to steady me.
I could feel the heat of him through my jacket.
Even when I tried to pull away, he wouldn’t let me go. He tightened his grip, but not in a way that made me uncomfortable. “Which car is yours?” he asked when we made it to the gravel parking lot.
I flung my hand in the direction of my beat-up car, wincing when I saw it. He unlocked the passenger side and opened the door for me. I climbed in and immediately removed my heels. I tossed them into the back of the car and then turned around and rummaged on the floor for a pair of black flip-flops.
Slash got into the driver’s side and adjusted the seat and mirrors for his tall frame.
“You know where we’re going?” I asked.
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not from here.” He glanced at me and put the car into drive.
“But you’re—aren’t you a member of the Blue Angels?” I looked at his leather cut. It was like the one Duke and Savage were wearing.
He didn’t say anything until after we’d driven through the gate and hit the main road. “Nomad.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m a Nomad.”
I frowned. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“It means I’m a member of the Blue Angels, but I don’t belong to a specific chapter.”
“So, you’re not from here,” I concluded. “Got it.” I took out my phone and searched for the clinic’s address. I plugged it into GPS and let the maps program guide us.
“Slash is an interesting nickname,” I said, just to disrupt the quiet.
“Not a nickname. A road name.”
“What’s your real name?”
He glanced at me for a moment and then back to the street. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Your real name doesn’t matter? Why not?”
He clenched his jaw, and I thought for sure that was the end of the conversation. But he surprised me when he rumbled out, “I haven’t been called by my real name in fifteen years. Besides, I’m not that man anymore.”