The Rider's Muse (Steel Hearts #1)

Chapter 1 Stranded in the Storm

Dead Battery, Dead Signal

Rain hammered against the windshield with relentless force, turning the dark highway into a blur of silver streaks and distorted headlights.

The rhythmic swish of the wipers struggled to keep up, pushing sheets of water aside only for more to immediately replace them.

Every few seconds, lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the empty road stretching endlessly ahead.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and leaned forward slightly, trying to see through the storm.

Maybe leaving the retreat tonight had been a mistake.

Most of the other writers had booked nearby hotel rooms and planned to leave in the morning when the weather improved.

I should have done the same. Instead, I'd convinced myself that I'd be fine driving home.

It wasn't as if I had anything waiting for me except a tiny apartment near campus and a stack of unfinished assignments.

A loud crack of thunder shook the car.

I flinched.

"Okay," I muttered to myself. "Still alive."

Talking to myself wasn't unusual. It happened a lot when I was nervous. Sometimes it helped organize the chaos in my head. Other times it only made me sound slightly unhinged.

Tonight was probably the second option.

The dashboard clock glowed softly in the darkness. Nearly nine o'clock.

If the weather didn't get worse, I'd be home in another hour.

The thought should have comforted me.

Instead, my stomach twisted.

Home meant reality.

Reality meant opening my laptop.

Reality meant seeing the email sitting in my inbox.

Again.

I already knew every word of it.

Thank you for your submission. While we enjoyed your work, we don't feel it is the right fit for our publication at this time.

Polite.

Professional.

Another rejection.

Number twelve.

Not that I was counting.

Okay, maybe I was counting.

A little.

I sighed and glanced toward the passenger seat where my notebook rested beside an empty coffee cup.

The retreat had been helpful. At least that's what everyone kept saying.

Networking.

Workshops.

Industry connections.

Apparently all things aspiring writers needed.

Unfortunately, none of those things magically turned a rejected manuscript into a published one.

My fingers tightened slightly around the wheel.

Maybe my father was right.

The thought arrived unwanted.

He usually managed that.

Maybe writing really was a waste of time.

Maybe law school would have been smarter.

Maybe working in politics would have been easier.

Maybe I should stop chasing impossible dreams and accept that not everyone got to become an author.

The familiar pressure settled heavily in my chest.

I hated when those thoughts appeared.

They sounded too much like my father.

Senator Thomas Reed didn't believe in dreams.

He believed in strategy.

Planning.

Image.

Success.

Every decision needed a purpose.

Every action needed a result.

According to him, writing romance novels served neither purpose.

Especially not the kind I wanted to write.

A faint smile tugged at my lips despite myself.

If my father ever discovered the contents of my laptop, he would probably have a heart attack.

The son of a rising political star secretly writing gay romance novels.

Not exactly campaign-friendly.

Especially not the manuscript currently consuming my life.

I glanced toward the notebook again.

My secret project.

The story of a dangerous biker and the man who changed his life.

The idea had arrived months ago and refused to leave.

Every night, scenes played through my head.

Arguments.

Confessions.

Long rides down endless roads.

A lonely man covered in tattoos who believed he was unlovable.

The more I wrote, the more real he became.

I still didn't know how the story would end.

I only knew I couldn't stop writing it.

Lightning flashed again.

For a brief moment, the road ahead became visible.

Trees lined both sides of the highway like dark shadows.

No houses.

No businesses.

No signs of civilization.

Just miles of empty road.

A strange feeling settled over me.

Unease.

The storm seemed louder somehow.

Closer.

I reached for my phone and checked the battery.

Twenty-three percent.

Not great.

Not terrible.

I plugged it into the charging cable.

Nothing happened.

I frowned.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

The cable must have stopped working.

Perfect.

"Great timing," I muttered.

The universe clearly enjoyed keeping things interesting.

Rain continued pounding against the roof.

The highway grew emptier the farther I drove.

A few cars passed occasionally, but not many.

Most sane people were probably staying home tonight.

I lowered the radio volume and focused on the road.

The retreat replayed in my mind.

The guest speaker.

The workshops.

The other writers discussing book deals and publishing opportunities.

Everyone had seemed so confident.

So certain.

Meanwhile I spent half the weekend wondering whether I belonged there at all.

Imposter syndrome had practically become a personality trait.

