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My First Love Affair (Bancroft Billionaire Brothers #3)
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Love isn’t for the black sheep of the family. Believe me. I’m him.
Roses. Chocolates. Love notes.
Bullshit. Until it isn’t.
Never in a million years did I expect to fall in love.
Let alone with her. My favorite childhood enemy.
This girl used to make my blood boil just by walking in the room.
Now she does other things to me with nothing more than a look.
And it’s making me want more than the tense passion we keep doing nothing about.
I’ll break down her walls and show her a side of me she’s never seen. One that will steal her breath and hold her heart hostage.
It’s my first time to entertain the idea of forever, but she leaves me no choice.
And no matter how hard she resists, this girl?
She’s mine. All mine.
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I sipped the Jack straight from the glass, my eyes roaming the bar, seeing a sea of black leather, various-colored headbands, and a lot of long hair and beards. The biker bar I favored was outside the city limits. It was where we could hang out without the dirty looks and judgmental stares from those uppity types passing by. We could park our bikes in an actual dirt parking lot and not have to worry about some jackass in a Prius bumping one of our most prized possessions.
My baby, a seventy-six Shovelhead Harley with all the customizations to make it my own, was sitting out there. I could afford a brand-new Harley, but that wasn’t the same. My bike had miles on it and was as much a part of me as my right arm. I wouldn’t trade it in for the world. I did have a pretty sweet Icon Sheene in my garage for those days I wanted speed. I loved motorcycles. Always had much to my parents’ disgust. My Harley was my baby. I was always working on the damn thing to keep it running in tip-top shape.
“Trusty, you’re up next,” someone called out from the pool table area.
I held up my glass, indicating I had heard them. Trusty was my road name. I earned it years ago after some of the guys I rode with had learned I was actually a very wealthy man, thanks to a healthy trust fund. They’d called me Trusty ever since. I didn’t mind. A road name meant I was one of them. I finished off the glass and left it empty on the table, getting up and heading for the bathroom before I started my game of pool. A small hand snaked out, grabbing my arm.
“Hey, where are you going?” the pretty blonde asked, her dark eye makeup slightly smudged under her eyes.
“I’m going to take a piss,” I replied.
“Want some company?” she cooed.
I leaned down, my six four stature requiring me to practically bend all the way over to whisper in the petite woman’s ear. “Not this time.”
I stood up and winked, shrugging off the exaggerated pout. She had come with another man. Biker code forbade me from fucking around with her, no matter how much she begged. She wasn’t anyone’s old lady and she never would be with that kind of bullshit. I didn’t expect to see her around again after tonight. It wouldn’t be long before she hit on another woman’s man. The women who hung out in the bar didn’t mess around. They’d show her the door.
I did a quick check in the bathroom mirror that was scarred and only had about a triangle of actual mirror left in it. I used my fingers to push back my shaggy brown hair that was too long for the corporate world my brothers lived in. My hair had long layers that tended to curl, giving me a very unkempt look, according to my mom. That combined with the ever-present beard stubble aided the bad-boy thing that went with my lifestyle. I had once been told I looked like Jason Momoa with short hair, before the dreads and a lot less beard. Oddly enough, we were the same height, but I didn’t have his body. I was far leaner and had a lot more tats. My hazel eyes—more green than blue—that held a hint of danger stared back at me. I wanted to be my own man, but every time I looked in the mirror, really looked, I saw my brothers. We had all damn near been clones, the same color of brown hair, hazel eyes, tall, and the same square jawline. I kept my jaw covered with stubble in an effort to separate myself from them.
I headed back out into the very lively bar, ordering another Jack before making my way to the pool tables. It was a warm night and the packed bar was a little on the rank side, but I didn’t mind. It was basically my second home. I wasn’t in a club like most of the others in the bar. I was my own man. I didn’t want to deal with the bullshit that went with being in a club. People saw a motorcycle club as a gang. Most weren’t. There were monthly meetings, officers, fundraisers, and specific requirements to stay in good standing.
That wasn’t my bag. I brushed past a guy I knew of but wasn’t on great terms with him. He was an asshole who thought he ran the world. He turned around and shot me a glare. I stopped walking, staring back at him, daring him to pull something. I could hold my own. I had proven that plenty of times in this very bar.
“You gonna play or you gonna stand there and look pretty?” one of my buddies said, interrupting the stare-off between me and the short, older man.