“Worked late. Took the night shift for extra money. Thought I’d come see if the whiskey’s just as good here as it was last time.” The way he sliced his stare down over her body left her feeling he hadn’t only come here for the whiskey.
“Liquor’s the same everywhere you go.”
“Maybe I dropped by for the atmosphere.”
At that moment, the clink of glass smashing carried through the bar.
“Goddammit!” She braced her palms on the bar top and vaulted over it. As soon as her feet hit the other side, a hand caught her arm.
She jerked around to see Mr. Hot and Sexy looking down at her.
“Let me handle it,” he said quietly.
A shiver snaked up her spine at his low, intense tone. Yep—every. Damn. Time. She wouldn’t fall for this guy, though. She’d known plenty of his kind.
She shook him off. “I got it.”
As soon as she reached the group of bikers and spotted the broken glass lying next to the pool table, she inwardly steeled herself. “Which of you is buying me a new glass?”
She looked from one to the next, waiting.
“How much?” a biker asked.
“Six bucks.”
“For a glass? Lady, you’re nuts.” The guy picked up the pool stick and started to shoot, but she yanked it out of his grasp and tossed it down on the floor. With a glare for all, she held out a palm. “Six bucks. Plus you clean up the mess.”
In the end, she got her way. The biker picked up the glass and then used some paper towels to mop up the spilled drink, and she returned to her register with six bucks to cover the glass.
Mr. Hot Stud tracked her moves. “You handled that pretty well.”
No, I will not let his compliment melt my panties off. I will not go home with him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Fiona.”
“I’m Dixon.”
Heat swam a sidestroke through her lower belly at the heavy weight of his stare.
“You ever get out of this place?” He sipped his whiskey.
“Sure.”
He cocked a brow. “You ever go on a date?”
Oh shit. Just what she didn’t need—an invitation to fuck up her life with another motorhead with muscles and not enough brain cells to rub together.
“I don’t date.”
“You don’t date ever or you don’t date customers?”
“Both. I’ll up you by one too—I don’t do gearheads.”
When he cocked his head and gave her that crooked smile, she thought her clothes might fall off right there and then. “How do you know I’m a gearhead?”
“I know the signs.” She forced herself to concentrate on wiping down the beer tap, needing to look anywhere but at him.
“What signs are those, might I ask?”
She waved his direction. “The grease under your nails. The cuts on your knuckles from bashing them on some hard metal.”
He chuckled and polished off his drink. Part of her wanted to keep him right here talking. Yeah, the stupid part.
“You want another shot?” she asked.
He studied her as though considering more than her question. After a long moment, he threw a look at the guys in the rear, who were behaving for once. “Nah, I’m drivin’. See ya later, Fiona.”
When he climbed off the stool and sauntered to the exit, she tried not to think about what a tall, chiseled glass of water he was. Or how damn good he’d look between her thighs.
Chapter Two
Dixon swung his leg over the seat of his bike. The old girl only really required a new carburetor and a tune-up to get her runnin’. Of course, he and Tank had spent long hours polishing the Harley till it gleamed.
He grinned at his buddy. “Purrs like a woman when you hit her G-spot.”
Tank nodded. “Damn, I love to hear it—and the women. Time to take her for a spin and work out any kinks. I’ll meet ya outside.” He tipped his head toward the open garage doors.
After tapping his heel into the kickstand, Dixon rolled forward into the gravel driveway in front of the shop. Tank hopped on his own wheels, and they hit the road.
Fuck, he’d missed this. The last time he rode was the summer before bootcamp. The wind teasing his hair and the hum of the road under his tires all burned through him. He tipped his head up to the sky and released a roar of elation.
At his side, Tank let out a long howl. When they glanced at each other, they veered close enough to high-five. Then Dixon opened her up and shot off down the highway. Tank sped at his side. They played tag for a bit, one dropping back and the other surging forward. Soaking up the Tennessee sun and being on the open road again—fuck, Dixon forgot how damn good it felt to live this life.
To have something to live for.
After circling through the foothills for an hour or so, they pointed their bikes toward home. As they approached the gas station, he raised his chin to Tank, indicating he was stopping to fill up. Tank rumbled in behind him, and they cut their engines.
Tank pulled off his helmet. “Gotta get yourself one of these. Can’t have my buddy spattering his brains across the highway.”
“I’ll pick one up at the end of the week.” He swung off his bike and set the gas nozzle in his tank. As he waited for the tank to fill, he looked around. In Mersey he’d grown accustomed to seeing the biker gang everywhere he turned. They seemed to multiply in number by the day, now filling up not only the parking lot of the Painted Pig but every store and each corner.
Five guys shot glares their way.
“The fuck’s your problem?” Dixon called out.
Tank only shook his head. “You’re lookin’ for a fight, man. The Mayhem don’t stand for shit.”
“Yeah, they don’t,” he said, meaning something completely different. “They have no morals or reason for being here, far as I can see.”
“Only to make trouble. I heard they got driven out of two other towns.” Tank straightened to his full height and folded his arms in that don’t-fuck-with-me manner.
“Driven out…yeah.” Dixon could see that needed to happen here in Mersey. Over last night’s dinner, his parents reported their friends had been burgled, and when the owner tried to defend himself, the bikers kicked the shit out of him.
He disengaged the pump from his tank and started toward the mini-mart. A member of the Mayhem sidled up to him as he reached the door.
Dixon looked up with a slow burn that if he let it, would burst into an all-out inferno. “Get the fuck outta my way.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Who the fuck are you?” he shot back. Suddenly, Tank flanked his side and two others stood with the Mayhem member. “I grew up here. What’s your reason for being in Mersey? Besides to cause hell for everyone around you?”
The members closed in, but Dixon and Tank didn’t step away. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a woman skittering away from the entrance. Good—let her get to safety. If shit went down here, he didn’t want anyone hurt.
All of Dixon’s Marine days flooded in, fighting for freedoms, for rights of any suppressed. He’d call the Mayhem being in his hometown suppression and fear-mongering.