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A Wifey for the Bad Boy

By: Olivia Hill

Chapter 1

Samantha stepped out of her car with a suspicious look around. The neighborhood that she’d pulled up to certainly seemed safe enough, and she had to admit, if the playground parks that she’d driven by were anything to go by, it was one of the cleanest in the city. Still, the towering brick building that her brother’s instructions had led her to definitely ruined the image. Not only was there an odd dogpile of motorcycles sitting just outside of it, but there were also two smokers, squatting and laughing right in front of the entrance.

Sighing to herself, Samantha closed the door of her lime green bug and stepped up onto the sidewalk. Her black heels clicked against the pavement, and as she marched towards the smell of smoke, she had to remind herself why she was there in the first place to keep her feet moving.

“Please!” James, her younger brother, had come begging to her for help just the day before. It was the first time that she’d seen him in months, and though she’d frowned at his shaven head and leather jacket, she’d ushered him into her apartment without hesitation.

“What happened? James?” she’d asked, crouching next to where he’d collapsed onto the floor.

“They’re going to kill me,” James had whined in the back of his throat, his brown eyes filling up with tears. “Sis, please.” Apparently, he’d gotten himself into trouble again.

And, like an idiot, Samantha had thought that she could get him out of it like she always did.

“Please, what?” she’d asked. “How can I help?”

James had only been too happy to tell her. Which was why she was approaching a building rumored to have a biker gang holed up inside of it, with two thousand dollars cash in her pocket.

The smokers stood up as she approached, and she swallowed around the lump in her throat as she forced a smile. “H-hello,” she said as warmly as possible. “I’m here on behalf James. Uh, James Smith.”

Putting out his cigarette, the man with a blue mohawk shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather vest and chuckled. “We get a lot of Smith’s,” he said snidely. “Sorry if an old name like James doesn’t really ring a bell, either.”

“Uh,” she said nervously. She contemplated just turning on her heel and leaving, especially if they hadn’t been expecting her like James had said they were. And who knows? She could’ve come to the wrong place entirely.

“Nah,” the other man, a tall lanky guy with a shaved head and tattooed neck, said. “She’s talking about the Smith kid who took a joyride. The one who owes boss two grand?”

“Oh,” Blue Mohawk snapped his fingers. “Ohhhh, yeah. You must be the sister. Yeah, boss has been expecting you.”

“Great,” Samantha smiled, relieved, though her heart was still going a mile a minute. “If you could just tell me what floor—”

“Oh no, sweetheart,” the tall one shook his head softly, a sympathetic grin on his lips. “No one goes in without an escort. Come on,” he took one last drag of his smoke and flicked it into the road. “I’ll take you.”

“No fair!” Mohawk shouted.

“Hey, you couldn’t even remember that the boss was waiting for her,” he shrugged, wrapping an arm around Samantha’s tense shoulders. “Guard the door, will you?” he laughed, leading her inside.

Samantha had never been so uncomfortable in all of her life. The guy touching her smelled like motor oil, and she had half a mind to pull out of his grip. It didn’t help that she’d decided to wear one of her best dress suits, opting for a professional and intimidating look rather than an unkempt and easily impressionable one.

“Right here, sweetheart,” the man turned them towards an elevator. Another man who was also clad in leather waved from where he was slouched up against the wall, and her escort returned the gesture with a smile. Well, at least the grunts were happy. Maybe the boss wouldn’t be so bad?

“Where to?” the new man, an older biker with a rounded stomach, asked calmly.

“Fifth floor,” the tall guy answered. “We’re up to see the boss.”

“Oh,” he said, looking Samantha up and down. “Is that a new one?”

“New one?” Samantha repeated.

But the tall man just laughed. “Nah, she ain’t a call girl,” he shook his head. Samantha ducked hers, her blush burning her cheeks.

“Ah,” the old man agreed like he understood, the elevator dinging as it opened up beside him.

“See ya, Earl,” the tall man called, directing Samantha into the dimly lit elevator. As the doors closed and the whole thing lurched, she heard the oddest tune of a quick piano. It reminded her of a hurried funeral march.

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