Page 1 of Her Dirty Biker (Savage Kings MC #3)

Chapter one

Willow

The first thing you learn working night shift at Widow’s Peak Casino is to shut the hell up and listen.

Doesn’t matter if the floor is sticky with spilled whiskey or if some guy with a comb-over and bad breath calls you “sweetheart” like it’s your name.

Doesn’t matter if your heels ache or your smile feels like it's been stapled on. Doesn’t matter if you want to crawl out of your skin from the noise, the smoke, the constant feeling of being watched.

You listen.

You smile, nod, serve, and listen. But be careful what you hear, it might save your life or destroy it.

The poker room is thick with tension tonight. You can feel it even before you open the swinging double doors and step onto the floor. It hits you like humidity, like something in the air is coiled too tight, ready to snap.

The overhead lights are dimmed low, casting a golden haze over the felt tables and glittering chips.

The room smells like sweat and bourbon, with a hint of expensive cologne and desperation.

Laughter barks from the corner, low and mean, followed by the sharp clatter of chips and ice in glasses.

I count five poker tables in play, all packed with high rollers, locals with too much money, and bikers in leather cuts that look like they could kill a man with one hand.

Probably because they could.

I smooth my hands down the sides of my tight black uniform dress and head toward the bar with my tray. I smile, but I don’t mean it.

Behind the bar, Felix gives me a nod and lines up drinks without a word. He’s been here forever, knows the drill. Knows not to ask questions. I load up my tray and head back out.

That’s when I see him.

Diesel .

I don’t know his real name. I’m not even sure I want to. There’s something about him that makes my skin tingle and my stomach flip, like I’ve just stepped off the edge of something dangerous.

He’s leaning against the far wall near the back poker table, arms crossed, black cut stretched over broad shoulders. His eyes are hidden behind dark lashes, fixed on the game, or maybe the men around it, but I feel them sweep over me the second I walk by like a pulse under my skin.

Tall. Built. Silent. He looks like trouble wrapped in leather and muscle, with that dark, scruffy jaw and lips that never smile. Not really.

I pretend not to notice him. Which means I think about him for the next twenty minutes straight.

The poker tables are chaos in slow motion. Voices rise, chips clack, cards snap on felt. I wind through the players, refilling tumblers and brushing off hands that linger too long. It’s all part of the job—smile, flirt, disappear.

I’m halfway past the corner table when I hear it.

“…Savage Kings are blind to it. The shipment hits the clubhouse on Monday. All we have to do is make our move.”

My spine stiffens. I keep walking.

It was a whisper—low, tight, meant to stay private. But I’m good at this. I’ve learned how to pick out the essential words.

Shipment. Clubhouse. Savage Kings.

I slide a glance back, careful, casual. The speaker is a man with greasy blond hair and a goatee that appears to have been drawn on with a Sharpie. His patch says he’s part of the Sons of Decimation.

I know that name. Everyone in Jackson Ridge does, even if they don’t say it out loud.

He’s leaned in close to another guy, this one in a tailored navy suit that doesn’t belong in this room. The suit is too clean, too stiff. He wears danger like an overly sprayed cologne. His gaze flicks to me mid-sentence.

I lower my eyes. Keep walking. Pretend I didn’t hear a thing.

Back behind the bar, I dump my tray and grip the edge of the counter.

My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel sweat bead beneath my dress.

I don’t know much about biker politics. I don’t even really know who the Savage Kings are beyond whispers, but I know enough to understand that I heard something I shouldn’t have.

Something that could get me hurt. Something that could get someone killed.

I force myself to keep moving, to keep working, but my hands shake every time I reach for a glass. I don’t want to tell anyone. Who would I even tell? I’m new to the casino and to town.

The casino doesn’t protect girls like me. It chews them up and leaves them raw.

At the end of the shift, I clock out and head toward the side exit, jacket hugged tight to my chest. The cool air outside should calm me, but it doesn’t.

Someone is waiting.

The blond guy from before—the Sons of Decimation one—leans against the wall near the alley entrance, half-shrouded in shadow, smoking a cigarette. He flicks it to the pavement when he sees me.

“You off the clock, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low and too smooth.

I keep walking. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you come party with me and the boys? You look like you need a little fun.”

“No thanks,” I say, trying to pass him.

He blocks my path with his arm. Not touching me, not quite, but close.

“C’mon,” he coaxes. “Don’t be like that. You’re too pretty to go home alone.”

My heart stutters. I glance around the lot. It’s empty, quiet. My throat tightens. Then, suddenly, he’s gone. Yanked back by a fistful of his cut. Slammed against the wall with a thud that echoes through the alley.

I blink.

Diesel stands over him, one hand gripping the guy’s collar, the other curled into a fist at his side.

“She said no,” Diesel growls. His voice is calm. Too calm. “You got wax in your ears, Guardrail?”

The guy snarls, “Back off, Savage trash.”

Diesel doesn’t move. “Touch her again, and I’ll show you what trash looks like after it’s been taken out.”

He lets go and steps back.

The guy stumbles, spits at the ground, and stalks off with a curse.

I exhale, still frozen.

Diesel turns to me. His eyes, gray and sharp and unreadable, meet mine. “You good?” he asks.

My voice shakes. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He studies me. “You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

A beat passes between us, the air crackles.

“You should go home,” he says finally.

