Page 1 of Harvest Brew With the Mountain Man
CHAPTER ONE
CAMILLE
Leaving the coast for the thick mountainous terrain in the fall is the epitome of coming home.
I’m twenty minutes from Eden Ridge, everything I own stuffed in the back of my Jeep. I headed west to Silver Lakes when I was eighteen. I attended college and worked my ass off to get my degree, Bachelor of Fine Arts in Interior Design. I hadn’t planned on staying as long as I did.
Coming home wasn’t in the plan either. But Brian, as with everything he does, soured the freedom I found on the coast.
The rain’s musical pattern hits the fabric covering of my Jeep’s roof. The light, melodic swipe from the windshield wipers adds to the peaceful cadence of my drive.
Suddenly, one bright, cool-toned headlight blinds me through my rearview. The road into the mountains, at this time, became ghost-like thirty minutes back. Mom hates it when I drive back this late, but it’s my favorite time for long drives. It’s when the quiet solitude stretches, clearing my mind from the clutter.
The headlight gets closer. Squinting at the mirror, the silhouette breaks through the darkness and the mosaic painting from the rain. It’s a motorcycle.
My muscles clench. It’s instinctual at this point.
“You’re fine,” I mumble, keeping my eye on the rearview. “Club riders are common on the West Coast. Don’t be paranoid.”
I let out a deep exhale, but my actions betray me as I turn down the volume on the indie rock playing through my car speakers.
Just as my body loosens up, one headlight splits off into two. I’m going seventy down this barely lit back road into Eden Ridge since I never take the main highway.
“Fuck,” I huff under my breath when two headlights split off into three more. “Fucking Brian.”
A woman’s intuition is never wrong. This isn’t a random encounter with bikers. My blood runs cold when they speed up and surround my Jeep. Gripping the leather of the steering wheel, I slow down to fifty. If they’re going to do something reckless, I want to maintain control of my car.
Two Black Feral MC members catch up and ride parallel to me. I recognize the patch design anywhere. A silver skull with a cracked jaw and elongated feral teeth drooling. The eyes are glowing red, and drips of blood decorate the eye sockets and teeth.
Ten minutes before I enter Main Street. If I can just make it…the two bikers flanking me smack the side of my Jeep.
Shit.
Fuck it.
I step on the gas harder, picking up speed again, aware of the risk in this weather.
“Think, Camille, think.”
I calculate the area and search my memory bank for any back roads or upcoming turns I can take to attempt to lose them. Noway will Black Feral risk entering Eden Ridge. They’ve already violated Eden’s Forsaken Saints MC rules by riding in their territory.
Panic short-circuits my brain. I suddenly forget the small town I know like the back of my hand as my eyes flick rapidly between the taunting bikers and the road.
Pop pop.Two gunshots.
The Jeep jerks and dramatically spins to the right. They took out my left tires. Hyperventilating, my hands yank the wheel left only to spin into a ditch. My vision blurs, the left side of my head throbbing. My car door is pulled open, and large, rough hands drag me out.
Cold drops of torrential rain beat on my face. I kick and scream, fighting incoherently as nothing is clear—not the men, the road, my surroundings. I shake my head, trying to regain focus while screaming till my voice cracks painfully.
The other men on their bikes surround the ones gripping my arms, laughing.
“Shut the cunt up and get her tied up,” one of them barks.
Which? I couldn’t tell. Masks cover the bottom half of all their faces with horror images.
“You smell that?” one of them laughs. “I bet that’s fresh pussy.”
“One way to find out,” another says, approaching.
