Chapter 2

The badass biker looked up, staring right at Van. Their gazes locked and held. So many emotions went through Van. Want, need like he’d never felt before, and a pulling sensation, as if a rope dragged him toward the guy. The feelings warmed him on the inside.

Matty grabbed Van’s shoulder. “Come on, dude.”

Blinking several times, Van grunted a response, the moment broken. When he looked back, the god-like creature waved at a chopper coming from the other direction and laughed at something another biker said as he covered up his hot-as-fuck torso.

Van’s heart was ricocheting against his ribs by the time he made it to the bar and ordered a round. He couldn’t get the guy off his mind, and his gaze kept straying to the door in hopes of seeing the badass on the bike. He’d never in his life seen a guy as ruggedly sexy as that biker. And that tattoo…if he were a lesser man, he would’ve swooned.

Snorting out a laugh, he looked over at Matty, who was already schmoozing with the local girls, knocking back the shot and beer they had ordered at the bar. Even if Matty played for the same team, he wasn’t Van’s type. Sure, he was a good-looking man; dark haired, always had a five o’clock shadow no matter what time of the day it was, and he had a small dimple on each cheek. He was cute, but cute never did anything for Van. He always went with the bad boy types. He liked being dominated, not hard core like BDSM or anything. Just a little hair pulling maybe, or a little rough ass grabbing.

His heart rate started to calm, and he took a deep breath to relax. Then he smelled leather, fresh air, and something hard to describe. As he looked for the source of the delicious scents, he turned, only to realize that Mr. Badass himself sat right next to him.

* * * *

Groaning as he got off his bike, Hunter had finally finished up his latest case. Being a bounty hunter had its perks, but after riding six hundred miles to chase the last asswipe, he needed a break. He’d run the con all the way to the east coast. Fuck, his old bones were getting tired. Turning twenty-eight wasn’t exactly considered old and washed up, but long hauls of two hundred plus miles were hard to do.

It didn’t help that it was hot as fuck here in South Caro, as the locals called it. It wasn’t a bad town. Nice weather, small enough not to be overrun like Cali, beautiful in its southern charm sort of way, almost quaint. It reminded him of Clutterfarms, Georgia, where he grew up.

His parents were farmers, loved the outdoors, and it’d rubbed off on him. He just didn’t have the staying power his brother, Ethan, had. Ethan was the foreman on the ranch, among other things, content with staying close to their homestead.

Hunter was more of a traveler, never finding the need to stay too long in one place. Being on the road with no one to answer to, no one to nag at him, had always been good. Now that he wasn’t far from thirty, he wanted someone to be there when he got home, maybe even care that he was away. Fuck, where had those thoughts come from? Hunter laughed to himself.

What the hell was he thinking? He was a loner and loved having no attachments, or at least that was what he told himself.

When he heard a horn blow, his attention jerked towards the man crossing the street. He was mesmerized. The man was built, not in an I-can-lift-a-car sort of way, more subtly built. Just the way Hunter liked them. When the brown-haired dude the guy walked with grabbed his shoulder, Hunter had to keep from growling and claiming ownership. He felt connected to this stranger.

Rowdy Kingston, a local guy he was meeting, rode up next to Hunter’s bike. It was time for business. Pleasure would have to wait until later. Taking a final look at the bar, he got down to business.

“Dude, I’m fucking thirsty. Let’s go in and get a beer. Then we’ll hash it out.” Rowdy winked and nodded towards the door.

Some of the “dive bars,” as the locals called them, were just that, but this one was a little more. They had everything: a TV on every available surface, a kick-ass pool room visible from the front door, tables lined up against the walls, and a wrap-around bar area with five bartenders. No one had to wait too long to get a drink. It had a homey feel, not overly crowded like some sports bars.

“Hey, Rowdy! Over here.” A burley bartender waved them over as two stools came open.