Chapter 8 Morgan
Morgan
Morgan could barely feel her legs as they pulled off to the lookout at Lands End, her body vibrating from the last thirty minutes or so on the motorcycle.
She’d never experienced anything like it—the rush of wind, the perfect synchronicity as she leaned with Bullet’s body through each curve, the freedom of the open road stretching before them.
She was confused as they passed the first few bikers on the road who flashed them a low ‘peace’ sign. But after she had asked over the comms if Bullet had known them, he revealed the ‘secret biker lingo’ to acknowledge another biker.
She started reaching out to initiate the acknowledgement anytime she saw fellow bikers on the road.
The feeling it created of being seen and understood, something within her that she hadn't felt with anyone in years.
Like a shift, transforming her from the inside out into a different, more confident version of herself.
“Wow,” she breathed as she carefully dismounted, legs wobbling slightly.
She removed her helmet and did some stretches to loosen her tight leg muscles.
As she walked around she undid the french braids that had given her a slight headache with how tight she had originally done them this morning.
She shook out her hair, the sea breeze immediately catching the loose strands. “Is it always this incredible?”
Bullet remained on the bike, watching her through his helmet visor before dismounting and turning away to remove his helmet, only for his face to be concealed once again with the fabric and sunglasses.
“The view?” he asked once he was done, gesturing to the spectacular coastline.
“All of it.” She spread her arms wide, encompassing the ocean, the sky, the entire experience. “The freedom, the sensation... I don’t even know how to describe it.”
“You said it, freedom,” he said simply, easily walking towards her as if he hadn’t just been riding a high-powered machine. “It’s the only name I can think of for such a feeling. It’s why we ride.”
The other three riders had already wandered to the cliff’s edge, giving them space—a courtesy Morgan appreciated but found slightly amusing. For men who looked so intimidating in their riding gear, they were surprisingly considerate.
“Come on,” Bullet said, nodding toward the overlook. “The view from the edge is worth seeing.”
They joined the others at the railing. The Pacific Ocean stretched endlessly before them, sunlight dancing across the water like scattered diamonds, the Golden Gate Bridge small in the distance.
Morgan leaned against the metal barrier, lifting her face to the warm sun and breathing in the refreshing salt air.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Hawk, his watchful eyes seeming to miss nothing.
“Breathtaking,” she agreed.
“Worth the numb butt?” Diesel grinned, offering her an open bag of trail mix.
“Absolutely,” Morgan laughed, accepting a handful. “I didn’t even notice until we stopped.”
“You’ll feel it tomorrow,” Viper commented, fiddling with a compact camera. His hands remained encased in thin black leather gloves, which Morgan found curious—she hadn’t seen him remove them even once.
As if sensing her curiosity, Viper glanced down at his hands. “In my line of work, hands are tools,” he explained. “I protect them.”
“Bullet said you were in fashion, and thank you again for the gear. What exactly do you do to have such pieces on hand?” Morgan asked, seizing the opening and gesturing to her outfit.
“Fashion design,” Viper answered, adjusting his gloves with meticulous care.
“I work in the industry.” He nodded at her clothes, “Those are from a smaller line that I created a few years back. One of my associates, Beckett LaGrange, purchased the rights to the pieces. He has a local shop here in the bay area and he keeps them in stock for clients. Archer arranged for pickup and delivery, I just gave him Beckett’s info to arrange it and what I thought your size probably was. Glad it all worked out.”
Morgan appreciated his explanation, “So, are the gloves part of your signature look?”
“You could say that,” he replied with the hint of a smile.
“What about you?” Morgan asked, turning to Diesel, the friendly bearded giant who’d been making her laugh like they were buddies already.
He grinned broadly. “I make things go fast. Customize vehicles, mainly. Motorcycles, cars, that sort of thing.”
“That sounds rewarding. Seeing your creations in-action,” Morgan said, genuinely interested.
She’d barely managed to change her flat tire years ago when she hit a curb wrong, and ever since then she’d owned a membership so she’d never have to experience the frustration again.
Let alone knowing what was under the hood of her own car. “Do you have your own shop?”
“Something like that,” Diesel answered vaguely, though his pride was evident. “Been at it for a while now.”
