Page 6 of Riding the Line (Steel Saints MC #1)

We pulled into a warehouse around midnight. I spent the entire ride stroking my self-confidence like a skittish cat.

Looking around, I took in the well-lit area.

It was surprisingly clean, and “Steel Saints” was printed across the bay door.

Other than that, there was nothing to mark what the warehouse was for, but I supposed those two words were warning enough not to come poking around asking questions.

Everyone in Atlanta knew who the Saints were.

Dalton pulled in next to me, and I glanced over at him. His bike is a green Harley, about the size of Mac’s. Thinking of his brother’s massive Indian, I wondered if bike size was related to cock size. I grinned at my own joke, and accidentally giggled out loud, which elicited a funny look.

I scanned the warehouse as I followed dutifully behind Dalton, his buddies flanking me as Mac ordered.

The entryway is a big open space, with a couple of dismantled bikes leaning on their kickstands in an area that I assumed is a makeshift garage for repairs and such.

There was a pole in the back corner of the room, which I was sure wasn’t for supporting the roof, since it had a couple of couches placed around it.

I curled my lip in distaste. A mini fridge nearby, and pictures lining one of the walls, completed the relatively boring space.

Dalton glanced over his shoulder at me. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

I didn’t even spare him a glance.

He took me through a door and motioned for me to stop as he disappeared into the dark— a few seconds later, the lights flickered on.

I blinked in surprise. It was a kitchen—a really cute little kitchen.

I felt like Alice in Wonderland. From stripper poles in a dusty garage to Rachael Ray’s kitchen wasn’t what I was expecting.

Red gingham valances hung over the windows, and a long dining table sat under a few warmly lit chandeliers.

The kitchen itself was all clean stainless steel and granite counters.

A fat orange cat snoozed on the island next to a bowl of fruit.

I half-expected a chubby grandma to come waddling out of nowhere to whip us up a snack.

Dalton grabbed an apple from a nearly empty bowl and made himself comfy at the table, ignoring the dried blood on his arm.

His buddies left the same way they came, their job evidently done.

Dalton and I stared at each other for a few moments, him munching on his apple and me just trying to get a read on him.

Everything I read about Dalton Mills matched with what I’d seen tonight.

A jokester, incredibly intelligent, and fiercely loyal to his brother.

He was also, like his brother, ridiculously attractive.

But where his brother’s good looks were all hard edges and bad-boy menace, Dalton’s light blue eyes seemed to laugh at a joke only he could hear, and his wavy blond hair made him look like a surfer boy.

Take away the leather jacket and biker boots, and put him in a pair of swim trunks and sandals, and dude would fit right in on a California beach somewhere.

He smiled at me and I looked away, feeling a red flush creep up my neck. Asshole.

“Where’s your brother?” I asked, and he quirked an eyebrow at me.

“How do you know Mac’s my brother?”

My stomach dropped. Well, fuck me. “Um… well, I dunno. I just assumed you guys were related.”

He nodded. “Ah yeah, ‘cos we look so much alike.”

I swallowed nervously—knowing as well as he did that they looked, at best, distantly related. Those blue eyes assessed me carefully, and I was reminded just how dangerous he is—hell, my throat still hurt from his grip on me earlier that evening.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I pointed out, and he shrugged.

“He’s probably dealing with Daniel’s stupid ass.”

I frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He got up and brushed past me, throwing the apple core in the trash and grabbing the cat, who gave a disgruntled meow.

I watched him cradle the cat like a baby and smiled a little when it started purring like a diesel engine in a semi-truck.

At first, I didn’t think he was going to answer me, but then he looked up at me.

“Daniel crossed a line tonight. He broke one of Mac’s rules, and that’s never a good idea.”

“What rule is that? Don’t let some crazy chick set your shit on fire?” I used air quotes when referring to myself, and he smirked.

“What are you two laughing at?”

I spun around to see Mac, who’d just come through the garage door. I looked over at Dalton, who put the cat back on the counter.

“She just wanted to know where you were. I told her you were dealing with Daniel.”

I nodded. “Yeah, even though you haven’t told me what rule he broke.”

Mac walked over to the chair his brother had recently vacated.

