Free Longest Night (New Adult Biker Gang Romance) (Night Horses MC Book 1) by Sarah Sorana

 

     
     
     
    I ended up in a truck stop at two o'clock in the morning on my prom night.
     
    It was not how I expected things to go.
     
    See, my mother had a thing about politeness. That's how I ended up joining a biker gang as the president's girlfriend. When she heard me blow off a guy who asked me to prom, she demanded that I call him right back and accept.
     
    "But," I said, "I don't want to go with him!"
     
    "Doesn't matter," she said. "Have you gotten any other offers?"
     
    "Well, no," I protested, "But it's early days yet. Come on, don't make me go with Nate. I'd rather skip it."
     
    She frowned.
     
    "Megan, I don't think you're really thinking about Nate's feelings in all of this," she said sternly. "He obviously had to work up the courage to ask you, and that sounds like personal growth. The least you could do is give up one night."
     
    I groaned.
     
    "It's not just any night," I said. "It's prom. PROM. Who goes to prom with someone they don't really like?"
     
    "Nonsense," she said. "Nate is a nice boy, and your father and I know that family. You'll have a great time. I'll even buy your dress."
     
    She didn't mean badly. Really.
     
    I know that might sound crazy to some people, but she just didn't get what it was like to be a teenager. To her, it really was just one night, and I really was just being silly.
     
    Buying me a silly dress was her version of a peace offering. She'd been insisting for months that she'd just sew me a prom dress.
     
    "Thanks," I said, glumly.
     
    She frowned and kissed my hair.
     
    "Go call Nate back," she instructed.
     
    So, that's how I ended up at a truck stop at two o'clock in the morning. My mother is weird.
     
    I was sitting on the curb, crying, and a man came over to me.
     
    He sat down next to me, a few feet away. Not close enough to be threatening. Without a word, he passed over a large handkerchief. It was surprisingly clean.
     
    I took it and dabbed at my eyeliner. All of my makeup was a soggy mess.
     
    "Just go ahead and blow your nose," the man said. He pulled out another handkerchief from his leather jacket and waved it at me. “I never leave without spares.”
     
    I laughed, gulping through my tears. This was beyond ridiculous. I was sitting at a truck stop, shivering in the neon light, while a scruffy-ass man in rough clothes waved a sensible checked handkerchief at me.
     
    I wiped at my nose.
     
    “There, go on,” he said. “Damage is done, it’s got snot all over it. Blow. You’ll feel better.”
     
    I chuckled again and blew my nose. I really did feel better.
     
    “You’ve got a phone?” he asked.
     
    I nodded.
     
    “Waiting for a ride?” he asked.
     
    I nodded.
     
    It wasn’t strictly true, but it was probably not a good idea to tell this stranger that no one in particular expected me back and I didn’t even have a cell phone.
     
    He clucked his tongue.
     
    “A phone, but no handkerchief. Priorities, man,” he said.
     
    I gestured down at my dress.
     
    “Does it look like I planned to be crying at a truck stop?” I asked.
     
    “Nope,” he said. “Looks like you planned to be drinking cheap beer and lying to your parents. Or, well, that’s what I did on prom night.”
     
    I sniffled.
     
    “It’s the right season for it, and you’re about the right age, right?” he asked, squinting at me. “You’re, what, sixteen? Junior prom? Better luck next year?”
     
    “Eighteen,” I said. “Senior prom. Only prom. Skipped last year.”
     
    He winced.
     
    “Hoping for a better night, I’m guessing.”
     
    We sat there silently for another ten minutes or so.
     
    “How do you plan on getting home?” he asked me.
     
    “I said I had a ride,” I said.
     
    “Yeah, but you’re not looking up when cars pass by. Most times, kids in places like this can’t wait to get the hell out of here. Their heads dart up at every set of headlights. Like little prairie dogs. You’re just glum as can be.”
     
    “Are you