Rough Ride Read online

  Rough Ride is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2018 by Gillian Archer

  Excerpt from Bishop by Sawyer Bennett copyright © 2018 by Sawyer Bennett

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Loveswept is a registered trademark and the Loveswept colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Bishop by Sawyer Bennett. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101969540

  Cover design: Diane Luger

  Cover photograph: Georgijevic/iStock

  randomhousebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue: Amber Bennett

  Chapter 1: Amber

  Chapter 2: Bam

  Chapter 3: Amber

  Chapter 4: Bam

  Chapter 5: Amber

  Chapter 6: Bam

  Chapter 7: Amber

  Chapter 8: Bam

  Chapter 9: Amber

  Chapter 10: Bam

  Chapter 11: Bam

  Chapter 12: Amber

  Chapter 13: Amber

  Chapter 14: Amber

  Chapter 15: Bam

  Chapter 16: Amber

  Chapter 17: Bam

  Chapter 18: Amber

  Chapter 19: Bam

  Chapter 20: Amber

  Chapter 21: Amber

  Chapter 22: Bam

  Chapter 23: Amber

  Chapter 24: Bam

  Chapter 25: Amber

  Chapter 26: Amber

  Chapter 27: Bam

  Epilogue: Bam

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Gillian Archer

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Bishop

  Prologue

  Amber Bennett

  LAST SUMMER

  I heard the front door shut and rolled over to look at my alarm clock. Two-thirty in the morning. How pathetic was it that I was in bed streaming TV shows until the early hours at the ripe ol’ age of twenty while my parents were the ones out painting the town red? Not that this was unusual. My parents were party people and totally, sickeningly in love with each other after more than twenty years of marriage. Whereas I was a dedicated homebody who had an unhealthy addiction to bingeing on Netflix. By myself. A year of college hadn’t upped my game at all. It was summer break, and I was in bed before my mom and dad.

  I waited for the usual drunken whispers and giggles as my parents walked by my door, which was always followed by the sound of their bedroom door locking—shudder—but this time there was only silence. That was weird. But I also didn’t want to walk in on anything that would scar me for life, so I paused my tablet and listened. When the front door closed again and silence reigned a second time, I got out of my bed to investigate. Pulling the curtains aside, I watched my mom’s friend Jessica, have a heated exchange with their other friend Emily, before they both got into Jessica’s car and left.

  Something definitely wasn’t right.

  Leaving my bedroom, I cautiously walked down the hall. The house was eerily quiet. Was anyone even here? “Mom? Dad?”

  I didn’t get an answer.

  My heartbeat pounding in my ears, I reached the living room and found my mom all by herself just standing by the front door staring down at her hands. That alone was strange enough, but the really weird thing was her clothes. She’d been wearing a plunging, sparkly black dress when she left the house earlier. Now she had on a too-tight white T-shirt and stretchy black yoga pants. Clearly not my mom’s clothes because they lacked her usual biker bitch flair.

  “Mom? What’s going on? Why are you dressed like that? Where’s Dad?”

  Her head jerked up, and I knew. Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong. Her expression was shattered. It looked like she’d spent the last hour crying. Her makeup was long gone, and her eyes were swollen and red. I stared into the face of absolute pain, and my whole body started shaking.

  “Mom? What’s…What’s going on? Where’s Daddy?”

  My mom shook her head. When she finally spoke, her voice was more of a husky whisper, almost like she was talking to herself. “He wouldn’t wake up. I thought he was just passed out—that he’d wake up and be fine if we just got him inside—but he wasn’t. He wasn’t.”

  Tears silently poured down her cheeks, and she looked down at her hands like they held the answer or something. But they were empty.

  My whole body shook with tremors as a burning sensation swept over my scalp. Dad wasn’t fine? That didn’t mean…She couldn’t mean…“Mom, where’s Dad?”

  She shook her head as she stared down at her hands. “I don’t know. I think Axle was arranging something. The girls promised they’d tell me tomorrow. They said I could probably see him tomorrow.”

  Now it was my voice that was a husky whisper as tears clouded my eyes. “Mama? Is he…Is he…”

  Mom bit her lip. “He’s gone. I’m so sorry. He’s gone, honey.”

  “No.” A roaring sound filled my ears. “No, he can’t be. I just saw him a few hours ago. He was fine. You guys were going out like always. He can’t be gone.”

  “There was a Wild Rider in the parking lot of the club tonight. He had a gun. And your dad didn’t…There was just so much blood…” My mom trailed off as her breath hitched, then she held out her arms to me.

  I wrapped my arms around my waist and backed away. “He can’t be gone. He can’t. He was just…And you were…No!”

  The burning at the back of my throat made it impossible to say anything more. I dropped to my knees with a cry and buried my face in my hands. Tears burned my eyes and poured through my fingers. It couldn’t be true. My amazing, supportive, awesome father couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t.

