When Spreadsheets and Leather Jackets Collide （Or How I Became a Biker’s Girl）
There’s something surreal about waking up in your hot biker boyfriend’s bed on a Saturday morning, five weeks after he gave you a key to his place, his arm draped possessively over your waist, and his warm breath tickling the back of your neck.
Like somehow, in the span of three months, your entire life has shifted on its axis.
Me
I MAYBE THINK I LIVE HERE NOW??
Megan
List your reasons why and I will evaluate.
Me
1. My favourite coffee mug is in his kitchen. 2. My toothbrush has a permanent spot next to his. 3. I wear his shirt while coding on his couch. 4. I haven’t slept in my own bed for nearly three weeks.
Megan
So, you definitely live there now. Girl math.
Me
CODE RED: I THINK I’M HAPPY ABOUT IT.
Megan
And we didn’t even need Brad for this.
As Jake slept, I took a moment to catalogue the changes in my life since that first day he moved into this building three months ago, mentally sorting them into categories like I would lines of code:
CATEGORY: Things That Are Different Now
Sleep schedule (currently aligned with a hot biker’s rather than my late-night coding sprints)
Primary residence (pretty much moved from 4A to 4C)
Default relationship status (previously: chronically single; currently: his)
Vocabulary (now includes terms like “old lady,” “church” (the club meeting kind), and “patches but not the coding kind”)
Heart condition (formerly stable, now prone to racing whenever he walks into a room)
Morning breath (I’ve made peace with it, mostly because I’m a horny, desperate gangster’s girl and practically wake up riding biker dick)
CATEGORY: Things That Are Surprisingly The Same
My obsession with spreadsheets
Coffee dependency
Johnson’s terrible code still needing debugging
Karen, no further details required
Jake stirred beside me, his arm tightening around my waist before he was fully awake. That possessive instinct never seemed to rest.
“Mornin’, darlin’,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep as he pulled me closer. “Have you been awake long?”
“Not long. I’m just mentally organising my new life into categories,” I admitted, rolling over to face him.
His hand slid under my (his) shirt, palm warm against my lower back. “That so? And what category am I in?”
“‘Things That Make Me Question My Sanity But That I Want Anyway.’”
He laughed, that low rumble now one of my favourite sounds. “Sounds about right.” His fingers moved lazily over my skin. “Speaking of things we want, we should probably talk about this.”
My heart glitched, caught between beats. In my experience, “we should talk” was usually followed by “it’s not working” or “I met someone else” or “your code has too many comments.” But the way Jake was looking at me didn’t match any of those scenarios, so I tried to calm my heart.
“About what exactly?” I aimed to sound casual while my brain ran doomsday simulations.
“About the fact that you’ve basically moved in.”
I swallowed. “And?” Was he about to tell me it was too much, too soon?
“And—” he pulled me tightly against him “—I fuckin’ like it.”
Oh.
OH.
“So, we’re really doing this? You want me to be here as much as I have been?” The questions flew out before I could stop them, and I immediately wanted to hide under the covers.
But Jake just smiled; the one that makes my insides melt. “Sweetheart, I haven’t looked at another woman since the day we met. As far as I’m concerned, there’s only you.”
The relief that flooded through me was embarrassingly intense. “Good. Because I don’t share well.”
“I’ve noticed.” His eyes darkened as his hand glided over my hip.
I winced. “That obvious, huh?”
“You practically marked your territory at the clubhouse last night.”
“I did not!” (I really did.)
He was trying not to grin. Failing epically, may I add. “You strategically placed yourself between me and Sarah three separate times. And you practically hissed the last time.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “In my defence, she tries to get close to you a lot for someone who supposedly got the ‘we’re done’ memo.”
Jake’s expression turned serious. “Sarah knows exactly where I stand, and you have nothing to worry about on my end. But you need to understand something about club life.” He shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbow.
“There are complications I can’t always explain.
People I have to work with even when it’s not ideal. ”
“Including ex-friends-with-benefits who clearly want to upgrade back to benefits?”
“Sarah’s helping the club with something important. I can’t cut those ties completely. Not yet.”
“And once it’s handled?”
“Once it’s handled, she goes back to Stone Security full-time, and her reasons to be around the club become a lot less frequent.”
I nodded, trying to process what being with Jake truly meant. “So, this is really what dating a biker is like? Complicated alliances, rivals breaking into your mum’s house, car park fights?”
