“Honestly, Emily, it’s like you’re not even putting in an effort. You have to understand how badly it reflects on me. I’m the mayor, for Christ’s sake.”

Dad glares across the limo at me while Mom leans into him. His suit is flawless, as always, black Armani with a crimson pocket square that matches exactly her little black number. His hair is expertly styled and locked in place with enough product to build the foundation for a house. Now that his jacket is open—as relaxed as he ever gets—if I squint, I can make out the girdle underneath. It puts in an effort so he doesn’t have to.

I swallow the taste of bile. It’s a good thing I hardly got any food at the gala dinner he held in his own honor, because what little is there is threatening to come back up. Dad knows sitting backwards in the limo makes me ill, but I’m supposed to “Buck up and deal with it.”

“What didn’t I do this time?” My mouth tastes metallic.

Besides, it doesn’t really matter if I put in an effort or not. It’s never enough, and it always reflects badly. I’m not pretty enough, not sociable enough, not thin enough, not made up enough. My dress is dowdy or my hair is flat. He’s got more reasons than we have fingers and toes between us.

“Don’t give me sass.” His arm twitches as his eyes narrow dangerously, but Mom presses into him, and he settles it on her hip. That doesn’t mean I don’t flinch, though. It’s been a while, but if he gets angry enough…

The problem with family is that you can’t choose it.

Mom puts a hand on his to hold it where it is and wiggles closer, pressing her hip against him. I look out the window so I don’t have to watch. She didn’t eat any more than I did, but she certainly drank more. She forgets herself sometimes when it’s like that.

In theory, I should be at college, but that would mean giving up control, and that’s not how Dad works. He could’ve paid my way into Harvard or Princeton or Cornell or whatever, and I would’ve taken it.

Anywhere but here.

Instead, I get private tutors. A fashion coach. An etiquette coach. A dietician. A dance instructor. All the things necessary to turn me into the perfect daughter for him and his politics. Someone to marry off in a political marriage, and if you think that doesn’t happen in our modern times, boy, do I have news for you.

I hate it. Every little bit of it. Even my piano teacher—because guitar isn’t a woman’s instrument—manages to make music boring, and that’s one heck of a stretch.

“Tomorrow, I expect you to meet with Karolynn”—said fashion coach—”so you can go over your appearance. Perhaps she has some better ideas for how to cover up your… your bulges and not make them so obvious.”

I don’t swear often, but fuck him. Fuck him and his condescending attitude. My bulges. I didn’t inherit Mom’s skinny genes, or her tall genes, and he loves to remind me of both of those things. Then again, I’m not the one wearing a freaking girdle.

But fighting him is useless, and I gave up on it a long time ago. Like, what can I do? Run away? I tried that. Twice. It just got me security detail, supposedly to keep trouble out, but we all know it’s more about keeping my trouble in. My life isn’t my own, and at this rate, it never will be.

So instead of rocking the boat further, I try to sound enthused and fail miserably. “Sure, Dad. Whatever you want.”

I wish he’d just give up. To suggest I stay home next time. Then I could curl up in my plushy reading chair and lose myself while he goes to his stupid galas to preen. Comfy PJs and hot chocolate, rather than a constricting gala dress and stolen prosecco.

Fat chance.

He snorts skeptically. “I doubt there’s much she can do, but—”

The gut-shaking rumble of monstrous engines revving cuts him off. Rough like sandpaper and as furious as a lion kicked in the junk. What’s coming up on us? I press my face to the window to see. The sound vibrates against my skin.

Three motorcycles, all chrome and sleek lines, their powerful engines growling. I don’t know the first thing about them, but even I can tell these aren’t your regular commuters or delivery bikes. I can feel them deep in my chest. We’re being chased by a pack of wild animals, and basic instinct—raw and primal—has my heart beating faster. Suddenly, my uneasy stomach is forgotten.

“What the fuck?” Dad leans forward, dislodging Mom. She scoffs and gives him a disappointed glare, then eases back and closes her eyes.

The bikers catch up quickly, then slow down to match speeds with us. Predators tracking the herd. A shiver crawls its way through me. Inside our limo is a well-manicured world, orderly and controlled, safe, but boring. Out there is something else entirely, and it’s wild.

Free.

God, I envy them their freedom.

One rides in front, the other two behind him like an honor guard. The pack guarding the alpha, except these guys are all alphas. Even though our windows are tinted, I swear they’re all looking right at me. My heart races like one of their bikes.

The front guy veers closer. Two-day stubble darkens his superhero jawline, and he sits his bike confidently, almost regally. The sleeves on his denim jacket have been ripped off, revealing tanned muscles and dark tattoos snaking around his powerful forearms. He’s the stuff of bad boy dreams, but it’s the dark, haunted pools of his eyes that really draw me in. The kind you can drown in, the kind that seem like they’ve seen far too much for a guy who can’t be much older than his mid-twenties. He sneers, and if he knows whose limo this is, I don’t blame him.

