Page 1 of Her Mysterious Biker (Savage Kings MC #5)

one

Stevie

M y heart races as the roar of motorcycle engines in the distance grows louder.

I glance down at my self-inflicted flat tire on my scooter.

It’s a risky move considering I’m in the middle of nowhere and the scooter is my only mode of transportation, but I don’t know how else to get the attention of the Savage Kings motorcycle club.

I’ve tried to talk to some of the guys when they were shopping at the grocery store, but my boss, Richard Alterman, warned me against getting involved in something I shouldn’t be involved in.

Richard is a retired supply officer from the Air Force.

He said he settled in Jackson Ridge to be close to the base he once called home.

He bought the Bloom & Bounty grocery store as a new chapter in his life.

Rumor has it he once managed supply lines in three war zones, but you’ll never hear him admit it.

He mostly keeps to himself, only trusting those who earn his trust.

Ever since I started noticing strange men hanging out in the parking lot of Bloom & Bounty, I’ve felt like I was being watched.

I briefly talked to one of the Savage Kings at the grocery store about my suspicions.

He seemed friendly enough, not as intimidating as I thought a member of a motorcycle club would be.

I later found out from a coworker that his name was Deadeye.

He was attractive in a rugged way, but he wasn’t the mysterious biker I’ve been obsessing over since I was here a couple of weeks ago when the bikers drove by.

Every Sunday, they ride together along this stretch of highway. It’s an incredible sight — muscular guys proudly wearing their leather cuts on the most beautiful motorcycles I’ve ever seen, some with helmets and some without. Some with their old ladies riding along, most riding solo.

Sundays are my only day off during the week.

Spending it by the lake reading is my favorite pastime—or was, before these bikers started driving by.

Especially when my obsession brings up the rear of the group, marking him as the tail gunner—the last rider in the group formation.

It’s his job to ensure safety and maintain the group's integrity during the ride.

Safety. Exactly what I need right now.

He might wear his helmet every time I see him, but I can feel his eyes on me as he drives past, which feels so much different from the eyes I feel watching me around town.

Trying to get a reaction from him, I wave every time he drives by, but he hasn't waved back yet. The most I’ve ever received is a nod.

I don’t know much about the Savage Kings, but I’ve heard rumors that drift through the town like bees pollinating flowers—buzzing from one to the next just like the gossip the townspeople spread.

The rumors say the Savage Kings MC isn’t just a club—it’s a brotherhood forged in blood, loyalty, and an unbreakable code. The men of the MC live by their own rules, protecting their territory and loved ones at all costs.

Fierce.

Possessive.

Unyielding.

I can’t even imagine having someone like that in my life. I can only hope that the code will carry through to the town and whatever shady business is happening in the parking lot of the grocery store.

I’ve only been living in Jackson Ridge for a couple of months, but it feels more like home than any of the many foster families I was shuffled through during my teen years after my grandmother passed away and I ended up in the system.

Being an unwanted teenager in the foster care system was already tough—add in my mismatched eye color and a curvier figure than most girls my age, and I was an easy target. Having one blue eye and one brown eye might seem cool to some, but for me, it was a living hell.

Thankfully, the people of Jackson Ridge have accepted me—weird eyes, scooter riding, new girl, curves and all.

I flip my long, brown hair over my shoulder and tug at the short crop top I've paired with tiny Daisy Duke shorts. It’s definitely not my usual outfit, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I’m a curvy girl, cursed with a big chest, wide hips, and a tiny waist. Hopefully, my thrift store outfit will catch the eye of one of the bikers—my mysterious biker, if I’m lucky.

Motorcycles pass by, and I hold my pose—left hip cocked to the side, shoulders back, chest out, eyes shifting between the road and my broken-down scooter, silently hoping one of them stops to help me.

I’m not thrilled about the idea of having to call someone from town to pick me and my scooter up if my plan fails.

The bikers keep riding by, my hope sinking even further as I cling to the knowledge that the one person I want to stop and help me is the last in the group.