  He couldn’t.

  Chapter 1

  Amber

  ONE YEAR LATER

  HOWL NIGHTCLUB, RENO, NEVADA

  “Breathe, Amber. Just breathe,” I murmured to myself.

  I didn’t know which was more pathetic—the fact that everyone was ignoring me, or that I ever thought my crazy plan would actually work. But I needed information, and this was the one place in town my dad’s biker friends couldn’t stonewall me. All I’d been able to find out about that night was that my dad was killed by a Wild Rider, a rival motorcycle club member, and that his killer had been turned over to the Volkskya Bratva.

  The same organization that ran this club.

  I’d purposely come to Howl on a Wednesday because I figured it’d be empty and I could pry information out of the bored staff, but instead it was so dead what staff was here were too busy flirting to notice a paying customer. The bartender continued to murmur in Russian to the brunette and ignore me.

  I scoped out the interior while I leaned against the bar and waited. The dark moody lighting made what was on the weekends a bright bumping club instead an intimat
e make-out spot. Couples sat in the red leather booths against the exposed brick walls, vintage portraits of flappers and twenties-era burlesque models here and there. A few ornate chandeliers made of gold and dripping with crystals hung over the dance floor and a few booths. The largest chandelier was suspended over the bar’s well, the gold vines and leaves twisting down until they framed the shelves of expensive liquors at the back of the bar.

  Someone’s hand clasped my arm, and I jumped as he pulled me to his side.

  “Ona so mnoy.” A deep voice rumbled somewhere above my head.

  My heart pounded so hard and fast, I felt like everyone in the room could hear it. What the hell had I got myself into? Stupid Amber.

  “Prosti, Ruslan Ivanov.” The bartender snapped to attention; his voice sounded so respectful in contrast to how he’d flirted with the brunette. And ignored me.

  “Da. Ya bin khatyel shampanskaye. Moy stolik. Teper.”

  The bartender’s gaze went to the floor as he moved around the counter like his shoes were on fire. He grabbed a bucket and was filling it with ice when the man who still had his arm around me pressed against me, forcing me to move toward a dark table in the back corner. I looked frantically at the other patrons we passed by, but no one would meet my eyes. Heck, as we moved across the club everyone kept their gazes glued to their tables like the devil himself had suddenly appeared.

  I wanted to look up at the man next to me, but given everyone’s demeanor, I was afraid of what I’d find. His hand moved from my shoulder to the small of my back, where my sparkly top didn’t quite meet the waistband of my skinny jeans. Goosebumps broke out across my body as he rubbed his thumb against the exposed skin there. My heart beat out of my chest. Really all I wanted at that moment was to be home with my mom watching sappy old movies on TV like we had a million times before.

  But I couldn’t because my mom was most likely passed out drunk on the living room floor and wouldn’t even notice I was gone tonight. Like it’d been every night since my dad died.

  He paused for a moment next to the booth before he motioned with his hand for me to slide in. It was a corner booth shaped like a V with the second-most ornate chandelier in the club suspended overhead.

  And I really didn’t want to sit there.

  Every single one of my survival instincts were screaming at me. Get out. Run. Now. But I couldn’t. I needed information. I’d been stonewalled for so long about my dad’s death; I couldn’t leave at the first sign of trouble. This guy might have the answers I desperately needed.

  After one more nudge from Mr. Mysterious, I scooted over the bench seat, around the table, to the far side of the booth. Once I settled, I placed my hands on the table and looked up at the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, despite the waves of hostility pouring off him. His gleaming brown hair was cropped close but still a little longer on top, and he had a bit of facial hair like he hadn’t shaved in a week but in a GQ way, given the dark gray suit he wore like a second skin. I always felt so uncomfortable in dressy clothes, but Mr. Mysterious looked right at home in his suit and tie. And his face. Aside from the frown wrinkling his brow, he could’ve been a model with his fierce features and piecing golden brown eyes. But it was the frown that was making my palms sweat.

  And the dead, unimpressed expression in his eyes.

  “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He asked with hardly any accent at all.

  “I uh, came for a drink?” My answer came out more like a question.

  “Really? Alone. In Howl.”

  His condescension had a way of clearing up my nerves. And really pissing me off. Much like the guys in my dad’s motorcycle club, Mr. Mysterious also thought he knew better than me. “Clearly. Do you see anyone else with me?”

  His frown grew deeper and his eyes remained fixed on my face. Even after a beat when the bartender appeared at our table with a chilled bottle of Krug nestled in a stand filled with ice. After placing two delicate flutes on the table, the bartender beat a hasty retreat.

  And reminded me that the person I was sitting across the table from maybe wasn’t someone to screw with. If he had everyone in the bar nervous, I should probably be wary, too.

