Page 9 of Her Possessive Biker
But God, do I wish it would.
The shift drags, but I clock out early and head home. By the time I pull into the drive, the sky's turned dark and moody, thunder rumbling low like it’s chewing on a threat.
Rain slams against the tin roof of my little rental, that steady, rattling kind of storm that should feel cozy. It doesn’t. Not to me. It makes my skin crawl with memories I can’t shake.
So I bake.
Lemon bars, this time. The scent of sugar and citrus fills the air as I stir and sift and measure. My heartbeat slows with each step. The oven hums, the timer ticks, and for a few minutes, I feelalmoststeady.
When the ding finally sounds and the worst of the storm has drifted off, I leave the lemon bars to cool under the oven light and step outside.
The air is thick with that post-rain smell, clean and earthy, like possibility scrubbed free of dust. Jackson Ridge sits curled in the shadow of the Rockies, the peaks still hidden behind layers of cloud, but the sky above town is streaked with lavender and steel. The storm didn’t break me, but I feel cracked open.
I need tomove.
I grab a hoodie, lace up my sneakers, and head for the trail at the edge of town. Lost Pine Loop. A couple miles of winding dirt and footbridges, the kind of place locals say helps you think. I don’t come to think. I come tobreathe.
The path is slick but solid beneath my shoes. Trees drip in silence. Somewhere off in the underbrush, a twig snaps, and my heart leaps into my throat.
I laugh at myself, weak and breathless. “It’s just a deer,” I mutter. “Get it together, Cass.”
The first bridge comes into view and I stop halfway across, leaning on the wet wooden rail to watch the creek churn below. Water rushes loud under my feet. The smell of moss and pine hangs in the air. I breathe in, deep. Breathe out, slower.
Thisis how I survive the noise in my head.
Until I hear footsteps behind me.
At first, I ignore them. Plenty of people walk this trail. But something about the cadence is off. Too quick. Too sure. I go still.
Then I hear voices.
Low. Male. Close.
I turn.
Two men stand at the edge of the bridge. One has a shaved head and a black eye patch. The other sports a snake tattoo. Their eyes don’t smile. The glint of steel flashes on one of their belts.
My stomach drops.
“Pretty night for a walk,” Patch-Eye drawls.
My mouth goes dry. “Trail’s public,” I say, casual like I don’t feel the panic building in my throat. “Enjoy your walk.”
I move to pass them. They step wider.
Block my way.
Snake grins. “You work at the diner.” His eyes crawl over me like oil. “Red hair. Cute freckles. Pretty little thing.”
My blood ices. My brain screams run, but my body doesn’t move. The bridge is narrow and the creek below is rocks and current. If I bolt, they’ll be on me before I take a step.
“I’m just heading home,” I say, voice barely above steady. I shift back, just enough to plan an escape. My foot skids on the damp wood and my ankle rolls.
Snake lunges.
His fingers lock around my wrist and pain shoots up my arm. I gasp.
“Home? You mean that dump rental you hole up in? Like you had any better options after your old man drank himself to death and left all kind of debts behind. You think we don’t know who you are, Cassie Jean?”