The only thing that felt real was writing itself.

Not publishing.

Not marketing.

Not success.

Just the act of sitting alone and creating something from nothing.

That part still felt magical.

Even after every rejection.

Even after every doubt.

Even after my father spent years telling me to focus on more realistic goals.

A sudden cough from the engine interrupted my thoughts.

I frowned.

The car jerked slightly.

Then continued normally.

For a moment, I thought I imagined it.

Another cough followed.

This one louder.

My stomach dropped.

"No."

The engine sputtered.

The dashboard lights flickered.

Rain hammered against the windshield.

Thunder exploded overhead.

"No, no, no."

The car lurched again.

Panic immediately began creeping up my spine.

I pressed gently on the accelerator.

Nothing changed.

The vehicle lost speed.

The engine struggled.

Then another violent shudder ran through the entire car.

Every warning light on the dashboard illuminated at once.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

"Please don't do this."

The car ignored me.

With one final sputter, the engine died completely.

Silence filled the vehicle except for the sound of rain.

The steering immediately felt heavier beneath my hands.

The car rolled forward on momentum alone.

I carefully guided it toward the shoulder of the road.

Water splashed beneath the tires.

The vehicle finally stopped.

For several seconds, I simply stared through the windshield.

The storm continued raging around me.

The highway stretched endlessly in both directions.

No headlights.

No buildings.

No people.

Nothing.

My breathing became uneven.

I reached for the key and tried restarting the engine.

Click.

Nothing.

Again.

Click.

Still nothing.

My pulse quickened.

One more time.

The engine didn't even try.

"Oh God."

I grabbed my phone.

One percent.

The number glowed on the screen like a threat.

No signal.

My stomach twisted.

I held the phone higher.

Still nothing.

Rain pounded against the windows.

The battery icon flashed red.

Then the screen went black.

Dead.

For a moment, I simply stared at my reflection in the dark display.

Then thunder exploded overhead so violently the entire car shook.

The sound snapped something inside me.

My chest tightened.

Breathing suddenly felt difficult.

The storm outside seemed impossibly loud.

The darkness seemed deeper.

The isolation felt overwhelming.

I was stranded.

Alone.

In the middle of nowhere.

With a dead car.

A dead phone.

And no idea what to do next.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the empty highway.

For a split second, the world turned white.

Then darkness returned.

My hands trembled against the steering wheel.

The first edges of panic began closing in around me as thunder rolled endlessly through the storm.

The Rider in Black

Rain slammed against my leather jacket as I rode through the storm.

Most people with any sense were already indoors, sitting in warm houses with dry clothes and functioning heaters. I should have been one of them. Instead, I was halfway across the county on my motorcycle, returning from a late delivery that had taken longer than expected.

The weather hadn't looked this bad when I'd left.

Now the sky looked determined to make up for lost time.

Lightning flashed across the horizon, illuminating the empty highway for a split second before darkness swallowed everything again. Thunder followed almost immediately, low and powerful enough to vibrate through the road beneath my tires.

I tightened my grip on the handlebars and focused on the lane ahead.

Just get home.

That was the plan.

A hot shower.

A beer.

Maybe a few hours of sleep before opening the garage tomorrow.

Simple.

Exactly how I liked things.

The older I got, the more I appreciated simple.

Complicated had never done me any favors.

Neither had people.

I snorted softly at the thought.

Twenty years around motorcycle clubs had taught me a lot of lessons. Most of them unpleasant.

Trust carefully.

Keep your circle small.

Never depend on anyone.

And always expect disappointment.

Those rules had kept me alive.

They'd also left me living alone above a garage with more motorcycles than friends.

Not that I minded.

At least that was what I told myself.

The highway stretched ahead, nearly empty.

Rainwater sprayed from my tires as I pushed forward through the storm. Visibility was terrible. Every passing minute seemed to make the weather worse.

A younger version of me might have enjoyed it.

Back then I thought riding through storms made me invincible.

Back then I thought a lot of stupid things.

Lightning flashed again.

Something appeared in the distance.

I frowned.

A vehicle sat motionless on the shoulder of the road.

Hazard lights blinked weakly through the rain.

I glanced at it as I passed.

Probably waiting for roadside assistance.

Not my problem.

I kept riding.

Ten seconds later, I cursed under my breath.