Uncertain Saints MC: Vodka on the Rocks
There are rules to life that one just obeys in order in her attempt stay on the right path. For example:
1. You don’t wear dirty panties out of the house. You just never know who’s going to see them.
2. A lady must always have chocolate at the ready—just in case the world as she knows it comes to an end.
3. You don’t egg on a drunk woman who’s pissed off at life.
Why, you ask? Because they start bar fights, that’s why.
Casten Red, the unofficial enforcer of The Uncertain Saints MC, wasn’t necessarily trying to urge her into doing anything illegal, and he definitely wasn’t trying to get her into a fight with a group of men who were all twice her size.
No, he only intended to give her the confidence to stand up for herself, just a little nudge in the right direction. How the hell was he supposed to know she’d go all Chuck Norris on them and put three of them in the hospital with concussions?
He should’ve followed his gut instinct and turned around that first moment he saw her in the bar, but Casten has never liked following the rules. Why the hell would he start now?
“You’re dilly dallying,” Casten growled.
I turned around, bag in one hand, and papers in the other, and glared.
“What makes you think that I don’t have a fuckin’ reason for doing what I do?” I growled.
He held up his hands.
“Down tiger,” he said soothingly, although his eyes flashed, telling a different story.
I shoved the rest of my things in my bag, bending them to hell and back, but I couldn’t seem to find the urge to care at that moment in time.
I walked past him, knocking his shoulder, and headed to the back hallway to turn off the last of the lights.
I hit the first two in the in the locker room before heading to the last one in the entire gym area at the bathroom entrance.
But before I could hit the lights, my hand was stilled by Casten’s.
“What’s your problem?” he asked.
I tried to rip my hand free from his grip, but he held on without even the least bit of effort.
“I’m pissed,” I growled.
“Why?” he countered.
I looked across the room at the mirror, and glared at his reflection.
“I don’t want to tell you why I’m pissed. Suffice it to say, you’re the reason, and that’s that,” I growled.
He tightened his hands on my wrists.
“That’s not it. Tell me fuckin’ why, or I’ll make you tell me,” he hissed.
My fists clenched.
“Because you fucking pouted last night instead of talking to me. Then made Core spend the night and take me to work, when I didn’t want him to be there. I wanted you to be there. But you were being a titty baby,” I yelled.
He moved me until my ass met the counter, crowding so close that I was sure he was either going to beat me or fuck me.
Hopefully the latter over the former, if I had a choice.
“Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!” I exclaimed.
“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there!” I cried.
“Shit,” I said, opening my eyes.
“Done?” Casten asked from where he’d trapped me against the bathroom counter.
“My clothes are getting wet. In fact, I think my pants are soaked all the way through,” I grumbled, leaning forward until my upper body was laying across the counter.
Casten sat up until all that was touching me were his hips, where his massive erection dug into my ass.
“You’re cute,” he said, reaching up and pulling my hair out of my ponytail.
I glared. “I’m not cute.”
He grabbed my face and turned it to face the mirror.
His hands were squeezing my face so I looked like I had ten chin rolls and lips three sizes too big.
“See,” he said. “Cute.”