If the front guy is royalty, the one behind him is savagery. His tattoos go all the way up both arms, dense tapestries of vivid, colorful drawings of monsters and sexy women, and they’re—holy crap. My face warms as I realize what’s going on there and my breath quickens. It has me adjusting the way I sit. I tear my eyes away. I’m not going to look at that with my parents in the car.

His ink black hair flutters uncontrolled in the wind, with a bright purple streak dyed through it. He smirks the cockiest smirk I’ve ever seen—and I’ve dealt with career politicians all my life—then yells something to the third guy and points at our limo.

The third guy’s beard is magnificent. It’s the only way to say it. Rich and thick, just a bit redder than the brown, longish waves that flutter behind him as he rides. He’s huge. Like bench pressing his bike huge. Maybe Dad’s limo, even. Clinging to that hair while doing dirty things would be… well, I’m not exactly experienced, but I’ve read a lot—a lot—of romance novels. I’d figure it out.

His nose has been broken, but it just gives him character, and if I thought the lead guy’s eyes were to lose myself in, when this guy turns his rich hazels my way and frowns, I’m completely done for.

They’re a fantasy trio, wild and free. Everything I’m not. I don’t even blink, just in case I miss a single moment. I’m burning this into my memory to revisit… well, later. When I’m alone.

“What the fuck are the Screaming Eagles doing this far uptown?” spits Dad like it’s a personal insult.

I suppose it kind of is. His whole election campaign was based on ending the biker problem. To clear them out of South Side and get them off the streets. After three years, he hasn’t had much luck, but now he’s gunning for senator and he’s got some special task force going on. I dunno. Much as he wants me to, I can’t find it in me to care about his politics.

Probably because he wants me to.

“Honey, it’s a public highway,” says Mom with a slight slur and pats his arm. A peacemaker until the end, as if her only job is to keep Dad civil. It’s a thankless and impossible job, but it’s hers. I’d probably drink if I were her, too.

“The fuck it is. At least when I’m done with them. Their days are numbered. Not just the goddamn Screaming Eagles, but all the gangs. They’re trash, and they’re making a mess of my city. Fucking trash.” A few drinks make Mom more relaxed and amorous, but Dad just gets angrier and more on edge.

Honestly, that they piss him off is enough for me to give them a little sympathy. But just because Dad’s an asshole, doesn’t mean he’s wrong either. If there’s anything he’s always warned me away from, it’s the biker gangs. More than stranger danger or bad touch, or looking both ways before crossing the street. Even in our neighborhood, if I was so lucky as to even be let off our estate, the first thing I worried about was motorcycles. Not that I ever saw any.

The lead guy revs, a sound that rumbles right into my core. I squeeze my thighs together like I’m riding one of their bikes. Except it’s not the bikes I’m riding in my mind, obviously.

He speeds up, and the other two follow. The guy with the purple streak holds off long enough to show us the finger, and then they’re all gone, leaving us in the dust as if we’re standing still.

Maybe they knew who’s in here after all.

“Goddamn, motherfucking, gutter trash bikers,” rants Dad, throwing himself back into his seat. At least his fuming isn’t directed at me, for a change. Still, as soon as we’re home, I’m off to my wing of the house, and well away from his sour mood. He’s got a nasty habit of lashing out, and well, sorry, Mom. You’re the one who chose to marry him.

I can’t get out of the gala dress fast enough. I wince as I pull off strategically placed tape, and then, after a good scrub and a shower, I crawl into bed. I’ve got on my best Winnie the Pooh pajamas, the house is silent, and while I’ve been itching to read all day, that’s now on the back burner.

My Kindle forgotten, I lie back to close my eyes and let my hands wander. I picture myself under a rough, tattooed biker who’s big all over, especially where it matters. Not that I’ve ever had the opportunity to learn firsthand how good it could be, but I have an active fantasy and a whole library of source material to learn from. When I dip a hand under the elastic of my pajama bottoms, I’m already slick and ready to enjoy myself.

I imagine my other hand is one of the bikers’, roaming freely and exploring, eager to grab me and pull me against him. That he’s crawling over me, his massive chest bare other than a vicious tattoo and scars. Tough bikers like them have to have scars from how they live.

He covers me, his chest hair rough against my breasts, his harsh whisper promising dirty things into my ear, his weight on me, pinning me beneath him. My fingers work faster, even as I’m trying to make it last, to drag it out for as long as I can.

With my mind’s eyes, I’m looking right into his, the deep, dark pools of the lead biker. And then he shifts, and the man over me has a purple streak in his hair. He grins mischievously as I imagine him kissing his way down, into my throat, through the valley of my breasts, eagerly making his way down to where my fingers are working overtime.

Another shift, and it’s the biggest one, the strongest one, his beard tickling me softly between my thighs, just before he slides his tongue through my folds.

And that’s where I can’t hold on any longer. My back arches and my toes curl as my imaginary bikers bring me over the edge. For a few long moments, my mind blanks before I collapse onto the sheets, breathing hard and only regretting I never got so far as imagining them actually inside me. With a smile on my lips, I remind myself that there’s always tomorrow night. Those bikers are going to be getting a lot of my attention for many days to come.

I just know it.