Page 1 of Her Protective Biker
Chapter One
Moose
Icouldn’t find my ten-millimeter socket, and I was about to lose it on a Prospect. I may not be the owner of Rust Valley Garage - that would be Wrench - but everyone damn well knew not to touch my shit. And yeah, I may not be on the executive of the Savage Kings MC, but I worked hard for the club. Whether it was stripping down cars for cash, fixing bikes or just standing in the background looking intimidating, I earned my spot in my found family, and I wasn’t going anywhere…unless I lost it on whoever took my fucking socket.
The soft clang of metal echoed through the garage and I turned from where I was routing through my toolbox. My missing socket went bouncing across the concrete floor, followed closely by a big-assed orange cat. Before the mangy thing could swat it under a bench, I grabbed my socket and took it out of the beast’s reach.
The cat sat between my black boots and looked up at me with intense green eyes. One of its ears was bent and knarled. Its fur was a little patchy, but I didn’t think it had missed many meals.
“Where the hell did you come from?”
Rust Valley Garage wasn’t in a part of town where people went on purpose, let alone a fluff ball like that.
“Peaches?” I caught the hint of a soft voice outside. I really was never going to get this fucking bike fixed.
I looked down at the cat. “Peaches, I assume?”
The cat licked its chops and yawned widely.
“Peaches?” I looked towards the source of the sound just as a face peaked around the corner of the door. “Excuse me? Have you seen-”
I gestured towards the creature at my feet and her honey eyes lit up.
“Peaches!” The woman came bounding into the shop as if it wasn’t owned by a gang most people shied away from. She was petite, maybe five four to my six feet. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing a pair of bright pink scrubs. “There you are! Don’t you run away from me. I was so scared, yes I was.” She nuzzled her face into the cat’s scruff and, despite that the baby voice thing grated my nerves, a pang of jealousy needled through my gut.
Jealous of a fucking cat. I needed to get laid. Too bad the usual crowd at the Black Crown hadn’t been catching my attention lately.
“Thank you for finding my Peachy Poo.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and studied her. Cute, curvy, perky and bubble-gum pink in the middle of a shop full of grease and a pissed-off biker. “You and that cat don’t have much for survival instincts, do you?”
Fear or regret should have flashed through her eyes, but she just looked at me, stroking the big cat with one hand while she held it to her chest with the other. She shrugged. “I don’t judge a book by its cover. Besides, we’re neighbors. If you ever need a cup of sugar, or…” she glanced around. “Motor oil? I’m right next door.”
I snorted. The Bubble Gum Princess was funny.
“I’m Hannah, by the way.” She extended her hand. I stared at it for a second before extending mine back.
“Moose.” I clasped her hand and shook it. The softness of her skin against mine was getting me more excited than I’d been in a long time.
“Thanks again for finding Peaches,” she pulled away too soon and turned to go.
“Hey, wait. Should I be expecting to find more cats roaming around my shop?”
She cocked her head. “Would that be a problem? Look how cute.” She held up the fluffy beast like it was a work of art.
“Would that be a…yes, that would be a problem.”
“Oh, could they get hurt in here?” She glanced around with a critical eye. “You don’t leave antifreeze out, do you? That’s lethal to kitties.”
My nostrils flared. Was she pranking me? “I’m more worried about them fucking up my shit. I’ve got wires, leather seats, tools.”
“Cats make great shop assistants. Peaches here could keep the mice away. Mice would chew wires more than a cat would.” She was so matter-of-fact in the way she said it, it threw me off.
Besides, she had a point, we’d had mice in here before, and they did a lot of damage. Still, I was not about to let a band of feral felines roam around just because their caregiver would look really good with my greasy hand prints all over her pristine scrubs.
The guys wouldn’t be happy about that anymore than I would. We were being extra vigilant lately, not that being in a biker gang meant you were ever really relaxed.
Jackson Ridge was our territory. It wasn’t big and it sure as hell wasn’t rich, but we kept the streets violence-free in exchange for a blind eye being turned to the odd illegal street race or shipment of stolen cars. Lately though, something had changed. Graffiti with a signature no one recognized. Graffitiwas a nuisance to most people, but we knew better. It was a way to mark your territory and this territory was ours.