The dude was easily six feet tall, but moved with liquid grace.

He sat and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning towards me and giving me a look I can’t describe.

Finally, he said, “He put his hands on you. You told him no, and he didn’t listen.

In this club, a woman’s no is just that.

No amount of alcohol in your belly turns that no into a yes.

You either have her consent, or you don’t.

He didn’t. I would’ve ground his ass into the dirt, but I think turning his ride into ash settles the score pretty well. ”

I gaped at him—that was surprisingly… honorable. And hot. I shoved that last thought down. Far, far down.

“Well, your golden boy sure as shit never asked my permission when he nearly choked me to death. Or does the ‘no means no’ rule not apply to you two?”

I glanced over at Dalton, who winked at me. “Baby girl, it applies, but it’s not really… needed, if you know what I mean. And besides, that was different.”

I scoffed, both at his implication that they don’t get told no very often and also at his dismissal of his manhandling me.

Mac cleared his throat. “However, your score with me isn’t settled.”

My gaze swung back over to his. “What score? I didn’t do jack shit to you!”

He smiled slowly. Not carefree, like his brother. No, this was all danger. I began to worry my bottom lip, and his eyes tracked the movement.

“Daniel was my prospect. I vouched for him, which means he was mine to teach.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know what it means. So?”

His smile grew bigger. “You ruined his bike. A brand new Harley worth about twenty grand. You got twenty grand in your bank?”

My eyes nearly popped out of my head. Having not bought my Triumph, I had conveniently forgotten just how much a good bike costs. He knew damn well I didn’t have twenty grand to my name. I could sell my FBI-paid-for apartment and everything in it, and it wouldn’t come close.

“That’s what I thought.”

I glanced again at Dalton, who seemed to be watching the whole exchange like it was a soap opera. I thought back to our earlier conversation, and tilted my head at him.

“You already said you weren’t calling the cops. What happens now?” I was genuinely curious, while trying desperately to ignore my pounding heart. It would help to know if this was going to make or break the op. And my neck.

Mac and Dalton looked at each other. Coming to some sort of silent agreement, Dalton marched over to me and reached into his back pocket. I tensed, which he noticed and said, “Easy there, Vixen, it’s just a phone.”

Sure enough, he handed me a sleek black device.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

Mac got up and held the door open. “Go home, Vixen. We’ll call you tomorrow once we’ve figured out what we’re gonna do with you.”

“Well, that sounds fantastic. I’m sure I’ll sleep like a baby. And stop fucking calling me that.”

Dalton shook his head at me. “Naw, you’re stuck with it. Sleep tight.”

I flipped them both off as I walked past Mac, who was still holding the door open. “Make sure you answer when I call.”

I stopped, fixing to say something smart, but his dark blue eyes trailed up and down my body, leaving heat like ethanol on fire.

I barely suppressed a shiver. As I practically ran out the door, I realized that, technically, I still didn’t know their names.

Katie did, but not Nicky. So, as much as I really didn’t want to, I turned back.

“If I’m going to be working for you, I should probably know your names. Mine’s Nicky. So you can stop calling me Vixen.”

Dalton winked at me. “You can call me just about anything you want, gorgeous.”

I glared at him. “How about dickweed? Or I can spend some time coming up with creative alternatives?”

He laughed. “In that case, you can just stick with Dalton.”

I looked over at Maverick, who was still watching me carefully.

Looking me up and down, he tilted his head, saying my name like he was savoring it.

Testing it out, like a shot of something strong that he’s never had before.

It sent shivers down my spine. “Maverick, but everyone calls me Mac. Now, go home.”

I stared at him for a second, then headed for my bike like my ass was on fire. I was more than ready to get the hell out of there.

Finally back at my apartment, I slipped by the mailroom to check my box.

There was a little letter from “Uncle Tommy,” who was actually Agent Braxton.

The rickety old elevator shook its way to my floor, and gave me enough time to get to the end of Uncle Tommy’s messy scrawl.

I shoved it in my pocket as I reached 27A, a small place on the first floor.

I’d only seen it in pictures, but it wasn’t as awful as I’d expected.

Clean and neat, with yard sale finds and thrift store furniture.

It wasn’t much, but until the assignment was done, it was home.