Page 4 of Riding the Line (Steel Saints MC #1)

Nicole Moore rolled into Atlanta, Georgia on her Triumph Rocket like the baddest bitch around.

I was lucky enough that I already knew how to ride a bike, but this Triumph was by far the nicest thing I’d ever ridden.

I was lowkey in love. I pulled up to the Dirty Dogs just as the sun went down, and I sat there, eyeing the various bikes in the lot.

This was it. Kaitlyn McGrady was no more—it was time for the new me to own this shit.

I would be stupid not to have been nervous.

My foot tapped a rhythm on the cracked asphalt.

I was wearing tight black leather pants, worn Vans, and my favorite jean jacket over a crop top that showed just enough skin—an outfit that said, “Yeah, I know I’m hot, but don’t touch me.

” Or at least, that’s what I hoped. My red hair was pulled back into a tight and low pony, and I looked like me, except a little bit more reckless and with brown eyes instead of green.

“Bad bitch, bad bitch, bad bitch,” I muttered to myself, and then I strolled into that dank bar like I owned it.

Immediately, the smell hit me like a slap in the face.

Cheap tobacco. Cheaper perfume. Too many people in a warm room.

Ew. I scanned the occupants, noting the slight separation between club members, prospects, and patch bunnies, who watch the bikers closely for any sort of invitation.

Marking the location of the Steel Saints’ leadership, I made my way to the bar and got the attention of the barkeep.

“Whiskey, please. On the rocks.”

One thing Nicole and I had in common was our taste in drinks, thankfully. I hated beer; it tasted like piss to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few of the bikers watching me, but I pretended not to notice them.

This was Steel Saints territory. Not many people just casually stopped in for a drink.

Not unless they were looking for trouble.

Everyone in here was probably wondering who the heck I was, and what I was doing.

I smiled at the barkeep, who slid a glass over to me and eyed me suspiciously before moving down the bar.

I sat there for a while, sipping my drink and wondering what the night would bring.

I needed an in, but I had no idea what it might be.

I wasn’t about to stroll up and proposition myself—I have too much self-respect for that.

But I had to do something to get their attention.

The music thumped through the speakers, a song I wasn’t familiar with.

I swayed to the beat, nonetheless. When my glass was empty, the barkeep appeared to refill it, and then stomped away again.

I’d thought maybe I could get him into some kind of conversation, but the old fart seemed intent on ignoring me for the most part.

I frowned, and just then, a skinny guy in prospect leathers sidled up next to me.

“Hey gorgeous, how about I buy your next drink?”

I turned to him, embraced my inner bad bitch, and committed to being all Nicole. Looking him slowly up and down, I brought my eyes back up to his and sneered, “Yeah, no thanks.”

His smile dropped briefly, but he adjusted it back on what I’m sure he thought was a charming grin. “Come on, baby, you’re new here and all alone. Just one drink won’t hurt. I’m Daniel, by the way.”

I spun my chair back to the bar. His breath reeked of beer, and his sallow, pockmarked cheeks just weren’t doing it for me.

“Again, no thanks.”

This time, his smile really dropped, and he put a hand on my shoulder, spinning me back to him. “Fine, you don’t want to drink, I got plenty of other things we can do.”

I stared at him, remembering I didn’t look like a cop and wasn’t in familiar territory. Back home, at my favorite haunts, everyone knew me. There? I was at a biker bar and dressed like I was looking for trouble. I guess trouble had come looking for me. Let the games begin.

I slapped his hand away and said, angrily, “I fucking said no. N. O. spells not fucking happening—now back off.”

He leaned his face into mine, our noses nearly touching. “I wasn’t asking, bitch. You come in here dressed like that and act like you’re too good to let a guy buy you a drink. Time someone knocked your ass down a peg.”

The alcohol clearly made Dumbass McGee a little too cocky, and a whole lot of angry. I looked him up and down again, the wheels in my head spinning. Over his shoulder, I could see the club watching us, but making no moves to intervene. Assholes. Then I had an idea. Braxton said to improvise, right?

I switched lanes so fast, it’d make a NASCAR driver’s head spin. Letting out a small whimper like he’d intimidated me, I pouted and, giving him my biggest puppy-dog eyes, I said, “I’m sorry, please. I just… I’m new and a little scared. You’re just so big, you know? I didn’t mean it.”

I put my hand placatingly on his shoulder.

