Ruled: New for 2018! A hot bad boy biker romance story that breaks all the rules. Perfect for fans of Darker!

“Does it have anything to do with your club?” I point to the patch on his vest. I’d like to rip the thing off his chest, but it wouldn’t solve the problem.

“Might do. Trouble’s brewing,” he says slowly. “Trust me. You don’t want the details, Evie. I’ve got it handled, though. You don’t need to worry.”

Some things never change—Rocker swears he’s got a situation under control, I worry, and then I conceive a half dozen plans for salvaging said situation. I love my baby brother, but I don’t approve of his lifestyle choices. His biker buddies are bad news. Today, though, he really doesn’t want to talk about whatever’s bothering him, so I nod and promise to be extra careful. He gets back on his bike and tears out of the campsite faster than I’ve ever seen him go. Whatever trouble he’s facing down must be really bad.

It’s one hell of an exit—even more dramatic than the Princess Mobile. It makes it impossible to ignore his departure, which Samantha makes clear when she wanders over, fanning herself.

“God, your brother’s hot.”

I force a smile, although the last thing I want to discuss with my fellow princess is the degree of my brother’s attractiveness. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. “In the category of things I don’t need to know...”

“Who’s hot? And are we sharing secrets?” Carlie wades out of the lake to join us.

“Rocker’s in trouble.”

Samantha wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes gently. “You need to stop worrying about that man. He’s an adult, doing adult things.”

“Funny. That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Life was way easier when he was just afraid of the monsters in the closet.”

“You should be thinking about dating or at least getting laid,” Samantha counters. “Ask Rocker to introduce you to some hot biker.”

“No bikers,” I say firmly.

“Really?” Carlie sounds doubtful.

Bikers are fascinating, but they’re the polar bears of the dating world—a look-don’t-touch breed of man you’re better off spotting in a zoo than in the wild. So freaking touchable on the outside, but completely wild on the inside. I love bad boys, but I prefer to do my loving from a nice, safe distance.

“Biker is a synonym for bad boy. I don’t need that.”

“What if I find you a bad boy with a heart of gold?” Samantha is the eternal optimist.

Reality check. “I’ll be ninety before you find one of those. Give me someone who’s nice.”

“Imagine the sex. Booooring.” Samantha makes a face and wades back into the lake. As she executes a spectacular belly flop into the cool water, I check my phone. We need to be on the road in twenty minutes or we’ll hit traffic. Still, I can afford five more minutes.

I wade back in and rejoin my girls. “It’s been so long since I had sex that I’m not sure I remember how to do it.”

Obviously, that’s an exaggeration, but both Carlie and Samantha look like I’ve just announced that there will never, ever be another episode of Game of Thrones. Possibly combined with a nationwide shortage of chocolate. And wine. Maybe I could kick a puppy and complete my elevation to total loserdom.

“Who doesn’t get laid?” Carlie floats over to me. It feels like high school, except the margaritas are no longer illegal. “Do you have a disease? Or did you take a religious vow when I wasn’t around to stop you?”

“Not everyone has to have sex. Not everyone wants to.” Most days I’m too tired to even think about taking my clothes off, let alone doing so in a sexy fashion and then making sure my man comes. I’ve been working twelve-hour days for the last eighteen months to get my princess party business off the ground, and my efforts are finally paying off.

“Intervention?” Carlie gives Samantha a look I have no problem interpreting. Neither one of them has a filter and they both have frequent, fantastic sex (at least to hear them tell it—and believe me, they certain don’t hesitate to tell).

Samantha nods and heads for her purse. She trots back into the water a few seconds later, phone in her hand, and thumbs like a mad woman. Water-based internet surfing seems like an obvious recipe for disaster—while I wish the good folks at Apple would come up with a waterproof number, so far they’ve dropped the ball on that particular winner.

“We’re finding you a booty call,” Samantha announces.

“How about this one?” Carlie taps a picture on the phone, but Samantha’s already shaking her head vigorously enough to spray me (and the phone—she really is living dangerously) with water.

