Page 6 of Falling for the Biker
The wind whips past us, but all I can smell is leather and him—a smoky scent that’s nothing like the stale air of the tattoo shop. It’s the scent of my protector, and I find myself inhaling deeper, my grip tightening not from fear, but from a sudden, inexplicable need to get closer.
When I’m right here, pressed against him, I feel as safe as a person can feel. It’s the craziest thing.
The “short” ride lasts all the way to the edge of town. Feeling never-ending, I take in the blur of the autumn setting. The mix of orange and red looks so nice; I find it a peaceful distraction.
Thankfully, Idon’tdie. Rather, we make it to our destination. As relieved as I should be, there’s something unsettling about parking in front of a building with a bunch of other motorcycles surrounding it.
As Diesel lifts to let me off first, I almost slip. My poor legs are outright noodles, both trembling as my feet hit the solid ground.
“Judge doesn’t like strangers, so keep close.” The command is gruff, but the action that follows is what undoes me. He plants his palm firmly in the middle of my back. It’s a large, heavy hand, and the heat of it sears through my jacket.
My heart doesn’t just flutter; it pounds so intensely that I can feel it in my pulse with every swallow.
I wonder if he can feel the frantic beat, if he knows the effect he’s having. The rational part of my brain screams that this is a bad idea, that getting attached to a man like him is a recipe for disaster. But the part of me that’s been cold and scared for weeks leans into the touch, craving the security it provides.
Keep close.
As if there’s any other place I’d rather be.
“Should I be worried?” Trying to find the strength to smile, I can’t hide the concern in my voice.
“Only if you’ve got something to hide.” Saying it far too seriously for his own good, I squirm when I feel his eyes on me. “Hope that’s not the case. Not many people who enter this place leave if they try to be slick.”
Oh my God. What am I getting myself into right now? Oh boy. Is it too late to start looking for new places to live?
There’s the low rumble of a chuckle behind me, and I’m surprised that it’s Diesel chuckling. When I look behind me, I realize that beneath his bushy beard, the jerk is smirking!
“I’m fucking with you. Judge is a good man. He won’t bite your head off, just don’t get on his bad side, that’s all.” His thumb traces along my spine.
“You’re terrible.” As I huff the insult, I can feel the tips of my ears warming.
If he was joking, was he serious about sticking close? If so, why is he still touching me, and why haven’t I pulled away yet?
The air in the Steelwood MC clubhouse hits me first—a thick haze of cigarette smoke that stings my eyes and coats the back of my throat. A low, thrumming bassline vibrates up through the soles of my sneakers, more a threat than a rhythm.
Overhead, a few fluorescent lights buzz and flicker, casting a sickly, jumping glare over the dozens of men crowding the bar area. I can feel the weight of the place, a labyrinth I can only imagine stretching into a deeper, darker unknown, but my attention is snagged by the sheer number of hostile faces here alone.
As we move forward, the music shifts to a grating guitar riff. Two men at a pool table stop their game in perfect, unnerving unison. The silence they create feels louder than the music. Their eyes lock onto us.
One has a pale scar tearing along his cheek, while the other wears a scowl so deep and permanent, it makes my heart skip with fear.
I falter, my eyes flickering down to the concrete floor. In my nervousness, my hand, which had been hovering at my side, lifts to pinch the thickness of Diesel’s vest so I can feel another taste of safety.
His thumb, which had been stroking my spine, stills as he senses my fear. My breath catches in my throat. The momentstretches, thick and heavy, the noise of the clubhouse fading into a dull roar.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
I probably shouldn’t touch him as I please, but he doesn’t tell me to let go. Instead, like he can understand where my mind is at, he shortens the space between us so he’s that much closer.
Diesel doesn’t look at me. He just gives a soft grunt and resumes guiding me, his hand on my back feeling more protective than before. Maybe… a little possessive, too. Then again, I’m feeling so lightheaded, I’m probably delirious.
“Don’t mind them. We don’t often see many beautiful women here. They’re just curious.” He tries to crack a smile to make me feel better, but something else fills my chest. Is it dread?
They look like they want to eat me alive in one big bite.
Wait, he thinks I’m beautiful?
There are a few women already inside, but none pay me any attention. They cling to the men at their sides, sly smiles on their lips as they lean in to whisper something that makes their partners grin.