And, thank my lucky stars, the dumb fucker fell for it.

Hook, line, and sinker. He grinned and ran a hand down the side of my face.

I suppressed the urge to shudder or, better yet, break his fingers, and instead smiled sweetly.

“How about you buy us a bottle, and we go outside? You can show me your bike.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and I smiled adoringly at him.

The club had gone back to their business, except for one biker sitting in the corner with his friends. He was big, his bulky frame making the people close to him look small. But, with the light right behind him, I couldn’t see much else.

Daniel called for the barkeep, dragging my attention back to him.

“Mike, yo Mike!” The barkeep ambled over. “A bottle of whiskey, bud. I got a thirsty lady here, and I can’t leave her hanging, now can I?”

Mike frowned at me, and I had a feeling my little act wasn’t fooling him, but I batted my eyelashes innocently.

He rolled his eyes and reached for a bottle of Jack behind him, but I stopped him.

Shelly once took a fire-breathing class, of all things.

Back then, I’d told her it was an insanely useless waste of time. Now the memory sparked an idea.

“Wait, can we get that Old Forester? The 100 proof?”

My dumb new friend hesitated, so I leaned into him. “I’ve heard it’s good and strong… like you.”

Mike glared at me, but Dumb-Dumb smiled. “Yeah, only the good stuff.”

We headed outside, his hand on my ass, as he guided me to the small group of prospect bikes. His was a decent little Harley, and he leaned up against it, pulling me between his knees. He ran his hands up and down my body, and I fought the urge to knee him in the balls.

“I’m sorry for scaring you back there.”

Fucker wasn’t sorry, he was just saying what he thought I wanted to hear in the hopes of getting laid, but I played along anyway.

“It’s okay, we can start over. My name’s Nicole, but everyone calls me Nicky.” I wrapped my hands around his neck and pressed my chest into his, watching his eyes darken with lust.

“That’s a pretty name for a pretty lady, Nicky. How about we open up that bottle?”

I nodded eagerly, and he handed me the Old Forester.

I took a good sip, relishing the burn. As we share the whiskey, I don’t miss the way he encourages me to drink more, probably hoping to get me drunk.

About halfway through the bottle, I’m buzzed with liquid courage, and poor old Daniel is thoroughly wasted.

I thank my Irish heritage which blessed me with the ability to drink like a fish.

I heard the door swing open behind us, and took my cue.

Pretending to be caught in a drunken fall, I wrapped myself around him, throwing myself to the side.

His momentum carried us far enough that I ended up next to the bike, and he ended up on the ground.

“Oops,” I giggled, and he gave me a lopsided grin.

He reached for me as I bent forward, probably thinking I was going to help him up. Not today, buddy.

As I bend over, the half-empty whiskey bottle in my hand just so happens to tip enough that its contents pour out over his bike. “Oh no!” I gasped, and Daniel let loose a string of curses. Then I helped him up, and once he was on his feet, I took a cigarette from my pocket.

I lit it, then held it out to him. When he reached for it, I shoved him—hard—into the throng of his buddies who’d gathered behind him. They were probably getting ready to head out for the night; it had gotten pretty late. But, lucky for them, they were just in time for one last show.

I took a couple of steps forward and said, “Hey, Daniel, baby?” He eyed me, not so drunk that he didn’t know something wasn’t right. “When a lady says no, you should really fucking listen.”

With that, I tossed the match right onto the whiskey-soaked leather seat of his Harley and jumped to the side as the 100 proof lit up like the Fourth of July. Fire in the hole, baby.

Daniel hollered like a lunatic and his buddies started running around, intent on getting their bikes away from his.

I walked to my bike, wanting to put some distance between myself and the inevitable explosion that’d come once the fire reached the fuel tank.

Everyone was pouring out of the bar at this point, and Daniel was still running around like an idiot, kicking dirt on his bike like that would help.

I smirked—that Harley was toast. Damn… being Nicole was fun, Kaitlyn would never.

I had no idea how exactly this would ge t me in the club, but I’d figure that out later.

They certainly weren’t going to forget me anytime soon.

Right as the fuel tank exploded, someone grabbed me by the back of my neck, and steered me to the side of the building.

I stopped myself from face-planting into the worn brick and spun around, ready to clock whoever put their hands on me.

A hand much bigger than mine caught my fist, and I realized it was the guy who had been watching us from the corner inside.