“He’s a taxi and not a long-haul trucker, if you take my meaning. Eve needs someone with stamina. She has a drought to work off.”

I mentally run time trials on my previous two boyfriends for the next few minutes (they’d both qualify for gold in any track-and-field sprinting contest) while Carlie and Samantha review and reject various single men. Eventually they linger on a dark-haired hottie with a nice face and a strong jaw. He’s wearing a suit and a tie, although there’s always the possibility that’s an aberration. Maybe Samantha snapped him at a funeral or a wedding.

“Jack Turner.” Samantha taps the screen and Jack zooms into focus. “He runs numbers for a casino. He’s twenty-eight, currently single, never married and he has his own place. Rumor has it that he’s really, really good at putting his partner first. I like a man with manners.”

Nice to know the man has been sexually preapproved. I examine his face. He looks normal. Of course, Samantha and I have also been up since six, preparing for and then throwing a purple-themed princess celebration for the four-year-old daughter of a blackjack dealer who’d received the tip of a lifetime two weeks ago and decided to invest part of it in his daughter’s dream party. It’s possible I’m not thinking straight.

“Is he nice?”

Carlie pokes me in the stomach. “Trust me. You want fun, not nice.”

Says she. “Why can’t he be both? You guys said you could find me a bad boy with a heart of gold.”

“We lied for a good cause. It would be like winning the lottery. Don’t raise the bar impossibly high for Jack.”

“I know nice guys,” Samantha announces. Since she’s been married and divorced twice and she’s not even thirty, I’m skeptical. Her first impressions don’t seem to be borne out in the long run.

Carlie reaches for the phone. “Name one who can still make your panties wet just by walking into the room. Evie needs chemistry. Not a nap.”

See? She agrees with me. Nice guys are more endangered than the rhino these days.

Samantha looks blank. The way she stares down into the water, you’d think she’s expecting a name to float to the top.

Shit. Surely one of us knows a guy who’s both dating material and nice. Or...maybe not. Maybe finding Mr. Nice is like going to the zoo and hoping to spot a unicorn. Fuck the polar bears—we want mythical creatures.

Samantha waves her phone at me. “I’m texting Jack right now. We can go out next weekend.”

If today is Saturday, that gives me at least six nights to find my libido. It has to be here somewhere.

Samantha doesn’t look up from her phone. “And don’t tell me that you’re not free. Our clientele are three to eight years of age. They do not host birthday parties after 10:00 p.m. Ergo, you’re free and clear for drinks. There’s no excuse to not go out and have fun. Let loose and forget about your responsibilities for a few hours.”

Fun.

A simple, three-letter word.

I’d like to pretend I can’t remember the last time I had fun because I work so hard and am such an astute businesswoman.

It wouldn’t be true. I know exactly when I last cut loose, went out and had a few, did some dancing and kissed a boy. I was seventeen and in high school.

Unfortunately, I was also supposed to be at home, watching Rocker while our dad was out taking care of some “business” for his MC. Sucks to be a teenager stuck with babysitting duty when everyone else is out partying. My sneak exit through the window had been awesome up until the moment I returned and discovered our house surrounded by the blue-and-whites. Dear old dad got busted running arms, and I got busted as a deadbeat who’d put having a good time ahead of looking out for her little brother.

That was on me.

And yeah, I know that the ten years that have passed since that night should count for something. That Rocker doesn’t blame me for the six months of foster homes he’d survived before I’d turned eighteen and convinced the judge to let him live with me. Six months in which I’d turned my life around, found a job and done everything right.

Rocker and I don’t talk about our dad or that night everything changed. Once a month, we send a check to the state prison where dear old dad is serving a twenty-five-to-fifty-year sentence, and he sends back a postcard with a scrawled thanks. He also sends the occasional Christmas and birthday card. Mostly, Rocker and I pretend our childhood is a big happy blank. Nothing to write home or talk about—just something we got through on our way to being reasonably happy, productive adults.