And in all this time, the eighteen months since Rogan was arrested, feeling it nearly every day, I still wasn’t used to it.

But I was desperate. I had no choice.

“Get your ass outta here,” another man ordered, and I looked at him.

“Are you Mr. Hardy?” I asked.

“Get your ass outta here,” he replied.

I ignored him because I had a job to do and I needed to do it. Desperation, obviously, made you do desperate things.

And, like I said, I was desperate.

My eyes scanned through the men.

I had to take this. If I didn’t take this and say what I had to say, I didn’t get paid and Tia got into trouble.

And I needed to get paid, and I needed that badly.

But more, I couldn’t get Tia into trouble.

All the men were standing, save one.

One was sitting at a stool at the bar, slightly twisted to the side, but his head was bowed to it, looking at a bottle of beer in his hands.

I only saw his profile and not much of it since he had a very full beard.

He had a lot of tattoos on his arms which were exposed by a short-sleeved T-shirt. He had very muscular arms. And from what I could see from the tight T-shirt he was wearing that stretched along his broad back, a very muscular everything.

He had dark hair that was too long. Not long, long, as in, he could put it in a ponytail like some of the men had, but it curled around his neck and swept back from his face and looked kind of greasy-wet, but in a cool way, and I wondered inanely if he used product.

Then again, you couldn’t blame him if he did. I suspected even bikers used product. Since it was so long in the front, if he didn’t do something to keep it back, it would fall over his forehead into his eyes and that would be annoying.

If he wasn’t so rough-looking, I could tell, even in profile, he’d be immensely attractive.

He just wasn’t my type.

Not that anyone was.

Not anymore.

I also knew he was West Hardy, president of the Aces High Motorcycle Club.

I knew this only because, though he was sitting, staring at his beer, he had something about him—a charisma, a magnetism. He exuded the gravitas of a chief.

He was not one of the boys.

He was the leader of the pack.

I started toward him and a big man with long, dirty-blond hair not pulled into a ponytail (but it could have been) stepped in front of me.

I stopped, sucked in a breath and looked up at him.

“Get…your ass…outta here,” he growled.

“I have a message to deliver to Mr. Hardy,” I replied.

“Bitch, get…” He leaned into me and it took everything I had, but I stood firm because, it must be said, this man was big, but he was also seriously scary. “Outta here,” he finished.

“Ink,” a deep, rough voice said quietly, and the man in front of me glared at me, straightened, then twisted his neck to look over his shoulder.

“What?” he barked.

“Tequila,” the deep, rough voice replied strangely.

The entire room changed then.

It was odd.

The atmosphere was heavy and dangerous one second, but the minute that voice said “tequila,” a lightness flowed through, the tenseness immediately evaporated, and chancing a glance around, I saw some of the men actually smiling.

What on earth?

The man in front of me, who I suspected was called “Ink,” stepped aside, his mouth moving like he was fighting back a smile, and the way was cleared to the man at the bar.

He was still cradling his beer with both hands and his head was still bowed, but now his neck was twisted, and his eyes were on me.

Okay.

Um.

Wow.

I had no type, but when I did have a type, he was not my type.

That said, if he was charismatic, magnetic and attractive in profile, those dark eyes with the laugh lines emanating from the sides, his thick beard with hints of gray in it, his strong bone structure (specifically his cheekbones, they were magnificent) and his intensity aimed at me, I had to admit, was beyond charismatic, magnetic and attractive straight to downright electrifying.

“Have a seat, Toots,” he ordered, his head tipping to the stool beside him as the men around me moved away.

I pulled in a short, calming breath, thrilled beyond belief the scary portion of my task was over, and I walked up to the bar but didn’t take a seat.

“This shouldn’t take long,” I told him.

“Have a seat,” he repeated in his gravelly voice.

“I just came to say—”

“Babe,” he cut me off, his voice going lower. He hadn’t lifted his head, but his dark brown eyes changed in a way that both scared me and enthralled me, but not in a way I could describe, they just did. “I said, have… a… seat.”

I decided it was judicious to have a seat.

So I pulled my purse off my shoulder and slid as best I could in my tight skirt up onto the barstool. Once situated, I put my purse on the bar and turned to him to see he’d lifted his head and was also lifting his chin.

A young man, as rough as the rest, but definitely younger (early twenties at most), came forward with two shot glasses and a bottle. I watched as he filled both shot glasses then stepped away.

The man seated beside me straightened and reached out to the glasses. He picked one up and extended it to me.

“Um…I haven’t had lunch,” I demurred, my gaze going from the shot glass to his eyes.

“Take it,” he ordered. “Drink.”

“I drove here. It would be irresponsible to drink straight alcohol on an empty stomach and then—”

He cut me off.

“Toots, I said, take it.”

Oh dear.

I took it, and the instant I did, he reached out and nabbed the other one, put it to his lips and threw his head and the shot back. I watched his throat work and was vaguely intrigued through my what-on-earth-is-happening-now feelings to see his neck was as well-muscled as the rest of him.

He slammed the glass down, his head turned to me and then tipped to my glass.

“Shoot it,” he demanded.

“Are you Mr. Hardy?” I asked.

“Buck,” he replied.

I felt my brows knit. “You’re Mr. Buck?”

“No, darlin’, I’m called Buck.”

“Oh,” I muttered then asked, “Is the name on your birth certificate West Hardy?”

He grinned at me, all strong white teeth in a dark beard, and for some reason that made my heart skip a beat.

“Affirmative,” he stated.

There it was.

Good.

I scooted my bottom on the chair, ready to get down to business, and stated, “Okay, then, Esposito says—”

He interrupted me again. “Shoot it.”

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Babe, shoot the tequila.”

“What I have to say won’t take long,” I told him. “And I appreciate your offer of refreshments, but—”

He grinned again, looking like something was immensely entertaining, and I stopped speaking because West “Buck” Hardy’s entertained look went so far beyond attractive it was not funny.

“You appreciate my offer of refreshments?” he asked.

“Um, yes, it’s very nice, but it’s just past noon and—”