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Cocky Biker(3)

By:Faleena Hopkins


One slides a plate at her, and she begrudgingly walks it over to me.

I hold her eyes.

We’re like two dogs waiting to see who’s the weaker one.

It’s not me.

It’s not her, either. Turns out ‘Alice’ has some fight in her.

Good. In this world, she needs it.

Equal rights or no, the truth is that women are still victims in this society. The less of us bowing down to that ugly fact and standing up in our own power no matter who we come across, the better chance we have of changing it. Forever.

“Thanks,” I tell her as she sets down my scrambled eggs and well-done bacon. My show of gratitude (albeit subdued) takes her aback.

She nods slowly, and an understanding rises between us. Unspoken, but we both feel it…I can tell.

“I’ll get your coffee.” She walks away.

I reach over for the saltshaker. Can’t wait to cover my home fries with this. I’m starving.

Haven’t eaten since lunch two days ago.

I was so close to finding him that I’ve forgotten to feed myself. When you’re obsessed, pausing for anything gets in the way. Even food…until you get so weak you can’t function. Which is where I found myself this morning.

The sound of heavy black boots clomping toward me is like a time bomb.

Out of my periphery I see thick, muscular thighs walk up.

I sigh and shake the salt over everything on my plate. Even the bacon.

“I don’t want company,” I mutter.

A steaming cup of fresh caffeine lands in front of my left hand. Grey Eyes slides into the booth with the grace of a lion. You’d think a beast that large wouldn’t be able to slink the way it does, but he sure fucking can.

We regard each other in silence. He takes a sip from his own full cup, not giving a shit that it’s mouth-burning hot. His lips wrapping around that rim is sexier than it should be. I can’t help but watch. He notices and licks those lips…and with purpose.

“Great,” I mutter. “Another cocky fuck who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

He pauses and disarms me with a smile so genuinely entertained that I find myself adjusting my weight in the booth.

Why does this guy make me nervous?

He’s as relaxed as if we were lying on a beach with piña coladas in our hands. I glance to his and soak in how thick his fingers are. They say you can judge the size of a man’s cock by the size of his hands. I’ve found that’s not true, but you can tell the shape of it by his fingers. Grey Eyes has trunks for digits.

“I said I didn’t want company,” I repeat, glancing over at the low snickers of his friends. They’re enjoying this a little too much.

Fuck it.

I grab my backpack and go to leave.

This is a big city.

I’m hungry and salivating now that food is this close to getting in my mouth, but I can find more someplace else.

“Hey hey hey.” Grey Eyes reaches over. Not all rapey-like. More just surprised and hoping for my patience.

I flinch, so that makes him stop just shy of grabbing my arm.

I don’t like to be touched unless I’ve asked for it.

This is my body.

I say who comes near it.

“What?” I demand. “You come over and sit down like we know each other or something. We don’t. And I just want to eat my breakfast.”

More cautious now, he motions to my plate. “So eat.”

“Alone.”

The place is silent.

His friends are watching us.

The old man in the corner, Alice, and the guys in the kitchen, are watching us.

Grey Eyes feels them, too.

The air is thicker than his neck, and that’s saying a lot.

Maintaining eye contact, he calls over his broad shoulder, “Alice. Bring my food over here when it comes out.”

I almost smile at him calling her that. Almost.

Amusement dances in his eyes, like we’re in on the fun together now. I’m standing by the booth, wondering what the best course of action is.

If he had a bully vibe, I’d be outta here, but he’s got this weird kind of friendly manner that doesn’t match that patch and leather.

He leans back and throws an arm over the booth. “We don’t have to talk,” he calmly says. “I’ll even BUY your…salt fest.”

Again, I almost smile at his noticing I have a thing for flavor.

Fuck it.

Dropping my backpack on the booth with a loud thump, I sit. “Fine. You’re buying. But I’m not giving you anything for it.”

“Yeah, pretty much got that,” he smirks. To the diner he loudly calls out, “Show’s over,” and the sounds of normalcy resume.

In a voice tainted with sarcasm and low enough that only he can hear me, I ask the cocky fuck, “You always get what you want?”