Page 1 of Her Possessive Biker
Chapter 1
Cassie
Iwipe down the tables at Bottles & Bites, chasing rings of soda syrup that cling to the surface like they’ve got something to prove.
It’s past ten, and the diner has finally settled into that slow crawl toward closing.
Jim Torrence hums off-key as he flips the last patties on the griddle. The jukebox is stuck on some ancient rock song, and the neon sign in the window buzzes like it’s trying to put me out of my misery.
My reflection in the glass isn’t doing me any favors. Green eyes too bright for someone running on fumes, red hair slipping out of its tie, curls springing loose like they’ve got a mind of their own. Freckles scattered across my nose, curves the diner uniform doesn’t bother hiding.
I tug the apron tighter anyway, like that ever worked. I look exactly like a girl who’s been on her feet for eleven hours.
I smooth a strand behind my ear and slap on a smile for the couple in the corner. They’re giggling over milkshakes, leaning in all close, the kind of scene I’ve only ever read in dog-eared romance paperbacks. Lucky them. My date tonight is with a bucket of bleach water and a mop.
My fingers are dusted in flour, because apparently when normal people stress-eat, I stress-bake. Two chocolate pies are cooling in the back, not because anyone ordered them, but because sugar and butter don’t argue.
This is my life: pouring coffee, baking sweets nobody asked for, keeping my head down, and pretending the wordfamilydoesn’t feel like it should come with a warning label.
“You look like you’re ready to start a war,” Jim calls from the kitchen, his drawl rough but warm.
I glance back at him. Same grease-stained apron, same twitchy mustache, same eyes sharp enough to catch every lie. He runs this place like it’s his ship and we’re the crew. A sailor’s mouth, a soft heart he thinks he hides.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just thinking about those pies. Don’t want them going to waste.”
He snorts. “Don’t worry about that. When the bikers roll in, they’ll eat anything that isn’t nailed down. Maybe even some that is.”
I grin despite myself. “Good to know.”
His face hardens. “But I don’t want you here when they come. A good girl like you doesn’t mix with guys like them.”
The Savage Kings.
Just the name makes my skin prickle. They’ve haunted this town my whole life. Black leather cuts, engines rumbling past the diner windows, heavy boots stomping across Jim’s checkered floor. Jim says I should never be around them, but Ihave. Close enough to remember the sound of those boots long after they’re gone.
They’re like thunder rolling over the mountains. You feel the pressure drop before the storm hits, but you don’t dare look straight at the lightning.
Except sometimes I do.
Sometimes I can’t help it.
And I don’t know whydangercalls to me the way it does.
Jim mutters, “It’s enough Camden went and fell for one of them.”
Camden, the librarian who gave her heart to Diego “Deadeye” Sanchez. She lookshappy. Good for her. But me? I tell myself I’d never fall for a violent man. I had enough of that growing up.
“You daydreamin’ or cleaning?” Jim barks from the grill.
“Multitasking,” I shoot back, tossing him a grin with a side of sarcasm to cover the way my shoulders jump at his voice. Jim isn’t my father. He’d never hurt me. But my body doesn’t always remember the difference.
“Take the trash out, then head home,” he says.
I sigh, tie off the bag, and push through the back door. The alley smells like grease and smoke, shadows stretching long under the flickering streetlamp.
A man is slouched near the dumpster, bottle dangling from his hand, eyes glassy. His grin is wide and mean when he spots me.
“Well, look at this,” he slurs. “Pretty little thing all by herself.”