“I was trying,” I shoot back.

He doesn’t smile. Just steps aside and nods toward the parking lot. I walk past him, every nerve in my body still buzzing.

I don’t know why he stepped in, but I do know one thing: that man is dangerous.

I can feel him behind me, even after I round the corner and the casino’s glow fades from view, his heat at my back.

My fingers tremble as I unlock the driver’s side door of my ancient Civic. The key jams once—twice—before sliding in, and I curse under my breath. Calm down, Willow. Just drive. Just go home and forget all of it.

Only I won’t forget.

Not the way Guardrail’s breath reeked of liquor. Not the glint in his eyes when he cornered me, like I was prey. And definitely not the way Diesel’s voice wrapped around me like leather and smoke.

I start the engine, ignoring the way my pulse leaps when I check my rearview mirror and catch a flicker of movement behind the row of cars.

Was that…?

No, it's just the shadows and my overactive imagination.

I drive home with the radio off, headlights cutting through the dark stretch of road that winds up toward my rented duplex. The longer I’m behind the wheel, the more the adrenaline seeps out, replaced by an uneasy throb that pools low in my belly.

Why did he step in like that?

Why me?

I park under the flickering streetlight out front and climb out, keys clutched tight in my hand. My duplex is small, just two rooms and a bathroom, but it’s mine. The porch creaks under my heels. I fumble with the lock again, step inside, and twist the deadbolt behind me.

Home and safe.

I drop my purse on the kitchen counter and head straight for the sink, filling a glass with cool water and pressing it to my lips. The silence stretches around me, and I let it. It’s a shield, a comfort.

Still, I drift to the window, nudging the curtain aside.

Nothing.

But I feel it again—that presence. That awareness. That heavy, burning sense that someone’s eyes are on me. I step back from the glass.

Get a grip, Willow. You’re new here. You don’t know these people. You don’t want to. Don’t get involved.

But I’m already involved, aren’t I?

I overheard something that sounded like a threat. Maybe a warning. And I’m not dumb enough to believe that a guy like Guardrail would forget a face.

I shower with the door locked, heart still pounding. When I finally crawl into bed, I stare up at the ceiling fan slicing slow shadows across the wall, the sheets twisted around my legs.

I think of him. Diesel. The way he moved. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.

His voice plays on a loop in my head, low and rough and full of heat. “ She said no.”

Damn it, my body reacts. I press my thighs together and bite back a groan. I’m not supposed to want someone like him.

Older. Dangerous. Scarred. Probably has blood on his hands. But the second he stepped between me and that guy, I felt something shift. Something I can’t stop thinking about.

I close my eyes and try to sleep. I tell myself I’m fine, that this is nothing, and it won’t matter tomorrow. I already know I’m lying.

My alarm jerks me out of a restless, dream-stained sleep.

I sit up slowly, the room still wrapped in shadows.

Morning sunlight fights its way through the cheap blinds, stripes of pale gold slashing across the floor.

I’m tangled in sheets that feel too warm, too tight.

My skin’s still humming from last night—not just the fear, but the way Diesel’s voice sank into my bones.

I walk barefoot to the kitchen, dragging my hair into a high ponytail, and flip the coffeemaker on. The scent of burnt beans hits me before the caffeine can kick in, but I need something to make sense of the storm in my head.

Did I imagine it? No. The look on Guardrail’s face, the sound of his voice, and the threat were all real.

And Diesel. A man like that doesn’t just stroll into your life and fade away. He doesn’t smile softly or make you feel safe with small talk. He commands space. Takes up every inch of oxygen.

I lean against the counter, staring out the narrow kitchen window.

There’s nothing out there but wet pavement, a few trash cans, and my rusted mailbox. Still, I get the creeping sensation that I’m being watched. The same one I had last night.

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’s him.

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.”

“Try me.”

I shake my head. “Look, if this is about club business or whatever—”

“It is.”

“Well, I don’t want to be involved.”

“You already are.”

I hate that he’s right. I hate that I want to trust him. I really hate how his gaze dips to my mouth and lingers there like he’s imagining the taste of me.

Heat floods my cheeks. I dart my tongue out to wet my lips.

He exhales hard, jaw clenching. “Fuck.”

“What?” I ask, voice smaller than I intend.

“You keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna do something stupid.”

“Like what?”

His voice drops to a growl. “Like pin you against that wall and make you say please. ”

My stomach drops. My thighs squeeze. My heart races like a trapped animal.

I lift my chin instead. “Pretty bold for a guy who still hasn’t told me his real name.”

He smiles. It’s dark, slow, and lethal.

“Diesel,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “That is my real name.”

A beat of silence, low, deliberate, like a challenge.

Something must short-circuit in my brain because I answer, “Okay, Daddy.”

His eyes darken. His body goes rigid. For a second, I think he’s going to grab me. I want him to, but he doesn’t move. He stares, breathing hard, like I’ve reached inside him and twisted something primal.

“Don’t,” he rasps.

“Don’t what?”

“Say that unless you mean it.”

I take a step back, but not out of fear, because I suddenly realize how very real this is.

“Then maybe you should stop looking at me like you want to ruin me,” I whisper.

He closes the distance between us with a single step, voice rough against my ear. “ Maybe I do. ”

And then—just as fast—he’s gone out the door. Leaving me breathless. Shaking.

Wrecked.