Chapter 4 #2
Inside, the bar is a haven of dark wood, red leather booths, and a scarred wooden floor. It’s a dive in the truest sense. As we walk in, several men at the bar nod in greeting. There is an ease here, a lack of pretension that makes my shoulders drop an inch.
“Diesel!” the bartender, a woman with silver hair pulled into a tight braid, calls out. “Usual?”
“Two of ’em, Marge,” Diesel says, gesturing for me to sit at a back booth before sliding in next to me. “And make sure the fries are extra crispy.”
Marge gives me a wink. “Coming right up, sugar.”
As she walks away, I look around, noticing framed photos of men astride bikes and behind the wheels of hot rods, the pool table in the back. “You spend a lot of time here?”
“It’s one of my favorite places,” Diesel explains, leaning back against the leather.
Our burgers arrive. I’m halfway through mine before I even come up for air.
Diesel is still on his first few bites when I catch him—mid-chew, completely still—watching a guy in a Stetson settle onto a barstool.
The guy orders a beer. Diesel goes back to his burger.
A minute later, the door swings open again, and his eyes are already there before it finishes moving.
“You’re doing it again,” I say, gesturing with a fry. “Scanning the perimeter.”
He sets his burger down, expression serious. “I’m not taking any chances with you.”
That’s a mood killer. The reason I’m here—the fear, the photographs—comes rushing back. I look down at my plate, my appetite suddenly gone.
“Hey.” Diesel’s voice is soft. He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine, causing goosebumps to break out along my spine.
He doesn’t squeeze; he just stays there, a steady, grounding force.
“I didn’t say that to scare you. I said it because I want you to know I’m not going to let my guard down.
Not ever. You’re safe here. I promise you that. ”
“I know,” I whisper. “I just hate that he has this much power over my life.”
“He doesn’t have the power anymore,” Diesel says firmly. “We took it back the second we crossed the Nevada line. Right now, he’s just an annoying little gnat who’s about to get his ass squashed.”
I manage a small smile. “You’re very good at this, you know. The whole ‘stoic guardian’ thing. Do you practice in the mirror?”
Diesel lets out a genuine laugh. “Every morning. Right after I do my hair and before I pick which T-shirt I’m going to wear. It’s a rigorous process.”
The tension breaks, and we spend the rest of the meal talking about everything and nothing. As we walk out of the restaurant, the sky is a deep, bruised purple. Diesel drives back to the shop and parks next to his motorcycle.
“Change of plans,” he says. He digs in the back of the SUV and tosses me a spare helmet. “The SUV is for emergencies. The bike is for living. You ever been on a Harley, Sunshine?”
“The closest I’ve been is watching Sons of Anarchy with Alana while eating popcorn.”
“Well,” he says, swinging a leg over the seat and starting the engine. The roar is visceral, a thrumming vibration I can feel in my teeth. “Time for a real education. Get on. Hold tight.”
I climb on behind him. There is no other way to sit; I have to press my chest against his back, my arms wrapping around his waist. I can feel the hard muscle of his stomach, the heat radiating through all the layers of our clothes.
It is the most intimate position I’ve ever been in with another person.
He takes off, and the world becomes a blur of wind and sound. I squeeze him tighter as we lean into a turn, my face pressed against the back of his shoulder. The fear I’ve been carrying for weeks seems to peel away.
We head toward the outskirts of the city.
Diesel slows as we reach a scenic overlook, the city spread out below like a carpet of fallen stars.
He kills the engine, but I don’t let go immediately.
My head rests against his back, listening to the ticking of cooling metal and the steady beat of his heart.
Out here, the stalker feels small. The danger feels distant.
The only thing that feels real is the man I’m holding on to.
Diesel reaches back, his hand squeezing my arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, finally pulling away and sliding off the bike.
I remove the helmet. My hair’s a tangled mess, my skin is buzzing with adrenaline, and I’ve never felt more alive.
“I’m more than okay. I think I finally understand why you like these things so much.
It’s hard to worry about the future when you’re going eighty miles an hour. ”
He stands up, stretching his massive frame, the moonlight catching the silver of his rings. He looks like a king of the wasteland. He looks at the city, then back at me, expression unreadable.
“Exactly,” he says softly, “I knew you would get it.”
I look at him and realize with sharp clarity that the world I left behind in LA feels like a pale, flickering shadow compared to the vibrant reality of this one. I’m not just a guest here. I’m not just a woman to be protected. I catch myself imagining what it would be like to belong to him.