Slow Ride (The Boys of The Broken Saints #1)

Prologue

Diesel

When I moved to Copper Ridge a little over two years ago, I didn’t expect much, just a job at Beck Carter’s garage, a place to lay low. But I found more than that, I found Beck, and through him, the Broken Saints.

Beck, Ghost, Wrecker, and now Skunk—they’re like brothers to me. Hell, we even adopted Noah Maddox, even though he’s not exactly MC material. Too soft around the edges, if you ask me. Then, somehow, we picked up a corporate suit in Nico DeLuca. He’s alright.

For a suit.

Beck’s old lady, Amy, runs the show now, handling appointments, parts orders, and keeping the shop running like a damn clock. She’s good at it. Easy on the eyes, too, not that I’d say that where Beck could hear. He’d kill me, and Amy would probably laugh while he did it.

Too bad all her friends are taken now.

Gets lonely sometimes. Not that I’m looking. I tried love once. It didn’t stick. Don’t think I’ve got it in me to try again.

“Hey,” I called over to the guys. “What’s going on across the street?”

A U-Haul had just backed into the space in front of the old storefront. The place had been empty as long as I’d been here, maybe longer.

Skunk, nosy bastard that he is, just shrugged.

I leaned against the garage door frame, arms crossed, squinting into the sun.

The U-Haul doors swung open, and a couple of movers jumped out. Then she appeared, and it was like the whole damn street turned up the saturation.

She had pink hair. Not cotton-candy pink.

Softer. Like strawberry milk or whatever Amy called that shade on her nails once.

Her curls bounced around her shoulders, perfectly styled, not a strand out of place.

And her dress? Hell, it had tiny cartoon pies and planets on it. Planets. What even was that?

“Is that—?” Ghost stepped up beside me.

“Don’t ask,” I muttered.

She was short, curvy, and soft-looking, with pale, freckled skin that caught the sun like porcelain. Bright blue eyes scanned the front of the building like she saw more than peeling paint and cracked windows. Like she saw potential.

Then she turned, caught me staring, and smiled like she knew it.

Red lips. Full, unapologetic, and vintage as hell.

She waved at me.

I didn’t wave back.

Great.

She clapped her hands once and pointed toward the storefront like she owned the damn street already. Movers scrambled. She laughed loud and unbothered, the kind of sound that didn’t belong in Copper Ridge. At least, not across from our oil-stained driveway and busted neon sign.

“What do you think it is?” Ghost asked, stepping up beside me with a rag slung over his shoulder.

“Looks like a bakery,” I muttered, eyeing the pastel-pink crates with a cartoon cupcake logo stamped across the side. The Rolling Scone. Christ.

Sure enough, a painted sign came next. It was hand-lettered, pun-heavy, and completely out of place. Or I was just in a mood.

The woman turned again, walking backward as she spoke to one of the movers, her arms flying around like she was conducting a glitter-dusted orchestra.

I caught a flash of bright yellow crinoline beneath her dress.

I didn’t know what the hell a crinoline even was until Mel made me get one from the bridal shop at the last minute for Kate's wedding, but now I’d never forget it.

“Guess we’ve got new neighbors,” Beck said, walking past us to grab a part from the stockroom.

“Looks like it,” I muttered, still watching her direct traffic like she belonged here. Like she wasn’t about to ruin my morning peace with muffins and goddamn sunshine.

She pointed toward the storefront one last time, then turned and walked backward, talking animatedly to the movers, her hands waving around like she couldn’t talk without them. Her laugh carried again—loud, happy, and annoying as hell.

I told myself I didn’t care.

But I was still watching.