Forbidden (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Kathryn Thomas
them, drive safe, some shit like that. But, when he stepped in front of Afia and she turned her glittering golden eyes on him, the words wouldn't leave his lips.
He found himself screwing up, saying, "I'd love to see you again."
"You, sir, have perfect timing," Bionca slurred. She had gotten another few drinks into her. "Afia was telling me we gotta go before I—before I—" Bionca doubled over and threw up on the floor next to them. Afia's face twisted in horror. She reached over and held back Bionca's hair, gagging as her friend loudly retched.
Sam wrinkled his nose and got to a nearby table for napkins. "Try these."
"Thank you," Afia murmured. "We have to go. She's had way too much to drink." She used the napkins to mop Bionca's sweaty brow. Bionca gratefully took the paper and cleaned her mouth. Afia dragged Bionca away from the vomit, and Sam followed. He couldn't fight a smile.
"Afia," he said. "I have to see you again."
"Now isn't the best of times," she retorted. Her eyes scanned the crowd for a quick escape. She spotted a break and dashed toward it, but she couldn't shake her persistent suitor. Afia shook her head and rolled her eyes skyward. "Look, my number is four-oh-five, six-thousand. If you can remember that, you can call. Now, help me carry her to the car before she pukes everywhere again!"
He easily hoisted the limp Bionca up, effortlessly shouldering his way through the crowd to the door. Afia followed in his wake. He got them outside into the fresh air, and she pointed to the Porsche. They both got Bionca comfortably settled in the car, and her seatbelt buckled. Afia dug the keys out of her pocket and climbed into the driver's seat. She was trying to make it clear that she had nothing left to say to him. He wasn't her type. Her mother would have a fit. Her father would disown her. She threw the car in reverse and started to back up.
He stepped away with a wave. "Four-oh-five, six-thousand," he called out to her.
She frowned but nodded. Then, she straightened up the car and maneuvered her way onto the road. The quicker they got back to their apartment, the better.
CHAPTER 3
"That stuff will rot your brain," Rashad Amini harped.
Afia guiltily minimized the YouTube window on her notebook and switched back to the assignment she was working on for class, earbuds tucked in her ears. She could still hear the comedian quipping about life as an Iranian-American in the background. "It's funny, Baba. It helps me work."
"How can it help you work? It's a distraction," said Rashad. His thinning hair was salt-and-pepper colored, a thick mustache settled over his fleshy mouth, and a beard covered his double chin. He was stocky and portly, evidence of his comfortable life as a successful chemist. He spent more time in his lab at work than even considering a gym. Rashad rattled the newspaper he was reading and scowled at the small print, muttering in frustration about his ever-missing glasses.
"In the armrest, Baba."
"Ah, thank you!"
Fatima bustled into the living room wearing an apron over her floral print dress. Speaking offhandedly, she mentioned, "I just got off the phone. Jabar and his family are celebrating his doctoral next weekend, Rashad."
"Oh?" he said with interest.
Despite her middle age, Fatima's face was unlined, thanks to her careful attention to her looks. She was slender and shapely, even after giving birth to two fine, healthy children, but she was modest about her beauty, the sort of virtuous woman she wished Afia would emulate. Fatima hummed to herself as she dusted and made herself busy, eyes darting to her problem child. She didn't miss the lip gloss on Afia's lips, the faint hint of blush. She tisked to herself. There was "progressive"—and then there was pushing things. At some point, she decided, she would have to have a stern talk with her daughter about what was becoming of a woman of her
He found himself screwing up, saying, "I'd love to see you again."
"You, sir, have perfect timing," Bionca slurred. She had gotten another few drinks into her. "Afia was telling me we gotta go before I—before I—" Bionca doubled over and threw up on the floor next to them. Afia's face twisted in horror. She reached over and held back Bionca's hair, gagging as her friend loudly retched.
Sam wrinkled his nose and got to a nearby table for napkins. "Try these."
"Thank you," Afia murmured. "We have to go. She's had way too much to drink." She used the napkins to mop Bionca's sweaty brow. Bionca gratefully took the paper and cleaned her mouth. Afia dragged Bionca away from the vomit, and Sam followed. He couldn't fight a smile.
"Afia," he said. "I have to see you again."
"Now isn't the best of times," she retorted. Her eyes scanned the crowd for a quick escape. She spotted a break and dashed toward it, but she couldn't shake her persistent suitor. Afia shook her head and rolled her eyes skyward. "Look, my number is four-oh-five, six-thousand. If you can remember that, you can call. Now, help me carry her to the car before she pukes everywhere again!"
He easily hoisted the limp Bionca up, effortlessly shouldering his way through the crowd to the door. Afia followed in his wake. He got them outside into the fresh air, and she pointed to the Porsche. They both got Bionca comfortably settled in the car, and her seatbelt buckled. Afia dug the keys out of her pocket and climbed into the driver's seat. She was trying to make it clear that she had nothing left to say to him. He wasn't her type. Her mother would have a fit. Her father would disown her. She threw the car in reverse and started to back up.
He stepped away with a wave. "Four-oh-five, six-thousand," he called out to her.
She frowned but nodded. Then, she straightened up the car and maneuvered her way onto the road. The quicker they got back to their apartment, the better.
CHAPTER 3
"That stuff will rot your brain," Rashad Amini harped.
Afia guiltily minimized the YouTube window on her notebook and switched back to the assignment she was working on for class, earbuds tucked in her ears. She could still hear the comedian quipping about life as an Iranian-American in the background. "It's funny, Baba. It helps me work."
"How can it help you work? It's a distraction," said Rashad. His thinning hair was salt-and-pepper colored, a thick mustache settled over his fleshy mouth, and a beard covered his double chin. He was stocky and portly, evidence of his comfortable life as a successful chemist. He spent more time in his lab at work than even considering a gym. Rashad rattled the newspaper he was reading and scowled at the small print, muttering in frustration about his ever-missing glasses.
"In the armrest, Baba."
"Ah, thank you!"
Fatima bustled into the living room wearing an apron over her floral print dress. Speaking offhandedly, she mentioned, "I just got off the phone. Jabar and his family are celebrating his doctoral next weekend, Rashad."
"Oh?" he said with interest.
Despite her middle age, Fatima's face was unlined, thanks to her careful attention to her looks. She was slender and shapely, even after giving birth to two fine, healthy children, but she was modest about her beauty, the sort of virtuous woman she wished Afia would emulate. Fatima hummed to herself as she dusted and made herself busy, eyes darting to her problem child. She didn't miss the lip gloss on Afia's lips, the faint hint of blush. She tisked to herself. There was "progressive"—and then there was pushing things. At some point, she decided, she would have to have a stern talk with her daughter about what was becoming of a woman of her
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