Page 3 of Her Dirty Biker
Only I won’t forget.
Not the way Guardrail’s breath reeked of liquor. Not the glint in his eyes when he cornered me, like I was prey. And definitely not the way Diesel’s voice wrapped around me like leather and smoke.
I start the engine, ignoring the way my pulse leaps when I check my rearview mirror and catch a flicker of movement behind the row of cars.
Was that…?
No, it's just the shadows and my overactive imagination.
I drive home with the radio off, headlights cutting through the dark stretch of road that winds up toward my rented duplex. The longer I’m behind the wheel, the more the adrenaline seeps out, replaced by an uneasy throb that pools low in my belly.
Why did he step in like that?
Why me?
I park under the flickering streetlight out front and climb out, keys clutched tight in my hand. My duplex is small, just two rooms and a bathroom, but it’s mine. The porch creaks under my heels. I fumble with the lock again, step inside, and twist the deadbolt behind me.
Home and safe.
I drop my purse on the kitchen counter and head straight for the sink, filling a glass with cool water and pressing it to my lips. The silence stretches around me, and I let it. It’s a shield, a comfort.
Still, I drift to the window, nudging the curtain aside.
Nothing.
But I feel it again—that presence. That awareness. That heavy, burning sense that someone’s eyes are on me. I step back from the glass.
Get a grip, Willow. You’re new here. You don’t know these people. You don’t want to. Don’t get involved.
But I’m already involved, aren’t I?
I overheard something that sounded like a threat. Maybe a warning. And I’m not dumb enough to believe that a guy like Guardrail would forget a face.
I shower with the door locked, heart still pounding. When I finally crawl into bed, I stare up at the ceiling fan slicing slow shadows across the wall, the sheets twisted around my legs.
I think of him. Diesel. The way he moved. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.
His voice plays on a loop in my head, low and rough and full of heat. “She said no.”
Damn it, my body reacts. I press my thighs together and bite back a groan. I’m not supposed to want someone like him.
Older. Dangerous. Scarred. Probably has blood on his hands. But the second he stepped between me and that guy, I felt something shift. Something I can’t stop thinking about.
I close my eyes and try to sleep. I tell myself I’m fine, that this is nothing, and it won’t matter tomorrow. I already know I’m lying.
My alarm jerks me out of a restless, dream-stained sleep.
I sit up slowly, the room still wrapped in shadows. Morning sunlight fights its way through the cheap blinds, stripes of pale gold slashing across the floor. I’m tangled in sheets that feel too warm, too tight. My skin’s still humming from last night—not just the fear, but the way Diesel’s voice sank into my bones.
I walk barefoot to the kitchen, dragging my hair into a high ponytail, and flip the coffeemaker on. The scent of burnt beans hits me before the caffeine can kick in, but I need something to make sense of the storm in my head.
Did I imagine it? No. The look on Guardrail’s face, the sound of his voice, and the threat were all real.
And Diesel. A man like that doesn’t just stroll into your life and fade away. He doesn’t smile softly or make you feel safe with small talk. He commands space. Takes up every inch of oxygen.
I lean against the counter, staring out the narrow kitchen window.
There’s nothing out there but wet pavement, a few trash cans, and my rusted mailbox. Still, I get the creeping sensation that I’m being watched. The same one I had last night.
