3. Ruby
Ruby
The entire drive, my mind isn’t on my bucket list and all the things that would be left unchecked if I die on this deathtrap of a vehicle; it’s trapped in the present, hyper-aware of the solid wall of muscle I’m clinging to.
My arms are wrapped around Diesel’s waist, my front pressed flush against his back. With every shift of the bike, I feel the flex and play of his abdomen beneath my hands. The fear of death is there, but it’s tangled up with a more startling sensation. A thrilling, terrifying sense of being alive.
The wind whips past us, but all I can smell is leather and him—a smoky scent that’s nothing like the stale air of the tattoo shop. It’s the scent of my protector, and I find myself inhaling deeper, my grip tightening not from fear, but from a sudden, inexplicable need to get closer.
When I’m right here, pressed against him, I feel as safe as a person can feel. It’s the craziest thing.
The “short” ride lasts all the way to the edge of town. Feeling never-ending, I take in the blur of the autumn setting. The mix of orange and red looks so nice; I find it a peaceful distraction.
Thankfully, I don’t die. Rather, we make it to our destination. As relieved as I should be, there’s something unsettling about parking in front of a building with a bunch of other motorcycles surrounding it.
As Diesel lifts to let me off first, I almost slip. My poor legs are outright noodles, both trembling as my feet hit the solid ground.
“Judge doesn’t like strangers, so keep close.” The command is gruff, but the action that follows is what undoes me. He plants his palm firmly in the middle of my back. It’s a large, heavy hand, and the heat of it sears through my jacket.
My heart doesn’t just flutter; it pounds so intensely that I can feel it in my pulse with every swallow.
I wonder if he can feel the frantic beat, if he knows the effect he’s having.
The rational part of my brain screams that this is a bad idea, that getting attached to a man like him is a recipe for disaster.
But the part of me that’s been cold and scared for weeks leans into the touch, craving the security it provides.
Keep close.
As if there’s any other place I’d rather be.
“Should I be worried?” Trying to find the strength to smile, I can’t hide the concern in my voice.
“Only if you’ve got something to hide.” Saying it far too seriously for his own good, I squirm when I feel his eyes on me. “Hope that’s not the case. Not many people who enter this place leave if they try to be slick.”
Oh my God. What am I getting myself into right now? Oh boy. Is it too late to start looking for new places to live?
There’s the low rumble of a chuckle behind me, and I’m surprised that it’s Diesel chuckling. When I look behind me, I realize that beneath his bushy beard, the jerk is smirking!
“I’m fucking with you. Judge is a good man. He won’t bite your head off, just don’t get on his bad side, that’s all.” His thumb traces along my spine.
“You’re terrible.” As I huff the insult, I can feel the tips of my ears warming.
If he was joking, was he serious about sticking close? If so, why is he still touching me, and why haven’t I pulled away yet?
The air in the Steelwood MC clubhouse hits me first—a thick haze of cigarette smoke that stings my eyes and coats the back of my throat. A low, thrumming bassline vibrates up through the soles of my sneakers, more a threat than a rhythm.
Overhead, a few fluorescent lights buzz and flicker, casting a sickly, jumping glare over the dozens of men crowding the bar area.
I can feel the weight of the place, a labyrinth I can only imagine stretching into a deeper, darker unknown, but my attention is snagged by the sheer number of hostile faces here alone.
As we move forward, the music shifts to a grating guitar riff. Two men at a pool table stop their game in perfect, unnerving unison. The silence they create feels louder than the music. Their eyes lock onto us.
One has a pale scar tearing along his cheek, while the other wears a scowl so deep and permanent, it makes my heart skip with fear.
I falter, my eyes flickering down to the concrete floor. In my nervousness, my hand, which had been hovering at my side, lifts to pinch the thickness of Diesel’s vest so I can feel another taste of safety.
His thumb, which had been stroking my spine, stills as he senses my fear. My breath catches in my throat. The moment stretches, thick and heavy, the noise of the clubhouse fading into a dull roar.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
I probably shouldn’t touch him as I please, but he doesn’t tell me to let go. Instead, like he can understand where my mind is at, he shortens the space between us so he’s that much closer.
Diesel doesn’t look at me. He just gives a soft grunt and resumes guiding me, his hand on my back feeling more protective than before. Maybe… a little possessive, too. Then again, I’m feeling so lightheaded, I’m probably delirious.
“Don’t mind them. We don’t often see many beautiful women here. They’re just curious.” He tries to crack a smile to make me feel better, but something else fills my chest. Is it dread?
They look like they want to eat me alive in one big bite.
Wait, he thinks I’m beautiful?
There are a few women already inside, but none pay me any attention. They cling to the men at their sides, sly smiles on their lips as they lean in to whisper something that makes their partners grin.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I nod at his reassurance even though I don’t believe his words. He leads me even deeper, asking someone behind a computer where Judge is. Calling him Ghost, I realize everyone here must go by nicknames.
