Page 20 of The Biker and His Bride

RILEY

C harleston looked different than I remembered. Maybe it was me who’d changed.

The Spanish moss hung heavy over the oaks, gas lanterns flickered outside three-story white-columned homes, and manicured lawns stretched like polite lies across every block.

I used to find comfort in the order, the neatness, the hush-hush perfection.

But now, riding shotgun next to Rogue on his matte-black Harley, I just felt. .. itchy.

I adjusted my sunglasses as we turned onto my parents’ street—brick-lined and pristine, with Range Rovers parked in circular drives and not a single oil stain in sight.

“They gonna shoot me on sight, you think?” Rogue muttered with a smirk, glancing at his reflection in the side mirror.

He’d done his best—dark dress shirt, pressed slacks, boots polished.

He even left the cut at the hotel and buttoned the shirt to the collar.

But no amount of starch could hide the tattoos peeking up his neck or the raw power he carried like a second skin.

“You look... respectable,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“I look like a wolf in Sunday school.”

“Don’t bite anyone.”

“No promises.”

My parents' door opened before we even reached the top step. My mother stood stiff and slim in pearls and pale linen, her blonde bob helmet-perfect. My father wore a blazer, white slacks, and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Riley,” my mother said, stepping forward to kiss the air beside my cheek. “We were so worried. And this must be... your husband.”

Rogue offered his hand. “Rogue Thorne, ma’am.”

She blinked once. “I’m sorry?”

“Rogue,” I repeated. “It’s his name.”

My father took the handshake, clearly surprised by Rogue’s firm grip and the respectful way he used “sir.”

We went inside. The house was spotless and silent, full of old paintings and the kind of furniture you weren’t allowed to sit on growing up. Rogue looked around like he was in a museum.

“You grew up here?” he asked softly.

“Yeah.”

He nodded, almost respectfully, and I saw it hit him—how different our worlds were. But he didn’t mock it. Didn’t sneer. He just took it in.

Brunch was scheduled at the country club, naturally.

By the time we walked through the wide front doors of Charleston Oak Reserve, every eye in the place turned. The women froze mid-bite, mimosas halfway to their mouths. The men looked up, frowns forming even before their wives remembered to close theirs.

Rogue strolled in, hand around my waist, looking like sin in dress shoes. His tattoos peeked out just enough. His jaw was freshly shaved but defiant. He radiated danger wrapped in heat.

The Southern belles didn’t know what to do with themselves.

They looked like they’d seen a ghost.

Or maybe a god.

Every perfectly coiffed head in the Charleston Country Club turned when Rogue spoke, leather jacket over a black button-up, boots polished, jaw set like stone. His cut wasn’t on, but it might as well have been—the man wore danger like a tailored suit.

The wives stared over their wine glasses and Louis Vuitton clutches, whispering behind manicured hands.

I saw one of them lick her lips.

“Riley,” hissed Ginny, the head of fundraising and number one gossiper, eyes wide as saucers. “Who… who is that?”

“That’s my husband,” I said, with all the pride in the world.

One woman in Lilly Pulitzer pink let her champagne glass clink too hard on the table. Another’s husband nearly choked on his deviled egg. A few younger wives stared openly, eyes roaming from his biceps to his boots to the way he pulled my chair out for me like a damn gentleman.

We sat at the family table by the windows. My parents tried to pretend everything was normal. My mom complimented the quiche. My dad asked Rogue if he watched the PGA Tour.

Rogue, deadpan: “Not unless they start using chainsaws instead of clubs.”

I choked on my mimosa.

“What do you do, Mr. Thorne?” asked Mrs. Becket from the next table, leaning over her shrimp and grits with eager eyes.

Rogue opened his mouth, but I beat him to it.

“He owns several businesses,” I said sweetly, slicing my waffle. “Tattoo parlors, biker bars, strip clubs. You know—places that actually turn a profit.”

Silence.

Then a wave of quiet gasps and awkward sips. One woman fanned herself with the menu. Another blinked twice, clearly reconsidering her marriage.

“You must be very... passionate,” said a woman in pearls, biting her lip.

“Oh, he is,” I replied, grinning.

I swear half the room fainted with their eyes open.

After brunch, Rogue and I stepped out onto the wraparound porch overlooking the golf course. My dad joined us briefly and asked Rogue what kind of engines the club preferred—Harleys or foreign bikes.

“American made, always,” Rogue said.

My dad nodded like that was an acceptable answer. “You know... I never thought my daughter would marry a man like you.”

“I never thought I’d marry,” Rogue said without flinching. “But then again... your daughter’s not like any woman I’ve ever met.”

For once, my father was silent. And in that silence, there was something like respect.

We left shortly after. Rogue helped me onto the bike, his hand slipping under the hem of my sundress. I smacked it playfully, but he only grinned.

As we roared off down the streets of my old life, I didn’t look back.

Because everything that mattered rode in front of me, wrapped in leather, marked by scars and loyalty and a heart that beat louder than any country club’s applause.

And every time a woman gasped behind us, clutching her pearls and watching my man ride into the Southern sunset like a fallen angel with engine grease on his knuckles, I just smiled.

My mother convinced us to stay one more night so she could show off her runaway bride-missing daughter with her new outlaw husband.

My mother craved attention and although she’d never admit it—I knew she knew Rogue was quite the catch and the new talk of Charleston.

Like a modern day Rhett Butler, he was sweeping high society by storm.

Mother swore she warned them. Told them not to act surprised when he showed up.

But they weren’t ready.

No one was.

A group of pearl-draped ladies gathered near the bar, swarming like bees. One of them touched Rogue’s arm.

“So… what do you do for a living, Mr.…?”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “I own a bar.”

“A bar?”

“And a tattoo parlor. And a strip club.”

They gasped.

One clutched her pearls.

Another giggled like she was sixteen again.

Rogue leaned down and whispered, “And I make your daughter very, very happy.”

I thought someone might faint.

He found me across the room, pulled me close, pressed a kiss to my temple in front of everyone.

“I don’t belong here,” he murmured.

“You belong with me.”

We left the gala early.

“Ready for our second wedding night?” He growled, nipping my ear with a tooth.

“More than ready,”I whispered back, playfully slapping his muscled butt.

And I never looked back.