Rush (Carolina Bad Boys, #5)(2)

Hunter’s gold eyes immediately narrowed on me.

Deadly.

But I’d faced a certain kind of death before, and when Cole slid the glass to me, I saluted the cold killer . . . who could barely keep his hands off his wife, JB.

He flipped a middle finger at me without even looking, in the middle of kissing Jessica.

“Hopeless,” Cole remarked, still grinning.

“Yup.”

“Not gonna happen to me,” he uttered.

“I hear that.”

Kinkaid took up a cloth and started polishing the bar again.

Big and blond, the man’s eyes lit on me. “Keeping up with the workout regime? ’Cause if you get bored I can help you switch it up.”

He rolled his hips and performed a dance move that left most women in the joint gagging on drool.

“Thought you gave that stripper shit up,” I said.

He leaned in close. “Only do it for Sadie now. Makes her hot.”

“Forget Handsome,” Brodie—who seemed to have preternatural hearing—shouted from across the room—“oughtta start callin’ him Horse!”

“’Cause I’m hung like one?” I rallied back, and more biker babes salivated for a taste of rough-and-tumble action.

The dudes laughed, just another night of raw innuendo that usually ended in a bed full of hot sex with one honey or another.

Hunter approached, his eyes skewering the drink in my hand before lifting to mine. “Lookin’ good, dude. Now that we can actually see your face.”

“What is this?” Cole, that fuck, flicked at my hair I’d hastily pulled up at the back of my head. “A mun, right?”

“Man bun,” Brodie turned up, snickering, with his evil blond goatee and big silver rings.

I’d have blushed if I actually gave two fucks. I’d gotten my hair cut. Started keeping it off my face. Worked out. Not because I needed more female attention. I’d never had a problem pulling the ladies.

I just wanted to be me again, in some way, shape, or form. Plus Brodie was the most gigantic pain in the ass, so when he decided I had to pony up, I gave in. I’d beefed up, put on muscle, shaved my beard, become visible.

Which meant I was vulnerable.

No one would ever know that though.

Boomer stalked over after leaving Rayce to reign over the dartboards with a loud slap to her ass.

“Didn’t even know you had ears.” His deep voice rumbled.

“And gauges, too, huh?” Cole leaned over to inspect the small bone plugs in my earlobes similar in size to his steel ones.

I knocked him out of my face. “Yeah. And I got mine a long time before you, young buck.”

“Yessir, Mr. MC Ocifer.” Cole chuckled, backing off.

With all the attention I was drawing I considered going incognito again. And that was just the brothers. The ladies were completely different animals altogether, and I didn’t have enough hands to handle all of them.

I’d been lounging against the bar, just taking it all in, refusing invitations to dance or slip into the back for a fast furious fuck that often ended with a nighttime full of regrets, when I heard my name called.

Not Handsome, my roadname, but my real one.

“Max? Maxwell Rush?” a familiar feminine voice called out.

All talk subsided, and Tail jumped onto the pool table again. “Who the hell’s named after a coffee company here?”

When I located the woman who’d shouted my name, my spine straightened.

Shiloh stood in Retribution MC central—the last place I’d ever expected to see her. The proverbial girl next door. Shy. A blast from the past that would no doubt dredge up memories and a history better off left forgotten.

I glanced at Tail then down at my groin. “You know what they say, dude. Good to the last drop.”

Leaving the crowd to stare and guffaw, I made my way toward Shy. Fuck. Seven years. She’d grown up.

“That you, Shiloh?”

“Max!” She flew into my arms. “You’ve gotten . . . bigger.” Her eyes widened as she leaned back and looked me up and down.

That time I did blush. Before scanning her more closely. More slowly. Gone was the gangly neighbor girl from my past. The teen who’d been my sister’s best friend and become my friend in turn.

Golden-skinned, she smelled so good—something like the ocean at Sullivan’s Island when the waves rushed in. Her hair was sun-streaked rich brown and honey-gold and razor-edged from the very nape of her neck to a sharp angle below her delicately boned jaw. No ink marked her sleek flesh, not like me. My most prominent tat on my left shoulder was a motorcycle with the emblem Ride or Die. But I was inked from my shoulders to my wrists—wrenches, skulls, Once upon a wish, not to mention the massive MC backpiece.

Back to Shy who I couldn’t take my eyes off of. Goddamn. A lot of skin showed between the sheer slouchy top just barely remaining this side of sultry instead of slutty by a flash—a band of bright color—wrapped around her tits beneath the see-through thing that sloped off one naked shoulder. Her jeans were tight, rolled up, and her lengthy legs ended in heels that added to her height but only brought her to my chin.

Gold jewelry, high quality, at her ears and her wrists. And when she hooked back her hair with a smile tipped up at me, I saw she had a bar piercing the upper cartilage of one ear.