Page 2 of Falling for the Biker
From the way the redhead looks at him, I realize Cherry is her name. Has to be a nickname or something.
“We’re taking a ten.” The man states the words like a demand as his chair creaks with movement. Setting down his tattoo gunand peeling off his gloves, he ignores the way the person visibly relaxes at the mention of a break. Instead, he’s turning to me.
If I thought the woman could see through me like glass, then this man is an X-ray, seeing every fragile bone and frantic thought.
His eyes are so dark brown they’re nearly black, pinning me in place with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. A scowl digs lines into his brow, and a fresh wave of fear-induced adrenaline hits me.
This is my savior? He looks more like the final boss.
Then my traitorous eyes catch on his hands—large, capable, with faded ink across the knuckles. Against the bone, scars from years of violence that were once covered by gloves only moments ago.
For a hysterical second, I wonder if those hands could be gentle, before I shut the thought down.
Terrifying. He’s just terrifying. He’s perfect, just the thing I’m looking for.
I’m shaking in my shoes, and he hasn’t even acknowledged my existence.
Stepping toward me, I stiffen up, but he walks right past me.
“Step outside.” This time, his words are meant for me.
Feeling like I have no choice but to listen, I follow at the heel of his boots.
The air is cool when we leave the shop. He doesn’t take me too far from the entrance, stepping a few feet away. He looks agitated.
“Finn?” I ask softly, feeling like I’m wrong the moment the word leaves my lips.
He shoves his hand into his back pocket to pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. Pinching one between his fingers, his frown seems to grow.
“Only my baby sister and her husband can call me by that name. Everyone else?” He says the words so gruffily. “I go by Diesel.”
My nose scrunches out of habit. “Like the stuff you put in cars?”
Lighting the cigarette, I watch as the flames glow against his cheekbones. He inhales slowly, as if he needs the smoke more than air. Exhaling, he doesn’t look any more relieved. “Like the stuff you put in cars.”
He then looks at me, waiting, his stare weighing heavily. I stare back until I realize why silence is forming between us.
“Oh!” Squirming, my eyes shift to the crumbling brick wall. “Hi. I’m, um, Ruby.”
His cigarette glows, leaving behind ashes cascading toward the sidewalk. “Like the rock?”
His attempt to return the blow cracks the tension. For the first time in weeks, my lips curve into a half-smile. “Gemstone, not a rock, but yeah.”
He grunts, a sound that vibrates in the space between us. Then his gaze drops from my face, sweeping down my body with a slow, thorough assessment that has my skin prickling.
It’s not a leer; it’s more like he’s trying to figure out what landed on his doorstep. He doesn’t blink until he reaches the scuffed tips of my sneakers. My heart is hammering again, but it feels different now—less about pure terror and more about being so utterly seen.
“What do you want?” he asks, his eyes flicking back up.
Not only is he intimidating, but he also doesn’t beat around the bush. Good. I need someone who doesn’t waste time. I’ve had enough of that already.
“Help.” The answer comes too easily. “I was told that you’re a part of a group that helps solve people’s problems.”
Feeling like I’ve got one shot, I tell him in a long rush about my “problem”. My stalker. Someone who lives to torment me by leaving notes in my mailbox and hints of their presence in my life.
“Please.” The word escapes me, leaving behind a raw feeling in my throat. “I don’t know who else I can ask.”
Just thinking about going home to find something else, to continue getting spooked and letting fear run my life…