If Judge is the leader of this group, I’m willing to bet his name is fitting for his role. Was Diesel really joking earlier? I don’t have anything to hide, but I’m still nervous.
As I’m led deeper into this dangerous pen, the pounding music drifts into a muffled white noise as we enter a new section.
A few worn-down couches line the wall with a table cracked along the edges.
On top, a pair of boots connected to a man with a pinched expression.
Next to him, another man who looks far too relaxed under the heavy weight of the atmosphere.
Looking at the front of their jackets, I can see the angry-looking one is the “President” while the other one is the “Vice President”.
My lips purse at my poor luck.
Now that I think about it, Diesel had a title as well, but I don’t have a clue what a prospect captain is, or where he fits in this chain of power.
“Judge.” Behind me, Diesel calls out to him. Thankfully, he keeps close enough that even if I do get the thought of fleeing, I can’t. He’s like a freaking wall of muscle.
A pair of fierce green eyes drifts in our direction, and he immediately stares me down like he’s deciding if I’m a threat or not. Once he deems me harmless, the grit in his jaw seems to relax.
He stands and turns his attention back to the other man. Opening his mouth, a low raspy voice is what comes out. “Stay here. We’re not finished.”
Unlike me, who’d be flinching at such a tone, the other man only smiles, like he’s amused.
When Judge moves, we follow, a silent procession through the haze. He leads us back to the scarred wooden bar, where a woman with tired eyes fills a glass without being asked. He throws it back in one swallow, the amber liquid vanishing.
His gaze, colder than ever, finally slides back to me. “What’s the issue?”
The question is a low rumble. His eyes take their time, traveling from my face down to my shaking hands, and his heavy brows furrow as if he’s examining a problem he doesn’t have time for.
My tongue feels thick and useless in my mouth, a dead weight. Before I can force a sound, Diesel’s voice cuts in, ready to save me from embarrassing myself.
“She’s got a stalker. Wants me to scare him off.” He reduces my weeks of fear into a simple transaction. “I’ll keep it clean. A quick stakeout to find the guy, then just… shake him up a little.”
Judge pulls his eyes from me as if I’ve already been dismissed and signals for another refill. “I can’t afford the heat right now. Not with Ripper already picking fights and putting heat on the club.”
The rejection hits me like a physical blow, my heart plunging into my stomach. A fresh wave of panic rises, but it’s held at bay by the steady, rhythmic stroke of Diesel’s thumb.
“I’ll keep it under wraps,” Diesel insists, his voice dropping. “No marks. Just a good, solid spook.”
Judge lets out a short, harsh snort, a sound that holds no humor.
I don’t understand the joke, but the meaning is clear.
What’s simple to me is a complication to him.
The only thing that keeps me from crumbling is the undeniable certainty in Diesel’s voice, the way he insists that helping me is the only option.
“We both know how you are.” He scoffs and looks away.
“Judge.” Diesel says his name in a way that makes my toes curl. “I’ll take care of it.”
The president taps his thumb against his glass before looking toward me once more.
He squints and stares hard like he’s seeing right through me.
When I shiver, he looks next to me. “No blood. Not unless you plan on cleaning up after yourself. I’ve already had to call Grim once today, and that was more than enough. ”
Blood ?
What am I getting myself into here?
The men look at each other like they are having their own secret conversation. Finally, Judge nods and takes his glass with him. As he heads towards the room with the other guy, Diesel is already leading me away.
“Why did he make it seem like you aren’t the best person to help me out?” As we step back out into the cold air, I instinctively shift closer, the solid heat of his body a welcome shield against the chill.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets out a slow breath that clouds in the space between us.
He brings a hand up and rubs the heel of his palm hard against his eye like he’s trying to scrub away a memory.
The gesture is tired, frustrated. It makes him look older for a second, weighed down by something I can’t see.
“Sometimes,” he says, the word gruff as he finally drops his hand, “I get a little too angry. Do things without thinking it all the way through.”
The admission is simple, but the gravity in his voice makes my breath catch. This isn’t a boast; it’s a confession. He’s trusting me with a flaw, a piece of the dangerous truth that lurks beneath his controlled exterior.
When the corners of my mouth twitch, unable to suppress the connection I’ve just made, his dark eyes narrow on me. “Is that why they call you Diesel?”
A faint, almost imperceptible huff of air escapes him—not quite a laugh, but an acknowledgment.
He really is like gas. The potential for a controlled burn, yes, but also for a sudden, explosive flash. Unpredictable. Intense.
The way he sighs —a low, rumbling sound of resignation —only confirms my suspicion.
Despite my smile, a sobering thought cuts through the warmth blooming in my chest. Did I really go to the right guy? But looking at him now, seeing the honest weariness in his stance, I know the answer.
Even if he is dangerous, there’s an unshakable truth about him. He’s the kind of man who, once he gives his word, will see a thing through to the bitter end. And that, more than anything, makes me feel safe.