Page 3 of The Biker and His Bride

RILEY

H e passed out with a tumbler of scotch in one hand and his phone in the other, half-dressed in a tailored suit and sprawled across the leather chaise like a king after war.

Caleb always looked like money. Even drunk.

But the shine was long gone.

I stood in the hallway, silent as a ghost, one hand gripping the strap of my worn-out backpack that I picked up at the thrift.

If I was going to run, I had to go unnoticed.

My heart thudded against my ribs. Not from fear—at least not the kind I used to feel when he raised his voice.

It was adrenaline now. The kind you get when you're about to jump off a ledge and hope the wind catches you before you splatter.

He called me an ungrateful bitch tonight. Said I was lucky he hadn’t traded me in for someone younger. Said his father could ruin me with a single phone call.

The same old song.

Only this time, he hit me with his phone after squeezing my wrist so hard I dropped the wine glass. It shattered against the marble floor.

He didn’t even blink.

That was the final straw.

Who knew a cell phone could be used as a punching glove? Again, he was careful not to hit me where any bruises or cuts would show in public. The spot between my shoulder blades as I tried to walk away from him suited him just fine.

The ring still sat on the nightstand beside the bed, three carats of cold diamond and lies. I tucked it into a zippered pouch along with the emergency cash I’d been saving from the designer handbags and jewelry I secretly pawned over the last few months.

Caleb never noticed. Why would he? When you grow up with generational wealth and power, you don’t count the small bills. You assume the world’s already yours.

I slipped on a hoodie over my silk pajamas and made my way to the servants’ entrance at the back of the plantation-style mansion. Past the butler’s pantry. Past the wine cellar. Past the gilded portrait of Caleb’s father hanging above the staircase like a silent, watching god.

The security gate was still disabled—something I arranged earlier that day when I told Caleb’s assistant the system needed a software update.

He believed me.

Rich men rarely question pretty women when they smile sweetly.

Outside, parked beneath the shadows of the oaks, was my way out: a beat-up gray Honda Civic I’d bought for cash under a fake name. No Bluetooth, no GPS, no tracking tech. She had 233,333 miles on her and sounded like a blender full of rocks when she started, but she was mine.

And more importantly — she wasn’t his.

I climbed in, buckled up, and whispered, “Please just get me the hell out of here.”

The engine sputtered, coughed… and roared to life.

I didn’t look back.

The welcome sign read Sable Creek, North Carolina, and the town looked like something out of a country song — dusty roads, fading paint, pickup trucks, and an air of don’t-ask-too-many-questions.

Exactly what I needed. It was rural. Secluded. Close enough but yet I felt unreachable here.

I rolled into the gas station on fumes. The A/C didn’t work and my hair was a sweaty mess, but I was free. My back still ached from sleeping in rest stops while I stared at old Triple A maps trying to figure out the best place to land. My stomach growled like I hadn’t eaten in days.

But the relief?

That was real.

Being a runaway bride wasn’t like the movies.

I had no horse, limo or fancy honeymoon to go solo on.

Something in my gut warned me I ‘d have to make a run for it before saying—’I do’, but I wasn’t fully prepped.

Maybe I thought Caleb wasn’t that bad and I was selfish and spoiled.

Who wouldn’t want to marry money into money and raise Ralph Lauren—boat shoe wearing baby from the cradle.

I swallowed hard, feeling the walls close in.

Marrying Caleb felt like going to prison.

For life. The once sexy, charismatic man was nothing but a bad drunk with zero personality.

But he played his part well, wining and dining and caressing me up for almost a year.

Once he slipped the diamond ring on my finger and the deposits were all paid for our wedding—the mask came off. One slip at a time.

But Caleb didn’t know where I was.

Yet.

I knew he wouldn’t take being jilted weeks before our wedding lightly. Men like him don’t like to be embarrassed. He’d rather chain me up inside his mansion then face being stood up at the alter.

The town square was a simple four-way cross with a bar, a diner, a hardware store, and a tattoo shop. But it was the bar that drew my eye.

Fire Skulls.

Big black letters. Tinted windows. A row of bikes gleaming out front, like chrome wolves basking in the heat.

I’d never been inside a biker bar in my life.

But I needed a job. A place to hide. A new life until I figured out how to get my things and go home as the girl who left Caleb Whitmore III jilted weeks before the big day. I wasn’t ready to face that… not yet.

So I walked inside like I belonged.

The music hit me first — gritty, angry rock — followed by the scent of motor oil, whiskey, and leather. Heads turned. Voices paused.

A woman behind the bar eyed me like she couldn’t decide whether to card me or punch me.

“You here to meet someone?” she asked, tone cool but curious.

“No,” I said, lifting my chin. “I’m here to work.”

She smirked. “You serve?”

“Yes.”

“Fight?”

“If I have to.”

That made her laugh. “Then grab a rag and prove it.”

I was wiping down sticky counters and dodging grabby hands within minutes, trying not to notice the man sitting at the corner of the bar — all broad shoulders, tattoos, and silent intensity.

Black shirt. Leather cut. A beer in front of him he hadn’t touched.

He was watching me.

Not like the others did.

No, he looked at me like he could smell the fire I thought I’d buried.

Like he knew I wasn’t here by accident.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a pawn.

I felt like maybe I’d just walked into a new game.

And I was ready to play.

My mother made sure I knew how to mix drinks.

Grooming a good social club bride was part of the deal she made with the Whitmores.

I had taken a bartending class the summer I turned sixteen.

Most of the bikers wanted bottleneck beers but the older MC men preferred scotch, whiskey, or the occasional mixed drink.

It was hard work. But it kept me too busy to think about the shit-show I left behind.

Too exhausted to process I blew my life up.

My French manicure was long gone. Caleb would be appalled to find his fiancée tending a biker bar.

Well, ex fiancée.

Leaving is the same as breaking if off.

I giggled, imagining his horrified expression— if he only knew.

My muscles ached. But in a good way. Not in the my ex hit me again…way my body was used to.

Truthfully, I was ashamed. Ashamed I let him hit me. That I didn’t leave sooner… I didn’t want to disappoint my parents who raised me to be the society bride I was abut to become.

I’d never gone hungry or without designer… everything. I had a golden life or a gilded cage. Being here gave me the chance to just breathe for once.

And fresh air is exactly what I needed.