  “Nyet. I do not.” He didn’t make a move toward the bottle or glasses or take his eyes off me. “How about you tell me why you’re really here.”

  The blank expression in his eyes made me uneasy. I shook my head, avoiding eye contact as I scooted to the end of the bench. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”

  But before I could stand up, his hand came down over mine, covering it with a soft but firm grip. “Prosti. I am sorry. That was rude. How about we try from the beginning. I am Ruslan. Would you like a drink?”

  I looked up at his now friendly face and the difference took my breath away. He was gorgeous. And smiling. Charm oozed from his every orifice. And he might just have the answers I needed. It was the latter that decided it for me. Despite my misgivings, I couldn’t leave until I at least tried to get some answers about my father. I settled back in my seat and gave Ruslan a weak smile. “I’m Amber.”

  “Amber,” he said my name reverently. “Like the color of your glorious hair. It is fitting.”

  “I, uh, thank you.”

  “Pozhalsta. May I pour you a glass of champagne?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ruslan cocked his head. “Do you not like champagne?”

  “Yes. No.” I stopped and shook my head at my babbling. “That is, I don’t know if I like champagne since I’ve never had it before.”

  “There’s no way to find out other than trying it for yourself.” He reached toward the bottle, but paused when I shook my head.

  “That’s not it. I’m sure I’ll like it—even I have heard of Krug before—it’s just that my dad always told me to never accept a drink from a guy in a bar.”

  Ruslan raised an eyebrow. “You’re afraid it’s drugged?”

  My eyes went wide, and I opened my mouth to reply, but I didn’t know what to say. That was the implication, but it sounded ridiculous when said out loud. And rude. Shrugging helplessly, I inclined my head in answer.

  After a beat, Ruslan let loose the most magnetic sound of masculine laughter I’d ever heard. It made me smile and relaxed the tension in my shoulders some. But given his Jekyll and Hyde routine, I wasn’t letting all my walls down. I’d been around enough sketchy wannabes who hung around my dad’s motorcycle club to ever trust the façade guys like this showed to the world. And he’d already let his mask slip once.

  Ruslan smiled charmingly at me. “If it puts your mind at ease, I’ll drink first.”

  Unable to find a flaw in his logic, I smiled and nodded. “That sounds good.”

  Ruslan reached for the champagne bottle and chuckled while muttering something under his breath that I couldn’t make out. He palmed something in his right hand. After a soft snick, an impressive blade flashed out. A switchblade. The kind my dad loved to carry around. As Ruslan slashed at the foil on the neck of the bottle, my breath caught in my throat. But I already knew without looking any closer that his knife was a different model. Dad’s handle had a cherry red patina while Ruslan’s was black. And I was pretty sure my brother Jackson was carrying Dad’s blade now.

  The sudden pop of the champagne bottle had me flinching from my memories.

  Holding the cork in his right hand, Ruslan deftly filled the two flutes, then placed the bottle back into the bucket. After tossing the cork onto the table, he picked up one flute, sniffed delicately, then took a drink. Ruslan’s teeth flashed as he smiled at me. “Na zdorovie.”

  His smile faltered as he took in my expression. “It was a joke, moya zvezda. Drinking to your health…What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.” I grabbed my glass and took a few bracing gulps, emptying the glass.

  And immediately regretted
it.

  The acid taste landed harshly in my empty stomach while the bubbles or the smell or something burned my nose. I slammed the glass down on the table while I hacked a lung and tried to get my breath back.

  God, this was so embarrassing. Nothing said unsophisticated hick quite like spitting out expressive champagne and then coughing all over the crazy guy who’d spent the money on it. Sheesh. Could this night get any worse?

  Once I had myself under control, I peeked up at Ruslan. He stared placidly back at me like he had all the time in the world.

  “Clearly champagne is not your drink, moya zvezda. Would you like me to order something more to your taste? A nice glass of kvass perhaps?”

  “What’s kvass?”

  Ruslan’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve never been to Howl before, have you?”

  “I-I uh…”

  “You ready to tell me why you’re really here, Amber?” He bit out my name like it was a curse. Like I was something he found sticking to the bottom of his fancy leather boots.

  I had had it with men who thought they knew better than me. Who thought they could keep the truth of my father’s death from me. Like the president of my dad’s motorcycle club, Reb, or my only-older-than-me-by-eleven-months brother and new club prospect, Jackson. Men who thought that the fact that I was a woman was reason enough to keep information from me. Like I couldn’t handle it or couldn’t be trusted with the truth.

  Fuck. That.

  Taking the bull by the horns, or the Russian by the big, furry proverbial Russian hat, I placed my palms on the table and leaned toward him. “I’m here to make sure that the rat bastard who murdered my father last year suffered and bled and cried. And if I’m really lucky—and he’s still alive—I’m hoping that you’ll let me get a few jabs in on my own. That’s why I’m here.”