Page 1 of Biker B!tch

Chapter 1

Tank

I tore down that godforsaken road, my engine roaring like a beast set free. This wasn’t just another night, just another ride to clear my head. This was it. The wind in my face, the freedom beneath me. This was all I ever needed.

But my mind wouldn’t let go of the scene I’d just left.

I stumbled back, my vision blurring as blood streamed from my nose. My head pounded from the blow, but my thoughts were clear as hell. Jeff, my sorry excuse for a husband, stood over me, his face twisted with anger and satisfaction. This wasn’t the first time, but it sure as shit would be the last. His fists were nothing compared to the heavy realization that I had to get out.

Now.

“Get up, you worthless bitch,” he spat, his voice dripping with venom.

Rage surged through me, overtaking the fear that always lingered. I scrambled to my feet, every part of my body protesting each movement. “Fuck you, Jeff,” I hissed, wiping the blood from my face with the back of my hand.

His eyes widened with shock and anger as I pushed past him, grabbing my jacket and keys from the table. He lunged to grab me, but I was quicker this time, fueled by adrenaline and desperation. Keys between my fingers, I punched him back for the first time and hopefully the last time. I slammed the door behind me, his curses echoing in my ears as I fled down the stairs.

“Nessa, you’ve got nowhere to go!” he roared, but his voice was already fading into the background. “A bitch like you is tougher than this.”

My Harley, my only sanctuary, stood waiting for me. I straddled it, the engine roaring to life under my touch. Without looking back, I sped off, the night air hitting my face like a bitter reminder of my reality. I wasn’t just riding away from Jeff. I was riding toward freedom, towards a new life without his fists, without his cruelty.

Jeff didn’t know it, but I had a place to go. Shoulders to cry on. Women to lean on. I’d joined a biker club just a county over, and while he’d been gone driving his big rig across the country, I’d been plotting my escape.

Tears mixed with blood, streaming down my face as I rode faster, needing to put as much distance between us as possible. The road stretched out before me, a dark ribbon leading me away from the hell I had endured for too long.

The pain in my body was nothing compared to the relief of finally leaving. Every mile I put between us was a step closer to reclaiming my life, my strength. The thought of divorce was a blessing in my mind, a promise of an end to the nightmare. I swore to myself I’d never turn back. Jeff had lost any hold over me the moment he raised his hand again.

The night was my ally, its darkness concealing my escape, the roar of my engine a defiant scream against the silence that had suffocated me for years. But then, in the midst of my chaotic thoughts, I saw it.

Out of nowhere, like I’d rolled into an action flick, Harleys skidded across the asphalt, sparks flying as metal met pavement. Riders were thrown like ragdolls, their bodies hitting the ground hard. The scene was brutal, metal and bodies colliding in a horrifying dance of chaos. My heart pounded as I approached, recognizing the colors of the Seville Slayers, our sworn enemies.

But this wasn’t a time for club politics. This was life and death.

Boiler, the burly enforcer of the Seville Slayers, and one of his brothers. Damn, I couldn’t identify him. This was bad.

For a split second, I thought about riding on. These men were my enemies, after all. But something in me wouldn’t let that happen. I pulled over, my tires screeching as I came to a stop. I could hear the groans of pain amidst the twisted wreckage of the motorcycles. Without thinking, I jumped off my bike and ran toward them.

Boiler was the first one I reached. He was groggy, struggling to stay conscious. His brother, though, wasn’t moving. Panic clawed at me, but I shoved it down. I fumbled for my phone and called an ambulance, my voice surprisingly steady as I gave them the details.

I crouched down beside Boiler, assessing his injuries. “Hang in there, Boiler,” I muttered, ripping a piece of cloth from my shirt to ease the bleeding from a nasty gash on his arm. Despite the pain etched on his face, his eyes flickered with recognition and surprise.

“What...what the hell are you doing here, you Heel?” he croaked, his voice barely audible. I guess he’d seen me riding with his enemy.

“Saving your ass, apparently,” I shot back, trying to keep my tone light even as I worked to stabilize him. “Don’t talk. Just breathe.”

Minutes felt like hours as I waited for the ambulance. I kept pressure on his wound, my hands slick with his blood. The night was eerily silent, the only sounds our ragged breathing and the distant sirens growing closer.

Boiler’s eyes locked onto mine, a mix of gratitude and confusion in their depths. Fighting the pain, he was trying to stay conscious. “Why...?” he started, but I cut him off.

“Save your breath. Just focus on staying with me,” I said, my voice firm. Despite everything, despite the history between our clubs, I couldn’t let him die here. Not like this.

Finally, the ambulance arrived, paramedics swarming around us. I stepped back, letting them take over, but not before Boiler grabbed my hand. His grip was surprisingly strong for someone in his condition.

“Thanks,” he muttered, his eyes already starting to close as the EMTs worked on him. But there was a question in his voice.

“Tank,” I answered him. Then I nodded, squeezing his hand before letting go. “Just don’t die, okay?”

As they loaded him into the ambulance, I stood there, my heart still racing. The paramedics took his brother, too, but I felt it was too late for him. I watched as the ambulance sped off, the red lights disappearing into the night.

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