Hawk, who had been quietly observing the conversation, straightened his posture slightly. “Security and Technology,” he offered before Morgan could ask, his precise manner evident even in casual conversation.
Morgan looked between the three men with new appreciation. These weren’t just weekend warriors playing at being bikers—they were professionals, each successful enough to afford the high-end motorcycles they rode and the obvious quality of their gear.
“So you’re all... quite successful,” she observed, trying not to sound too impressed.
“We do alright,” Diesel said with barely-concealed modesty.
“We had a good teacher,” Viper added, nodding toward Bullet with a meaningful look.
“Teacher?” Morgan asked, turning to Bullet curiously.
“Figure of speech,” he replied smoothly. “We all learned from each other.”
“Some more than others,” Diesel muttered, earning a sharp glance from Hawk.
A moment of silence fell over the group, heavy with shared history that went deeper than words could express.
“Stand over there,” Viper suddenly instructed, pointing toward the cliff edge. “The light’s perfect.”
Before Morgan could protest, she found herself being photographed against the backdrop of sea and sky, the red leather jacket vivid against the blue expanse.
“I feel ridiculous,” she laughed, but posed anyway.
“You look beautiful,” Bullet said just loud enough for her to hear. The simple compliment warmed her more than the afternoon sun.
“We should head to Shelly’s before they give away our table,” Hawk announced, checking his watch.
“Shelly’s?” Morgan asked as they walked back to the motorcycles and she twisted a hasty braid with her waves and tucked the end into the back of her jacket.
“Best burgers on the coast,” Diesel explained enthusiastically. “Shelly’s is every second Sunday of the month.”
As they mounted the bikes, Morgan couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude.
Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been alone in her apartment, recovering from Jason’s betrayal and dreading another week at her soul-crushing job.
Now she was riding along the coast with four fascinating men who treated her with nothing but respect and inclusion.
And one of them—the mysterious one whose face she had yet to see—made her heart race in a way she couldn’t quite explain.
Shelly’s Roadhouse was exactly the kind of place Morgan wouldn’t normally frequent—rustic, noisy, with license plates and vintage signs covering the walls. But the moment they walked in, she felt right at home.
“Bullet!” called a weathered man with a prosthetic leg, navigating expertly from behind the counter. “Boys! Right on time.” He didn’t so much as blink at Bullet’s face covering—clearly used to the man’s preference for privacy.
His eyes widened slightly when he noticed Morgan. “And you brought company. That’s a first.”
“Mike, this is Morgan,” Bullet introduced. “Morgan, Mike owns this fine establishment.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand. “The ride here was spectacular.”
“First timer?” Mike asked with a knowing look.
“Is it that obvious?” Morgan laughed.
“Only to the experienced eye.” Mike winked. “Your usual booth is ready, boys. I’ll send Shelly over for your orders.”
The large corner booth offered views of both the parking lot where their bikes stood and the restaurant’s main entrance—a seating choice Morgan suspected wasn’t coincidental. She slid in beside Bullet, acutely aware of how their thighs pressed together in the confined space.
Her heart rate spiked as if she hadn’t just been wrapped around him all morning as they rode.
A formidable woman with silver-streaked hair approached their table. “The usual for you boys?” she asked without a notepad.
“Please,” Hawk confirmed.
Shelly turned to Morgan. “And for you, honey?”
“What’s good here?” Morgan asked.
“Everything,” Diesel answered immediately. “But Bullet always gets the jalapeno burger with sweet potato fries. It’s legendary.”
Morgan glanced at Bullet, curious how he’d eat with his face still partially covered. “In that case, I’ll have the same.”
“Good choice,” Shelly approved. “Drinks?”
Everyone ordered non-alcoholic beverages, and Morgan followed suit, understanding the responsibility that came with riding.
As they waited for their food, she found herself drawn into their easy camaraderie.
These men moved and communicated like a single organism, finishing each other’s thoughts, sharing inside jokes that somehow made her feel included rather than excluded.
When the food arrived, Morgan took her first bite of the jalapeno burger and let out an involuntary moan of pleasure. “Oh my god,” she mumbled. “This is amazing.”
“Told you,” Diesel grinned. “Worth the ride just for the burger, right?”
She nodded emphatically, reaching for a sweet potato fry. “Absolutely.”