Page 4 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

Dani points at the phone again. “Sadie.”

I stare at Tyler’s business card, slotted inside my phone case. I haven’t even built up the courage to save his number in my contacts yet. I glance at the almost empty bottle of wine, then at Dani. “This is a terrible idea.”

She grins, looking just like she did the first day we met, the roommate I clicked with all those years ago. “The best ones usually are.”

I type the number into my phone. “There, I’ve added him. Pour me another,” I say, gesturing to the glass.

“Now we’re talking,” she replies, pouring the remainder of the bottle into my glass.

Another glass of wine later, my nerves feel pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. Dani is half lying across the couch again now, feet tucked under her on one side, curled up like a cat, grinning at me expectantly while I clutch my phone as if it might explode.

“Just send something simple,” she says.

My thumb hovers over the screen. Tyler Dawson, not ‘gym hottie’ or ‘potential new fuckboy’ as Dani suggested. My pulse flutters strangely.

Maybe this is stupid. Maybe his giving me his card meant nothing, and I’m about to make a fool of myself. Maybe Dani’s right, and I just need to remember I’m still alive outside of being someone’s ex-wife.

Before I can overthink it, I type:

Free to play?

Dani gasps like I’ve committed a crime. “Oh, that is filthy. You sly minx!”

Heat floods my face instantly. “Shut up.”

“Send it,” she says daringly in the same tone that used to convince me to do ‘just one more shot’.

“I hate you.”

She sticks out her tongue, metal stud sparkling. “You love me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and hit send.

Chapter 2

Chief

Rain pounds the clubhouse roof so hard it makes the walls vibrate. Not the weak kind either, it’s real Southern storm rain. Heavy sheets slam against rusted metal and old wood, rattling the gutters outside and turning the parking lot beyond the windows into a dark, reflective blur beneath the security lights. Thunder rolls low a few seconds later, deep enough I feel it through the soles of my boots.

I sit at the long wooden table in the back corner of the side room just off of the main bar area, our usual spot. It gives me a vantage point of the whole clubhouse, I can watch everything that’s going on. Inventory sheets are spread in front of me; I’m trying to finish paperwork I didn’t get a chance to do earlier. Meanwhile, the rest of these assholes act as if they’ve never been indoors before. Scratching my chin, I frown at my friends.

Trigger is across from me, leaning back in his chair, with muddy boots propped on the edge of the table. A knife spins lazily between his fingers, flashing silver beneath the low overhead lights each time he flips it over his knuckles.

Dash is half-sprawled across the couch, a beer balanced on his stomach, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who’s been loudly losing money at cards all night.

Shadow sits near the front windows in the old leather armchair nobody else likes because one side sinks lower than the other, with a book open, his brow furrowed as he turns the page. He looks less like an outlaw biker and more like somebody’s exhausted literature professor. If their professor was a giant, tattooed biker, that is.

Thunder cracks again outside. The lights flicker once overhead. “Storm’s getting worse,” Trigger mutters, glancing toward the windows.

Rainwater streams down the glass in thick crooked lines, blurring the parking lot outside. The row of bikes parked under the awning gleams black beneath flashes of lightning.

Dash snorts from the couch. “Aw. You scared, Trigger?”

Trigger flips him off without looking up from the knife. Dash chuckles, rapping his knuckles on the table, the rings clunking loudly. “They’re only gonna get more frequent from now on.”

With a sigh, I finish signing the last inventory form and toss the papers onto the table harder than necessary. “If Tommy screws up another parts order,” I say, running my hand down my stubbled chin, “I’m putting Shadow in charge of inventory.”

Shadow slowly lowers his book just enough to look at me over the top of it. “I’d rather die.”