Page 25 of Burly Biker of Misty Mountain

She passed a glossy black business card to me. The knee-jerk protest sat on the tip of my tongue—he’s not my boyfriend. Because he wasn’t. Technically. But I thanked her instead, stowing the card in the back pocket of my jeans.

As Maverick and I left the shop, we were greeted by a line of bikers lounging on their motorcycles, parked at the curb. A few of them let out wolf whistles and cheers. Others revved their bikes with a deafening roar.

“Well, shit,” Maverick muttered. “Looks like we won’t be making a quiet getaway, dove.”

“Friends of yours?” I asked.

He nodded. “And they’ll be eager to meet you.”

I faltered, surveying the group of bikers—seven in all. They were dressed like Maverick, with heavy boots, jeans, and black leather cuts. None of them bore the Nomad patch that Maverick did. They were marked with different patches instead—President, VP, Road Captain, Member, and Prospect. Stitched across their backs read THE RECKLESS ORDER MC.

When I agreed to ditch work for the day and join Maverick, I never thought I would be meeting his friends. I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, licking my kiss-swollen lips. Was it obvious what we’d been doing in the dressing room earlier? God, I hoped not…

An older biker with a long white beard, probably in his mid-sixties, stepped forward, clapping Maverick on the back.

“Long time no see, stranger,” he said with a thick Texas drawl.

“I should have known Lila would be a tattle-tale.”

“That’s what happens when you get caught thinkin’ with your downstairs brain. She took you by surprise and you didn’t evensee it comin’. Now be a gentleman and introduce me and the boys to your little lady.”

Maverick turned and tucked me into his side.

“Katie, this is Lila’s father, Otis Parker—Hillbilly, for short. Founder and President of the Reckless Order. The scruffy mutts you see tailing him are Brass, Ironside, Pretty Boy, Trooper, Viper, and Hades. The rest of the club is probably stirring up trouble somewhere, or drinking each other under the table.”

“Pretty Boy?” I blurted.

The second biker in line raised his hand in acknowledgement.

“That would be me.”

“Oh.” I could see why—cool gray eyes, t-shirt clinging to his sculpted chest, and silky chocolate brown hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. “That can’t be your real name though.”

Hillbilly shrugged.

“On the road, on the back of a bike, we don’t play by the same rules as civilized society does. We make a name for ourselves. Whether you’re given that name, like Pretty Boy here, or you choose it of your own free will, it sticks either way.”

I looked up at Maverick. What was his real name? And how did he come to be known as Maverick instead?

“We should pick a name for your girl, Maverick,” Pretty Boy said. “She looks like she’d be the perfect Bunny.”

His gaze slowly panned over me as he swiped his thumb across his lower lip.

Maverick growled. His grip on my waist tightened until the hard pressure of his fingertips dug into me, bordering on painful.

“Call her that again and you’ll be spitting out broken teeth for a week.”

I blinked at Maverick in shock. Pretty Boy chuckled and raised his hands in surrender.

“Whoa, take it easy, tough guy. I’m yanking your chain, that’s all."

I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but judging by Maverick’s bristling, I probably wouldn’t like it.

“Ignore the wise-ass,” Hillbilly said. “When the boys and I heard you were in town, we thought we’d stop by, say hello, and maybe strong arm you into catchin’ up over a burger and a beer before you go. Your lady is welcome to join us. Pretty Boy will mind his own business, cross my heart.”

Maverick glanced down at me, gauging my reaction. Then he pulled me aside, crossed his arms, and dipped his head to look me in the eye.

“How do you feel about all this?”

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