Page 2 of Harley

Unluckily for my family, I ran as a hobby, and I could run damn fast. However, tragically, I was barefoot, and the stones were cutting up my feet. But I would rather that, than marry Bronson.

I hit the street where the driveway smoothed out into pavement and looked around for help.

A lone bike headed my way, and I leapt into the road and waved my arms. The biker slowed and skidded to a stop, so I raced forward, leaving bloody footprints.

Not risking a refusal, I gathered up the big, frothy mess I wore and jumped on the back of the bike.

“Go! Before they kill me!” I screamed.

The biker looked at me and then at the driveway from where I had emerged. The Harley revved and roared off just as Bronson, Reverend Jeffery, and Dad appeared.

“Keep that shit clear of the wheels, or you’ll be pulled off,” the biker yelled over his shoulder.

“Thank you!” I called as I gripped the bike with my thighs and gathered all the frothy lace, silk, and satin up tightly. Sighing, I laid my head on his back.

I honestly didn’t care if this was a good or bad guy. He was a damn hero for stopping.

Chapter One.

Harley

This was one for the books. How the hell would I explain arriving at the clubhouse with a bride in tow?

I was returning from Benton, Illinois, where I’d delivered a handcrafted sword. Making good time, I’d just passed through Galesburg when a woman in a wedding dress ran into the road.

The sheer panic and fear on her face had caused me to stop. This might be a runaway bride, but nobody should appear that terrified of getting married. I hadn’t even put a boot to the ground before she rushed towards me and climbed on behind me. Slightly disturbed, I was about to demand what the fuck did she think she was playing at, but something caught my eye.

“Go! Before they kill me!” she screamed in my ear.

That was a moot point, because I was already in motion. Clearly, this wasn’t a case of nerves. This girl was fleeing someone, and that was probably the three pissed-off assholes who emerged at the end of the drive she’d appeared from.

“Keep that shit clear of the wheels, or you’ll be pulled off,” I yelled, worried about the dress.

As soon as it was safe, I’d pull over and cut that damn mass of satin down. If the dress caught in my rear wheel, there’d be an accident.

Worried, I rode ten minutes out of Galesburg before pulling over.

“My name’s Harley,” I said to break the ice.

“Oakley.”

“Need to do something about that dress, Oakley,” I replied over my shoulder.

Oakley was pressed against my back and shaking. “Okay,” she replied softly.

“Swing your leg over, and I’ll cut most of that fluff away.”

Oakley obeyed immediately, and I swung off my hog. Her face was hidden behind a frothy veil, and I couldn’t see much. The dress was creased and screwed up, and I frowned at all the layers of material. How the hell we hadn’t crashed, I didn’t know.

I pulled a knife from my waist, and Oakley gasped and stepped away, holding up her hands.

“I’m going to cut the skirt down. Oakley, I swear you’re safe with me. But we can’t ride with that fuckin’ thing,” I said, motioning to the dress. “Someone needs to tell that thing that the eighties called and demanded their dress back,” I muttered, and Oakley giggled.

The laugh held a slightly hysterical tinge, but it was better than full-scale tears.

“Give me the knife,” Oakley ordered, and I handed it straight over. She began cutting layers away and ripping them off. Finally, Oakley left the bodice intact and what I believed was an underskirt. Oakley pulled some plastic hoop thing out, and the dress stopped being a wannabe ballgown and fell flat to her feet.

Silently, I helped Oakley cut the layers at the back, as she couldn’t reach them.

---