Finally, the guy I’ve been waiting for comes into view, only to drive past like everyone else.

I blink back tears of frustration and humiliation.

It was a stupid idea anyway. I reach into my pocket to grab my phone and call for help, but then I remember the shorts were so tight that I didn’t have room for my phone, so I left it on my nightstand.

Great. Now I’m going to have to walk back to town.

I take one last look at the group of bikers, still hoping one of them will feel sorry for me and at least offer me a ride into town, when I see my biker pulling up next to the guy in front of him, giving him a hand signal, then slowing down and turning around.

Relief washes over me as I see him slow his bike and park in front of me. “Need some help?” His gruff voice brushes against my skin. He sounds like sin in leather.

“Yes, please.” I flutter my eyelashes, feeling totally out of place as I try to flirt with this mountain of a man. “I’m Stevie, by the way.”

He looks massive on the bike, but when he swings his muscular, leather-clad leg over the bike and stands to his full height, he’s enormous—at least six and a half feet tall, if not more. He towers over me by a full foot, at five feet six inches.

“Torch, but you can call me Orion.”

“Orion, like the constellation?” My heart races. This has to be fate. My mysterious biker is named after my favorite constellation.

Some of my fondest memories with my grandmother are of stargazing under the night sky. She taught me a lot about astronomy and Greek mythology—only she would change the stories, so everyone had a happy ending.

Her story about Orion the hunter protecting the other stars until he found his true love, Side, which in my grandmother’s story had a happier ending than the ancient Greeks' version, was my favorite.

During my time in foster care, I would gaze up at the night sky, dreaming of my own Orion finding me and rescuing me from the system. He never arrived—until today.

“Yup.” He doesn’t remove his helmet with a tinted visor, so I can’t see his eyes to know what he’s thinking.

“That’s cool.” I pick up a lock of my hair and twirl it around my finger—it's a nervous habit I can’t seem to break. “My grandmother said I was named after the singer Stevie Nicks. I love her music. Actually I love all the music from the ‘80’s.”

A grunt is the only response I get. Until he surprises me with a few more words, “I’ll send Diesel a text.

He’ll get your tire fixed.” He reaches into his vest and pulls out his phone, sending a quick message and getting an even faster response.

“He said he’ll be here in about thirty minutes.

” He places his phone back in the inside pocket of his vest. “Grab your helmet and hop on. I’ll give you a ride home.

” He slides his leg over his bike more gracefully than I would have expected for someone of his size.

Not that he’s fat by any means—he’s solid, muscular, and way out of my league.

What was I thinking?

“If it isn’t too much of a bother.” Hating the fake sound of my voice, I give up on trying to flirt—it’s not like he’s interested in me anyway.

He’s just a nice guy who stopped to help someone in need.

“I usually don’t dress like this.” I wave my hand in front of my body, unintentionally drawing attention to the short, tight outfit.

“I didn’t have room for my phone, so I couldn’t call anyone.

” I ramble, nervously filling the awkward silence.

I grab my helmet from the ground and secure the strap under my chin.

I might not see his eyes, but the slight tilt of his helmet tells me he's definitely checking me out. The vain part of me is excited, thinking I was wrong and he might actually be interested in me. But the shy, fat kid braces herself for the teasing.

Instead of the fat jokes I was expecting, he extends his hand for me to take. The sensation of sparks shooting up my arm shocks me at the first touch of our hands. I’m not sure if he felt it or not—neither of us mentions it as he helps me climb onto the back of his bike.

Instinctively, I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my cheek against the warm leather of his vest. My thighs spread wide to accommodate his body.

The shorts are so short that I wasn’t able to wear panties underneath.

My clit begins to throb, being this close to my obsession, as moisture leaks out of my core and onto the jean shorts.

Embarrassed at the thought of getting his leather pants wet with my lust, I try to scoot back, but his large, warm hand lands on my bare thigh, pulling me closer to his body, and stays there as he pulls onto the road. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was claiming me.

If only.