Forbidden (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 1) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Kathryn Thomas
standing.
As if reading her mother's thoughts, Afia slumped lower in the cushy armchair, turning up the volume on her iPad and getting engrossed in the questions from her anatomy class. She had heard them talking about Jabar. She wanted to disappear, but where to? Her Saturdays were customarily spent at her family home. It was the least she could do to spend time with her folks, and it wasn't like she didn't enjoy them. They just...didn't understand her.
She knew what her parents were trying to do. Jabar was only the latest in a long queue of potential suitors they paraded before for her. And, while Fatima and Rashad chose not to force the issue, Afia could tell her mother was growing weary of her resistance. Unbidden, her thoughts flew to the man she had met at the biker bar, the man with the hidden tattoos and enough muscles to make a girl feel weak in the knees, just to get him to catch her when she fell. Maybe she was a hopeless romantic. A man like him wouldn't even be allowed to step foot past the threshold. He was too-too.
Jabar was a nice enough guy with coke bottle glasses, a headful of wavy black hair, and a bulbous nose above what Afia considered effeminate lips; he wasn't exactly unattractive. He was conservative and responsible. His family was established. There wasn't anything wrong with him, aside from the fact he was her mother's pick.
"Did you hear that, Afia?" her father spoke louder.
Afia swallowed a sound of frustration, plastering a smile on her face. "Is that so? I take it we have an invitation. I'll have to check my schedule." It was the closest she could bring herself to say—besides outright disrespecting her parents.
"Don't sass," Rashad growled gruffly.
"I'm not," she said innocently, eyebrows raised. She exhaled heavily. "I'm sure I'll be available. If I have any projects due for classes, I'll just...get them done earlier in the week. Does that work?"
"You worry too much about making a living." Rayan breezed into their parent's living room wearing a carefree smile, and Afia instantly brightened at the sight of her handsome big brother. He was six years her senior, and his early years had been in their native country. He was more like his Iranian parents than his Iranian-American sister. Still, Rayan was the one who had helped her fight her battles in the past. When assimilating into American public schools had proved difficult, Rayan was there to keep the bullies from making her feel like too much of an outsider, even if he did take the brunt of the bullying.
His skin was faintly olive tinted, and his accent was heavier than hers. His hair was thick and full, cut to accentuate the hard planes of his face and falling around his high forehead in loose waves. Like a Persian sheikh, Rayan carried an air of capability she had seen women swoon over, but he was a bit of a play boy. He was a sharp dresser. It was hard to tell by looking at him that he was no more than a cashier in a fashion boutique run by their cousin, Asada. Judging by the charcoal shirt and black tie, he looked more like a successful businessman.
Unfortunately, that was his problem, in her opinion. He looked like something he wasn't. He was intelligent, but wily; he was handsome, but vain. Sometimes she wished he'd work a little harder at reaching his full potential.
Rayan settled on the couch and tossed his foot across his knee, leaning back to survey Afia with insightful brown eyes. He pointed an elegant hand in her direction and said, "You have this distinctly American way of thinking about yourself, as if, as a woman, you have something to prove. But, the truth is, your virtue should speak for itself. A good woman doesn't need to broadcast her finest attributes. She doesn't need a thousand degrees to be valued. Your job is to be a dutiful wife and a mother. What man wants a woman who aspires to take his position, eh?"
"I know my place," Afia murmured, bristling at being
As if reading her mother's thoughts, Afia slumped lower in the cushy armchair, turning up the volume on her iPad and getting engrossed in the questions from her anatomy class. She had heard them talking about Jabar. She wanted to disappear, but where to? Her Saturdays were customarily spent at her family home. It was the least she could do to spend time with her folks, and it wasn't like she didn't enjoy them. They just...didn't understand her.
She knew what her parents were trying to do. Jabar was only the latest in a long queue of potential suitors they paraded before for her. And, while Fatima and Rashad chose not to force the issue, Afia could tell her mother was growing weary of her resistance. Unbidden, her thoughts flew to the man she had met at the biker bar, the man with the hidden tattoos and enough muscles to make a girl feel weak in the knees, just to get him to catch her when she fell. Maybe she was a hopeless romantic. A man like him wouldn't even be allowed to step foot past the threshold. He was too-too.
Jabar was a nice enough guy with coke bottle glasses, a headful of wavy black hair, and a bulbous nose above what Afia considered effeminate lips; he wasn't exactly unattractive. He was conservative and responsible. His family was established. There wasn't anything wrong with him, aside from the fact he was her mother's pick.
"Did you hear that, Afia?" her father spoke louder.
Afia swallowed a sound of frustration, plastering a smile on her face. "Is that so? I take it we have an invitation. I'll have to check my schedule." It was the closest she could bring herself to say—besides outright disrespecting her parents.
"Don't sass," Rashad growled gruffly.
"I'm not," she said innocently, eyebrows raised. She exhaled heavily. "I'm sure I'll be available. If I have any projects due for classes, I'll just...get them done earlier in the week. Does that work?"
"You worry too much about making a living." Rayan breezed into their parent's living room wearing a carefree smile, and Afia instantly brightened at the sight of her handsome big brother. He was six years her senior, and his early years had been in their native country. He was more like his Iranian parents than his Iranian-American sister. Still, Rayan was the one who had helped her fight her battles in the past. When assimilating into American public schools had proved difficult, Rayan was there to keep the bullies from making her feel like too much of an outsider, even if he did take the brunt of the bullying.
His skin was faintly olive tinted, and his accent was heavier than hers. His hair was thick and full, cut to accentuate the hard planes of his face and falling around his high forehead in loose waves. Like a Persian sheikh, Rayan carried an air of capability she had seen women swoon over, but he was a bit of a play boy. He was a sharp dresser. It was hard to tell by looking at him that he was no more than a cashier in a fashion boutique run by their cousin, Asada. Judging by the charcoal shirt and black tie, he looked more like a successful businessman.
Unfortunately, that was his problem, in her opinion. He looked like something he wasn't. He was intelligent, but wily; he was handsome, but vain. Sometimes she wished he'd work a little harder at reaching his full potential.
Rayan settled on the couch and tossed his foot across his knee, leaning back to survey Afia with insightful brown eyes. He pointed an elegant hand in her direction and said, "You have this distinctly American way of thinking about yourself, as if, as a woman, you have something to prove. But, the truth is, your virtue should speak for itself. A good woman doesn't need to broadcast her finest attributes. She doesn't need a thousand degrees to be valued. Your job is to be a dutiful wife and a mother. What man wants a woman who aspires to take his position, eh?"
"I know my place," Afia murmured, bristling at being
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