Page 1 of Her Obsessed Biker
Chapter One
Piper
I left everything I’ve ever known…for this?
I’d only ever seen Jackson Ridge on a faded map, so I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
This place is nothing more than dusty roads, tired buildings, and one long stretch of cracked pavement that leads straight to the bar at the edge of town.
The Black Crown. That’s what the crooked sign says above the door, its letters half-lit and flickering like they’re struggling to stay alive. A rusted chopper is welded to the damn roof. Bullet holes pepper the weathered siding like someone used the place for target practice and never got around to fixing it. The windows are tinted too dark to see inside. The whole building hums with a kind of masculine energy that dares anyone to step closer.
I should turn around. My instincts scream it. But instinct didn’t bring me here.
Desperation did.
The Black Crown is the only lead I have. Somewhere behind its smoke-stained walls is a man I know only by his club name…Wolf. The name of a man who wrote my mother a love letter two decades ago. The name my “dad” accidentally muttered in a drunken rage one night when he called me a bastard.
My hands tremble as I grip the handle and push the door open.
The scent hits first—whiskey, smoke, and raw testosterone. The air feels thick enough to chew. Loud voices, the kind that bark and snap and demand attention, echo off the walls, along with laughter that doesn’t sound friendly. Boots thud against old wood floors. And music, rough and loud, fights to dominate the chaos. Some Lynyrd Skynyrd track, scratchy and mean.
The place is packed.
Men with leather cuts and hard eyes lounge around pool tables and barstools, some with tattoos that climb up their necks like snakes. Women in barely there shorts drape themselves over the men like accessories. It’s loud. It’s wild.
And then, suddenly, it’s not.
Silence sweeps the room like someone hit the mute button. Eyes swing to me, one by one. Every conversation dies mid-sentence. Every movement halts. I might as well have walked in stark naked.
Though, given what the other women are wearing, maybe I’d blend in better that way. I’m a bit too covered up in my jeans and soft pink T-shirt. Too innocent-looking for this place.
I straighten my spine.
Don’t flinch. Don’t show fear.
I walk forward like I belong here. Like I haven’t just stepped into the lions’ den.
The bartender watches me approach. He’s massive, bald head, arms like tree trunks, a permanent scowl etched into his face. Definitely not the chatty type.
I slide onto a barstool, aware of every stare burning into my skin. “Whatever you’ve got on tap,” I say, forcing the words past my dry throat.
He nods once and turns away. I release a shaky breath.
This is not how I pictured this going. My plan was simple: get in, start small, make conversation, ask about “Wolf” without making it obvious. But nothing about this place feels simple.
My beer arrives. It looks like motor oil in a glass. I take a sip and nearly choke.
It burns like hell going down, and I do everything I can not to cough. Or puke. Or give away the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing.
Conversations have resumed, but quieter now. Warier. Like the room itself is waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I don’t belong here. I can feel it in every muscle of my body.
But I didn’t come all this way to run scared.
I lift the glass again, preparing to brave another sip, when I feel it. That unmistakable sensation of being watched. Not like the curious stares from earlier. This one is different. Sharper. Heavier. It slides over my skin like a blade pressed flat to my throat.
I look up.