“That’s the hard part, yeah. But there’s more to it. The brotherhood, the loyalty, the family we build.” His eyes held mine. “The way we protect what’s ours.”
The possessiveness in those last words sent a shiver down my spine. “I’m starting to understand that.”
“And it doesn’t scare you off?”
I thought about everything I’d seen since I met Jake. The violence. The danger. But also, the way Jake treated his mother and those he cared about. How the club looked after their own. The fierce protection they offered to those they considered family.
“I’m not saying it doesn’t scare me,” I admitted. “But lately I’ve been thinking that maybe some things are worth the worry.”
His features softened in a way that made my heart squeeze. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” I smiled, leaning in to press my lips to his. “Usually by people frustrated with my coding style.”
Jake laughed against my mouth. “I’ve got a much better appreciation for your...style.”.
His hand slipped beneath the shirt I’d stolen from him and made its way up my body to palm my breast. I saw the moment his brain switched from feelings to porn, and then he was kissing me hard, like he couldn’t stop if he tried.
We might have stayed there all morning, lost in each other, if his phone hadn’t buzzed on the bedside table. Jake grumbled when he checked the screen.
“It’s Scott,” he said, mentioning his president. “I need to take this.”
“I’ll make coffee,” I said, kissing him one last time before sliding out of bed.
He caught my wrist, eyes dark with promise. “We’ll be finishing this.”
In the kitchen, I moved with the easy familiarity of someone who’d made coffee here dozens of times over the past few weeks.
It still amazed me how quickly Jake’s space had become mine too, how his initially sparse apartment now contained traces of me everywhere.
My laptop on the coffee table. My favourite blanket over the couch.
My colour-coded meal planning calendar stuck to his fridge.
I heard his deep voice from the bedroom, the serious tone telling me this wasn’t just a casual check-in with his president.
After what happened with Jake’s mum and the confrontation in the car park last month, things with his club have been tense.
I don’t know a lot, but I do know the situation isn’t resolved.
I hoped this call didn’t mean things were escalating.
He emerged a few minutes later, his expression giving nothing away as he joined me in the kitchen. I handed him his coffee and waited.
“Everything okay?” I asked when he’d taken a sip. I never expected details about the club, but I always liked to check in to ask if things were okay. To make sure he was okay.
His free hand found my hip, drawing me closer. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“That’s what you always say,” I pointed out. “And then I end up worrying anyway.”
“That’s because you like to analyse every possible scenario.”
“It’s called being prepared.”
“It’s called overthinking, darlin’.” His eyes held a smile. “But I love that about you.”
His casual declaration caught all of my attention and slowed my brain down.
In the time we’d been together, Jake had been very clear about me being his, from the terms of endearment he used, to the filthy words he growled in my ear during sex, to the possessive way his hands were on me while out in public, but he’d never used the word “love” in any way.
Before I could process this development, he said, “I have to go out for a couple of hours, but I was thinking that when I get back, we could take a ride up the coast if you don’t have any work you need to do today.”
“I’d love that, and I have the perfect route for us!”
He grinned. “I don’t fuckin’ doubt it, darlin’.”
Jake had helped me choose my own helmet the day after he gave me a key to his apartment, and we’d spent a lot of time together on his bike since then.
If you’d told me three months ago that I’d be creating a spreadsheet called “Optimal Motorcycle Routes: A Data-Driven Analysis” with columns for “Adrenaline Factor,” “Thigh Squeeze Frequency,” and “Post-Ride Endorphin Levels,” I would have laughed in your face.
Yet here I was, with exactly that. The spreadsheet even had a heat map showing the correlation between route duration and my ability to concentrate at work the next day.
I’d also created a decision-tree algorithm that factored in weather conditions, traffic patterns, and the likelihood of finding a good coffee stop. Data doesn’t lie, people.
Five minutes later, after a kiss that threatened my ability to think straight for the next couple of hours, Jake was gone, and I found myself alone in his apartment with my laptop open and a new spreadsheet staring back at me.
“THE GIRLFRIEND’S GUIDE TO DATING A BIKER: PHASE 2”
I was just about to start filling it in when Jake’s mum texted me.
Mags:
Love, I’ve been thinking about those scones you made last week. Want my secret recipe for making them extra fluffy? The boys at the club go crazy for them xx