Page 94 of One Night with the Biker

“Have you checked the sprockets?” Ainsley asked. “I know those aren’t cheap, but that could be the issue.”

Bolt, Ma Siller and me looked at Ainsley. She’d mentioned Roman taught her about bikes, but I’d brushed it off. At the time, it wasn’t important in the scheme of things.

“Louisiana said the same thing,” Bolt confirmed. “But I checked those motherfuckers myself. They looked fine.”

Ainsley squirmed, looked at me, then at Bolt again. “My brother has a club member named Wizard,” she started hesitantly. “I’m not supposed to know this but he got his road name because he’s a wiz with bikes but also he seems to teleport wherever he pleases.” She pursed her lips, lowered her lashes, and squirmed again. “Do you think your bike could’ve been sabotaged in some way? Maybe, acid instead of the proper chainlube? It would corrode the links. Depending on what’s used, it could happen quickly.”

Bolt’s hard stare raised my fucking hackles. I slid my chair closer to her and draped an arm over her shoulder. Sliding his pear salad aside, he rested his arms on the table.

“Reese, Louisiana, and me spent yesterday evening checking everything. On my ride over here, I thought I’d have to pull to the side of the road and call someone.”

“Then, you should have,” Ainsley said. “A faulty chain can be deadly. If it isn’t the lube, then perhaps the axle nuts or chain adjusters were loosened. It is definitely something Wizard would do. You helped Reese save me—”

“Reese saved you,” Bolt growled.

“You still went there and cleaned up. You’re a target as much as I probably still am. As much as Reese is.”

“We have guards at the gate,” Bolt said, with a smidgeon more civility. “Wizard would have to get on the grounds to tamper with my bike.”

Ma Siller shook her head. I hadn’t seen the fear in her eyes in quite a while. “Yeah, Ainsley. Siller’s bike don’t have bells and whistles.”

Ainsley drew in a deep breath. “I know you see me as little more than the enemy and you don’t have to answer me. I shouldn’t say anything because I don’t know where Roman is. If you strike the Scorpions, then Roman might be the casualty. You’re a valuable part of the Royal Bastards. Do you really think Wizard wouldn’t know your bike and that of Reese’s and the rest of the officers? Don’t you know theirs? Know everything about your ops. Enemies 101.”

“Know what I think, Ainsley?” Bolt said.

“I can’t read minds, so that’s a no.”

Bolt chuckled. “You’re a little smartass, aren’t you?”

Sniffing, she sidled a glance at me. “So I’ve been told by one or two people.”

“I’m sure Reese and Roman don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot, but they’d agree about that,” he speculated.

Ainsley shrugged.

“Here’s what I think,” Bolt said, scratching his jaw. “You’re a keeper. Any woman who knows her shit about bikes is a prize in my book.”

I’m sure she’d won him over because of more than that, but the breath I’d been holding whooshed out.

“Let’s eat,” Bolt declared, and pointed to the stove. “Ma, bring out your chicken and rice for Ainsley. Give her extra helpings. She has that little one to feed.” He pulled his plate to him, picked up his fork and dug in, scooping up a piece of pear, mayo, and cheese and shoveling it into his mouth. “Delicious. One of my childhood favorites.”

Ainsley smiled and picked up her fork. “It looks delicious,” she said, breaking off a piece. “I would’ve thought pears, whipped cream, and toasted coconut was more of a dessert than a salad.”

“Ainsley—”

She shoved the fork into her mouth and began to chew, then abruptly stopped and gagged. Her eyes watered and her normally gorgeous skin tone turned a hideous green.

I grabbed the napkin off my lap and brought it to her mouth. “Spit it out.”

She complied and gagged again. “What was that?” she cried.

“Southern Pear Salad,” Ma Siller said calmly, sitting a plate of boiled chicken and rice in front of Ainsley. “I forgot your aversion to mayo lately. Can’t remember if the pear salad is a southern thing or a black thing. You’re covered either way.”

Ainsley jerked her horrified gaze away from the main course. “A black thing?” she asked, appalled. “I know you’re fucking lying, Ma.Andsouthern has no color.”

“She’s probably right, Ma,” Bolt said, leaning across the table and pulling Ainsley’s pear salad to him. “We had it at our church socials when I was growing up. Whenever Ma Siller serves this, it’s like a piece of nostalgic heaven.” He shoved half the pear salad into his mouth and talked around globs of cheese and mayo. “I could eat this every day.”

Ainsley clapped a hand over her mouth, jumped to her feet, and rushed to the sink to vomit.

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