Page 5 of The Biker and His Bride

RILEY

T he Fire Skulls bar smelled like spilled beer, hot leather, and something electric I couldn’t name. I’d been here almost four days.

I was elbow-deep in cold bottles of Coors, my knees on the sticky bar mat as I loaded the bottom shelf of the cooler. The air conditioner was broken again, sweat sticking my tank top to my back, and I was cursing under my breath when I heard boots behind me.

Heavy. Confident. Rogue.

He crouched beside me without a word, reaching past me for a six-pack. His arm brushed mine—hot and rough—and I jolted a little. Not from surprise. From the electric zing that always seemed to come when he got too close.

“Careful,” I said, glancing up at him. “You might pull a muscle helping out like this.”

He smirked, eyes locked on the cooler like he wasn’t fully looking at me—but I knew better.

“Just keeping my eye on the stock,” he said casually. “And the scenery.”

I rolled my eyes. “Smooth.”

“I try.” He set the bottles in with quiet clinks. “You always this mouthy?”

“Only when someone’s watching my ass instead of doing their own job.”

His gaze flicked to mine. Bold. Teasing. Dangerous.

“Can’t help it,” he said, low. “Your ass is the best thing that’s happened to this bar since I installed the new tap lines.”

My breath caught. I straightened slowly, brushing past him as I rose, heart hammering harder than I’d admit. He stood too, towering, sweat glinting on his arms, eyes drinking me in.

“Keep talking like that,” I said, grabbing a rag to wipe my hands, “and I might start thinking you like having me around. Maybe I’m the best bartender this place has ever seen.”

He leaned in just a little, close enough that I could smell leather and pine soap.

“Best looking one. No doubt.”

I looked up at him, chest tight.

“Well,” I said. “In that case, boss… maybe I’ll stick around.”

He grinned.

“You better.”

The music thumped low from the jukebox—old-school rock, gritty and restless—and I was starting to find a rhythm behind the bar.

Pour, wipe, smile. Repeat. My tip jar was overflowing and at this rate I could keep moving, if I was smart I would.

But I felt comfortable here. More cozy in my small pine-framed bed and antique floored room than I ever did at Caleb’s state of the art mansion.

Then chaos ripped the air apart.

A fist caught the edge of my cheek—Joe “Pitbull” Harrison swinging at Rookie Nate over a game of eight-ball and an insult about somebody’s sister. The cue stick cracked in half like dry bone. Shouts erupted. Glass shattered.

Everything moved in slow motion.

Pitbull lunged again. Nate ducked, overturned a table, and sent beer and ashtrays flying. A chair skidded across the floor toward me. I froze?—

A wall of muscle slammed into my side.

Rogue.

He shoved me behind him, broad arm pinning me safely against the bar. His voice sliced through the roar.

“Stay.”

One word. Commanding. Unarguable.

I clutched the counter, heart pounding.

Rogue stepped into the fray like a storm given shape. He grabbed Pitbull by the collar of his cut and yanked him back so hard the man’s boots left the floor.

“What the hell’s this?” Rogue growled, shoving him against the wall.

Pitbull, twice as wide as I was tall, blinked like a chastised kid. “He called my sister a?—”

“I don’t care,” Rogue barked, inches from his face. “You think you bleed in my bar over words?”

Nate tried to scramble up. Rogue’s free hand shot out, fisting the front of Nate’s shirt. “You stay right there, Rookie.”

The room went still, every prospect and patched brother watching.

Rogue released Pitbull just enough to spin him toward Nate. Then he pushed them both until they stood side by side like schoolboys caught cheating.

“I’m feeling generous,” Rogue said, voice low but carrying. “You wanna fight? You do it in the ring tomorrow. Gloves on. Winner buys the loser’s sister a damn apology bouquet. Tonight? You’re mopping floors.”

He turned, scanning the bar. Broken glass, overturned chairs, a pool of beer creeping toward my boots.

“Trigger!” Rogue shouted.

Trigger appeared. “Yeah, Prez?”

“Hand these two idiots a mop. They’re cleaning every inch of this place. Bathrooms too.”

Pitbull opened his mouth. Rogue’s stare cut him off.

“Problem?” Rogue asked, lethal calm.

“No, Prez,” Pitbull muttered.

Rogue pointed to the mess. “Move.”

Muttering curses, the two men stomped off to fetch buckets and mops.

Only then did Rogue turn back to me. His eyes, granite-gray moments ago, softened just a fraction.

“You okay?”

My knees wobbled. “Yeah. Thanks to you. But my right cheek could use an ice pack.”

He frowned at my shaking hands, then gently pried the rag from my grip. “You’re done for tonight.”

“I can finish?—”

“You’re done,” he repeated, softer but iron-strong. “Go upstairs. My room’s unlocked. Use the shower, grab a T-shirt. I’ll be up once these clowns finish.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. Upstairs? His room? “Rogue, I?—”

He leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “Not for that. You’re rattled. And I need to know you’re safe.”

My chest tightened. I nodded.

He straightened, spun on his heel, and stalked toward Pitbull and Nate, who were now sloshing suds across the sticky floor. He barked orders—where to scrub, what to disinfect—Judge, Jury, Deliverance. The entire clubhouse fell under his command like dominoes.

I slipped behind the bar and headed for the back stairs, Rogue’s gravel-soft promise echoing in my ears.

*I need to know you’re safe.* He was sincere. No mask. Just raw and honest.

For the first time in years—maybe ever—I believed someone meant it.