Page 1 of My Wild Biker

Chapter 1 — Isla

It’s my last week here.

Sunday morning I’ll drive to Millbrook. Four weeks, same pattern I’ve been running for three years now.

The heat sits on my skin like a hand, thick enough that I'm breathing through my mouth by the time I cut the engine outside The Anchor.

Tonight I came to observe. You learn more about a community watching who drinks with who on a Thursday night than sitting through formal meetings where everyone performs their best behavior.

One beer, mental notes, back to the rental.

The Anchor is brick, neon signs in the windows, motorcycles lined up out front. More bikes than trucks tonight, which I notice because three years doing this work means I read a room before I walk into it.

I've been careful in Bloomfield. Polite, professional, kept clear of anything that might get complicated.

The Vigil MC has a presence here and everyone knows, though nobody says it directly. I've met some of the women at community events and they were warm, but I didn't ask questions.

The door swings open to dark wood, low lights, a pool table in back with three men in leather cuts taking turns at a game.

Country music plays under the conversation, and everything smells like beer and smoke that's baked into the walls.

I take a stool at the bar, third from the end.

The bartender is older, maybe late sixties, with steady hands and kind eyes that assess me while he sets down a coaster.

"What can I get you?"

"IPA if you've got one on tap."

"We do." He pulls the draft and sets it in front of me. "You're Isla, right? From the nonprofit?"

I'm surprised. "Yeah."

"Walt." He nods like we've confirmed something. "Heard good things about the work you're doing at the community center. Mrs. Jones speaks highly of you."

"Mrs. Jones does the real work. I just helped her organize it."

He smiles. "Modest." Then he looks down the bar toward a man sitting alone with whiskey. "Chuck, you met Isla yet?"

The man looks up.

Tall even sitting, lean build, probably six one, with a face that's been forty-eight hard years outside. Dark hair going gray at the temples and gray in his beard too. Lines around his eyes deep enough I can see them from here.

Black tee shirt, leather cut with patches worn from weather and road. His hands around the glass are scarred across the knuckles.

Older than me by fifteen years, maybe twenty.

"No ma'am." His voice is a drawl, words stretched long. "Haven't had the pleasure."

He slides off his stool and moves down the bar without rushing, just steady purpose.

Walt handles the introduction. "Isla's been doing capacity building work with local organizations. Four weeks now. Chuck here's one of Clint's boys."

Chuck offers his hand.

I take it and his palm is warm, callused, larger than mine.

The contact sends something down my spine that I feel in my thighs.