Page 7 of Falling for the Biker
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I nod at his reassurance even though I don’t believe his words. He leads me even deeper, asking someone behind a computer where Judge is. Calling him Ghost, I realize everyone here must go by nicknames.
If Judge is the leader of this group, I’m willing to bet his name is fitting for his role. Was Diesel really joking earlier? I don’t have anything to hide, but I’m still nervous.
As I’m led deeper into this dangerous pen, the pounding music drifts into a muffled white noise as we enter a new section.
A few worn-down couches line the wall with a table cracked along the edges. On top, a pair of boots connected to a man with a pinched expression. Next to him, another man who looks far too relaxed under the heavy weight of the atmosphere. Lookingat the front of their jackets, I can see the angry-looking one is the “President” while the other one is the “Vice President”.
My lips purse at my poor luck.
Now that I think about it, Diesel had a title as well, but I don’t have a clue what a prospect captain is, or where he fits in this chain of power.
“Judge.” Behind me, Diesel calls out to him. Thankfully, he keeps close enough that even if I do get the thought of fleeing, I can’t. He’s like a freaking wall of muscle.
A pair of fierce green eyes drifts in our direction, and he immediately stares me down like he’s deciding if I’m a threat or not. Once he deems me harmless, the grit in his jaw seems to relax.
He stands and turns his attention back to the other man. Opening his mouth, a low raspy voice is what comes out. “Stay here. We’re not finished.”
Unlike me, who’d be flinching at such a tone, the other man only smiles, like he’s amused.
When Judge moves, we follow, a silent procession through the haze. He leads us back to the scarred wooden bar, where a woman with tired eyes fills a glass without being asked. He throws it back in one swallow, the amber liquid vanishing.
His gaze, colder than ever, finally slides back to me. “What’s the issue?”
The question is a low rumble. His eyes take their time, traveling from my face down to my shaking hands, and his heavy brows furrow as if he’s examining a problem he doesn’t have time for.
My tongue feels thick and useless in my mouth, a dead weight. Before I can force a sound, Diesel’s voice cuts in, ready to save me from embarrassing myself.
“She’s got a stalker. Wants me to scare him off.” He reduces my weeks of fear into a simple transaction. “I’ll keep it clean. A quick stakeout to find the guy, then just… shake him up a little.”
Judge pulls his eyes from me as if I’ve already been dismissed and signals for another refill. “I can’t afford the heat right now. Not with Ripper already picking fights and putting heat on the club.”
The rejection hits me like a physical blow, my heart plunging into my stomach. A fresh wave of panic rises, but it’s held at bay by the steady, rhythmic stroke of Diesel’s thumb.
“I’ll keep it under wraps,” Diesel insists, his voice dropping. “No marks. Just a good, solid spook.”
Judge lets out a short, harsh snort, a sound that holds no humor. I don’t understand the joke, but the meaning is clear. What’s simple to me is a complication to him. The only thing that keeps me from crumbling is the undeniable certainty in Diesel’s voice, the way he insists that helping me is the only option.
“We both know how you are.” He scoffs and looks away.
“Judge.” Diesel says his name in a way that makes my toes curl. “I’ll take care of it.”
The president taps his thumb against his glass before looking toward me once more. He squints and stares hard like he’s seeing right through me. When I shiver, he looks next to me. “No blood. Not unless you plan on cleaning up after yourself. I’ve already had to call Grim once today, and that was more than enough.”
Blood?
What am I getting myself into here?
The men look at each other like they are having their own secret conversation. Finally, Judge nods and takes his glass with him. As he heads towards the room with the other guy, Diesel is already leading me away.
“Why did he make it seem like you aren’t the best person to help me out?” As we step back out into the cold air, I instinctively shift closer, the solid heat of his body a welcome shield against the chill.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets out a slow breath that clouds in the space between us. He brings a hand up and rubs the heel of his palm hard against his eye like he’s trying to scrub away a memory. The gesture is tired, frustrated. It makes him look older for a second, weighed down by something I can’t see.
“Sometimes,” he says, the word gruff as he finally drops his hand, “I get a little too angry. Do things without thinking it all the way through.”
The admission is simple, but the gravity in his voice makes my breath catch. This isn’t a boast; it’s a confession. He’s trusting me with a flaw, a piece of the dangerous truth that lurks beneath his controlled exterior.
When the corners of my mouth twitch, unable to suppress the connection I’ve just made, his dark eyes narrow on me. “Is that why they call you Diesel?”
