Page 2 of Her Obsessed Biker
In the darkest corner of the bar, half-shadowed and unmoving, sits a man. Big. Broad. Still as stone.
I can’t make out much, just the glint of metal on leather, the rigid set of his shoulders, the whiskey glass in one hand.
And those eyes. They lock on mine, and my breath catches.
They’re dark. Intense. Burning with something dangerous. Possessive. They pin me in place and strip me bare without ever moving from the shadows.
My heart trips, thuds hard against my ribs. I shouldn’t be reacting like this, but my body doesn’t listen to reason.
Heat rushes low in my belly. Goose bumps prick up my arms. From one look. One damn look.
I force myself to look away, to break the spell, and the moment my eyes drop, something crashes into my side. I hear the sound of glass shattering before I feel the cold liquid soaking through my shirt.
I jump back with a gasp, blinking out of the daze.
A boy—not a man, not yet—scrambles to collect the broken pieces of the glass he just dropped. He’s lanky, fresh-faced, too clean for a place like this.
He mumbles apologies, eyes wide, hands shaking.
“It’s fine,” I tell him quickly, brushing glass from my lap. He’s clearly panicked, and I get the sense he’s low on the totem pole. Maybe a prospect? A wannabe?
He nods and gathers the shards in his shirt, backing away fast. I watch him duck into a side hallway near the back. The door swings shut behind him.
I don’t know what possesses me, maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s the tension still clawing at my nerves, but I slide off the stool and follow him.
I’m not here to play it safe. And maybe the kid knows something.
Or maybe I’m about to walk straight into something I won’t come back from.
The hallway is dimly lit, quiet except for the muffled bass of music vibrating through the walls. A single door creaks open to the outside, and I push through it without stopping to think. It leads to a narrow alley, lined with stained brick and the lingering stench of motor oil and cigarette smoke. A crooked streetlamp flickers overhead, casting yellow light over a rusted dumpster where the boy is carefully dumping glass shards into a black trash bag.
He startles when he sees me, straightening like he’s been caught doing something illegal.
“I’m sorry again about the drink,” he says quickly, his voice coming out a little too high, a little too nervous.
I wave it off. “Really, it’s fine. No harm done.”
He relaxes a fraction, wiping his palms on his jeans. Up close, he looks even younger. Couldn’t be more than eighteen. Baby-faced, with shaggy brown hair and a hopeful kind of innocence.
I lean against the wall, trying to appear casual. “You work here?”
He nods. “Sort of. On and off. Just during breaks from school mostly. Cleaning up, doing errands. That kind of thing.”
“So…you’re not part of the club?”
His shoulders square a little. “Not yet. But I’m hoping to prospect soon. Been hanging around for almost two years now.”
There’s pride in his voice. Like he’s earned it.
“I take it you like it here,” I say, eyebrows raised.
His eyes light up. “Hell yeah. The guys here? They’re rough, yeah, but they’re solid. Like, really solid. They look out for each other. You do right by them, they’ll go to war for you. It’s not just patches and bikes, it’s family. Loyalty. Brotherhood.”
I smile politely, though I’m not sure I believe him. I’ve seen plenty of men who wear loyalty like a mask. My dad—stepdad—used to say loyalty meant silence. Obedience. Fear.
But I keep that buried. I need information, not an argument.
“Sounds…intense,” I say lightly. “Hey, maybe you could help me with something.”
