Page 6 of Her Dirty Biker
Fuck, I loved it.
It cut right through my defenses and hit something low and dark in me, something I’ve buried deep beneath layers of ink, grease, and blood.
But that look in her eyes…
She didn’t say it to tease. Willow said it to test me, even if she doesn’t know it.And now? I’m failing. Badly.
The alley behind the Black Crown reeks of spilled whiskey and motor oil. I lean against. She’s got no idea what she’s playing with.
Willow Frost. New girl. Twenty-one. Smart mouth. Hips made for riding and a voice that could bring a man to his knees.
I’d seen her a few times at Widow’s Peak. She’s always moving, always hustling. Never flirting too hard, never giving anyone too much of a smile. Like she knows the game but refuses to be a piece on the board.
And then last night? Guardrail tried to get his hands on her.
I was two seconds from breaking his fingers.
I climb on my bike and fire it up. The vibration rolls through me, a temporary distraction from the pulse between my legs and the tension in my chest.
I park down the street from her apartment and kill the engine. Shadows stretch across the cracked sidewalks, the faint hum of neon flickering from a 24-hour diner a block away. Her porch light is on, but the rest of the place is dark.
She’s inside.
I lean back on the seat, watching. I tell myself it’s protection. That’s all it is. Except I know better. Every time I close my eyes, I see her mouth forming that word.
Daddy.
Every part of me that’s spent years buried under silence and scars woke the fuck up.I rub a hand over my face, trying to shake it off.
She doesn’t need a guy like me. I’m thirty-four, I have blood on my hands and a history of broken promises. I fix bikes, keep the club's engines running, and bury secrets where no one can dig them up.
She deserves soft.
I’m not soft. I’m fucking steel.
I don’t sleep. I wait until just after dawn, until I see the faint flicker of light inside her living room. She moves past the window, all soft curves and tired eyes.
She doesn’t see me.
Good.
I peel away from the curb and head to the safehouse on the edge of town. It’s a pretty house we’ve used for patching up brothers, hiding shipments, or stashing people when shit gets hot.
Today, it’s for her.
By the time I roll in, Rock’s already there.
He’s seated at the weathered kitchen table, drinking black coffee and thumbing through a manila folder. Prez is ex-military too—sharp eyes, gray at the temples, the kind of presence that never needs to raise his voice to be obeyed.
“You look like shit,” he says without glancing up.
“Didn’t sleep.”
He hums. “Thought not. You got it bad already?”
“She’s not like the others.”
“No,” he agrees. “She’s not.”
