Page 1 of Her Mysterious Biker
one
Stevie
My heart races asthe roar of motorcycle engines in the distance grows louder. I glance down at my self-inflicted flat tire on my scooter. It’s a risky move considering I’m in the middle of nowhere and the scooter is my only mode of transportation, but I don’t know how else to get the attention of the Savage Kings motorcycle club.
I’ve tried to talk to some of the guys when they were shopping at the grocery store, but my boss, Richard Alterman, warned me against getting involved in something I shouldn’t be involved in.
Richard is a retired supply officer from the Air Force. He said he settled in Jackson Ridge to be close to the base he once called home. He bought the Bloom & Bounty grocery store as a new chapter in his life. Rumor has it he once managed supply lines in three war zones, but you’ll never hear him admit it. He mostly keeps to himself, only trusting those who earn his trust.
Ever since I started noticing strange men hanging out in the parking lot of Bloom & Bounty, I’ve felt like I was being watched. I briefly talked to one of the Savage Kings at the grocery store about my suspicions. He seemed friendly enough, not as intimidating as I thought a member of a motorcycle club would be. I later found out from a coworker that his name was Deadeye.
He was attractive in a rugged way, but he wasn’t the mysterious biker I’ve been obsessing over since I was here a couple of weeks ago when the bikers drove by.
Every Sunday, they ride together along this stretch of highway. It’s an incredible sight — muscular guys proudly wearing their leather cuts on the most beautiful motorcycles I’ve ever seen, some with helmets and some without. Some with their old ladies riding along, most riding solo.
Sundays are my only day off during the week. Spending it by the lake reading is my favorite pastime—or was, before these bikers started driving by. Especially when my obsession brings up therear of the group, marking him as the tail gunner—the last rider in the group formation. It’s his job to ensure safety and maintain the group's integrity during the ride.
Safety. Exactly what I need right now.
He might wear his helmet every time I see him, but I can feel his eyes on me as he drives past, which feels so much different from the eyes I feel watching me around town.
Trying to get a reaction from him, I wave every time he drives by, but he hasn't waved back yet. The most I’ve ever received is a nod.
I don’t know much about the Savage Kings, but I’ve heard rumors that drift through the town like bees pollinating flowers—buzzing from one to the next just like the gossip the townspeople spread.
The rumors say the Savage Kings MC isn’t just a club—it’s a brotherhood forged in blood, loyalty, and an unbreakable code. The men of the MC live by their own rules, protecting their territory and loved ones at all costs.
Fierce.
Possessive.
Unyielding.
I can’t even imagine having someone like that in my life. I can only hope that the code will carry through to the town andwhatever shady business is happening in the parking lot of the grocery store.
I’ve only been living in Jackson Ridge for a couple of months, but it feels more like home than any of the many foster families I was shuffled through during my teen years after my grandmother passed away and I ended up in the system.
Being an unwanted teenager in the foster care system was already tough—add in my mismatched eye color and a curvier figure than most girls my age, and I was an easy target. Having one blue eye and one brown eye might seem cool to some, but for me, it was a living hell.
Thankfully, the people of Jackson Ridge have accepted me—weird eyes, scooter riding, new girl, curves and all.
I flip my long, brown hair over my shoulder and tug at the short crop top I've paired with tiny Daisy Duke shorts. It’s definitely not my usual outfit, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m a curvy girl, cursed with a big chest, wide hips, and a tiny waist. Hopefully, my thrift store outfit will catch the eye of one of the bikers—my mysterious biker, if I’m lucky.
Motorcycles pass by, and I hold my pose—left hip cocked to the side, shoulders back, chest out, eyes shifting between the road and my broken-down scooter, silently hoping one of them stops to help me. I’m not thrilled about the idea of having to call someone from town to pick me and my scooter up if my plan fails.
The bikers keep riding by, my hope sinking even further as I cling to the knowledge that the one person I want to stop and help me is the last in the group.
Finally, the guy I’ve been waiting for comes into view, only to drive past like everyone else. I blink back tears of frustration and humiliation. It was a stupid idea anyway. I reach into my pocket to grab my phone and call for help, but then I remember the shorts were so tight that I didn’t have room for my phone, so I left it on my nightstand.
Great. Now I’m going to have to walk back to town.
I take one last look at the group of bikers, still hoping one of them will feel sorry for me and at least offer me a ride into town, when I see my biker pulling up next to the guy in front of him, giving him a hand signal, then slowing down and turning around.
Relief washes over me as I see him slow his bike and park in front of me. “Need some help?” His gruff voice brushes against my skin. He sounds like sin in leather.
“Yes, please.” I flutter my eyelashes, feeling totally out of place as I try to flirt with this mountain of a man. “I’m Stevie, by the way.”
He looks massive on the bike, but when he swings his muscular, leather-clad leg over the bike and stands to his full height, he’s enormous—at least six and a half feet tall, if not more. He towers over me by a full foot, at five feet six inches.
