Page 4 of Her Dirty Biker
I grip the counter until my knuckles go white.
What if I tell someone? Will they think I’m overreacting? Paranoid? Or worse—what if they don’t believe me at all?
What if Guardrail knows I heard him?
I take my coffee black and fast, barely tasting it before I’m shoving myself into jeans and a sweatshirt. I’ve got an early supply drop to make. It’s the first time I’ve been asked to do anything other than wait tables. If I sit in this house any longer, I’m going to crawl out of my skin.
Outside, the air is sharp and damp, the asphalt still steaming from a late-night rain. I check my surroundings before getting into my car…twice. No sign of leather cuts. No rumble of engines.
No Diesel.
The Black Crown Bar is nearly empty when I push through the back door with the box of liquor bottles cradled against my chest. Cold air rushes in from the delivery dock, and the smell of lemon cleaner and stale beer hits me instantly.
“Leave it there,” a voice says, low and rough, unmistakable.
I flinch, it’shim.
Diesel steps out of the storage closet like he owns the shadows, black T-shirt stretched across his chest, grease smudges on his arms and neck. He’s holding a wrench. His eyes lock on mine—that unreadable, unnerving shade of stormy gray.
“You don’t work here,” I say, setting the box down with more force than necessary. “Or do you just pop out of supply closets wherever you go?”
He shrugs and leans a shoulder against the wall. “Didn’t like the idea of you hauling heavy shit alone.”
“That supposed to impress me?”
“It's supposed to piss you off?”
“It’s working.”
A beat passes between us. It’s tight, tense, and crackling with energy. I don’t know what to do with it.
He straightens slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. “Did you sleep last night?”
I stiffen. “Why? You spying on me?”
He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t.
I should walk away. Get back to work. But instead, I take a step closer.
“Are you always this creepy, or am I just lucky?”
His mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smirk. “Not trying to creep and I don’t think you find me creepy. Just keeping an eye on something important.”
I hate how my breath hitches.
Something important.
“Guess I should feel honored,” I mutter, but my voice lacks heat.
He moves toward me, slow and measured, like a predator circling its prey.
“You don’t scare easily, do you?” he asks.
“Should I?”
“No.” His eyes flicker over my face. “But you’re smart. Smarter than most. I saw you last night. You were shook. What’d you hear?”
I cross my arms, planting my feet. “Nothing I understood.”
