Page 7 of Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)
“I’m going to have her,” I tell my fellow Reapers. “Watch me go over there and close this deal.”
I’m met with a whole bunch of skeptical looks, but Rowdy rises to the occasion.
“Yeah, Rockstar’ll be balls deep in no time,” he tells the rest of the Reapers, finally falling back into hype-man mode. “All he has to do is let her know who he is. When she finds out he’s G-Latham and his family owns a record label, them legs will fall right on open for Rockstar. You’ll see!”
I squint at Rowdy. “You don't think I can get this girl without her knowing who I am?”
“Uh . . .” Suddenly Rowdy’s real interested in what’s happening on the roadhouse’s concrete floor.
But Hyena isn’t afraid to make his feelings on the subject known.
“Yeah, playing the fame card is probably the only thing that will get you in that particular girl’s pants.”
That ugly, weird vibe that’s been plaguing me since my birthday boils and bubbles at his words.
I’m back in the gym at the boarding school my dad tried to ship me off to after my mom went home. And the rich boys with famous last names are calling me “Surfer Dude” because I’m from California and wondering out loud during a lacrosse game if I even would have gotten into the place if my last name weren’t Latham.
Back then, I proved that I wasn’t one to cross with my fists. Breaking all those teeth was worth getting expelled from my first of many schools before I dropped out and joined the Reapers.
But this time, I decide to prove myself a different way.
When they tell me the girl I want is untouchable—that there’s no way I can have her without using my fame or name to get it in—I ask them, “Wanna bet?”
CHAPTER 4
RED
KIKI: Have you decided yet on Christmas? Need to give the caterer a head count.
I immediately regret pulling my phone out while waiting for that good-looking Reaper who guessed the Deep Cut to come get his beer. And my fingers hover above the touchscreen’s keyboard as I try to decide how to answer the latest text from Kiki.
She's my cousin, but also my best friend—which is why we call each other “best cousins” even now that she’s a highly in-demand songwriter who the rest of the world knows by her married government name, Kyra Fairgood.
We’re so close. How can I look her in the face at Christmas and not tell her what I’ve been up to since Thanksgiving? That I quit my job and my boyfriend. That I’m moving to New York at the beginning of the year to begin a completely new career outside of my field.
That I decided to work here in a topless roadhouse to earn the money I need to make my secret dreams come true instead of just asking her—my now super-rich cousin—to give me the money.
If I told her, there’d be yelling. So much yelling. Then would come the questions, followed by worry. I’m sure she’d assume I was having a nervous breakdown.
Maybe I am.
I’ve felt so lost and restless since I held my grandma’s hand as she took her last breath.
“How does my hair look?” Candy suddenly demands, grabbing hold of my arm. She smooths her hands over her striped brown and black extensions. Then she cups her breasts and asks, “Is there anything on my tits?”
You’d have to serve hot wings and alcohol topless to realize how much of your breasts you can’t see by just looking down. How often have I found random smudges of buffalo wing sauce after my shift while walking past the big mirror in the back room where all the serving staff changes? So, I totally get why she’s asking me this question.
“You look great,” I answer, grateful for the excuse to return my phone to the back pocket of my cut-off shorts without answering Kiki.
Then I get to feel like the total opposite of Boring Bernice when I assure her, “Your tits are all clean”—five words I would never have imagined myself saying before Thanksgiving.
“Oh, good.” Candy lets out an audible breath of relief. Then she squeals, “Here comes Rockstar!”
Sure enough, the Reaper who cockily introduced himself as Griff after my song was done is coming straight this way. Bikers and groupies part like the Red Sea as he strides up to the server station where I’m waiting to pull his beer behind the tap.
And wow . . . he is even hotter up close. Chiseled good looks and a straight patrician nose. He’s also tall and well-built. And unlike some of the bikers wearing bandanas to hide their receding edges, he’s got a full head of platinum blond hair. It’s so perfectly tousled, I’d bet all my Bird Call tips that there’s a whole bunch of gel and care involved to make it seem like he just rolled out of bed.
