THE BIKER I WROTE

MAYA'S POV

The heavy bass of rock music vibrated through the soles of my sneakers, shaking the gravel road beneath my feet.

I stood outside the desolate brick building at the edge of the industrial district, staring up at the massive steel garage door attached to its side. The night air was thick, smelling heavily of engine oil, gasoline, and burnt rubber.

I can’t believe I actually came here, I thought, my fingers tightening on the strap of my purse as I clutched it against my ribs like a shield.

My mind flashed back to two hours ago, to Eleanor Vance slamming my manuscript onto her glass desk, her cold voice echoing in my head: “This is flat, it has no life, and it’s dead boring! You can’t write about outlaw bikers when the most dangerous thing you’ve ever touched is probably an electric scooter!”

My cheeks burned all over again just remembering it. I had stormed out of her office furious, my pride completely flared. She wanted a dangerous hero for a bestseller? Fine. I was going to give her one, even if it meant tracking down the exact off-grid motorcycle club address she’d scribbled on a yellow sticky note. Three months. That was all the time I had to prove to her that I was meant to be a top author.

Three months to prove the queen of suburban romance could write grit without flinching.

My eyes moved around the neighborhood, my brain unintentionally registering all the details, the flickering halogen light overhead, the jagged tear in the screen of the side window. This feels like a typical walking into a trap trope. Why am I assuming that? Not everything is a story!

Taking a deep breath to steady my hammering heart, I grabbed the cold metal handle of the wooden side entrance, pushed the door open, and stepped right into the lion's den.

The inside was massive. Bright fluorescent lights hung from the high ceiling, shining down on rows of custom motorcycles, leather couches, and a pool table.

Two guys were sitting on a worn leather sofa in the middle of the room holding beer bottles, while a third guy stood by a small kitchen counter mixing something in a blender.

This could also be a “three biker wants the heroine” trope but I'm not about to be experimented on by three guys. One I can manage.

The moment the heavy door swung open, the music seemed to drown out as all three of them stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at me in complete shock.

My face flushed bright red under their heavy, unblinking gazes. I raised my hand in a timid little wave, I was so nervous.

Don't rant, Don't start ranting now, Maya!

"Hi... um, good evening. My name is Maya."

The guy near the kitchen set his glass down on the counter, crossed his thick arms over his chest, and squinted at me. "Can we help you, sweetheart? What do you want?"

"I want to..." I started, my voice squeaking slightly under their intense scrutiny.

Before I could finish my sentence, heavy, steady footsteps echoed from the dark back hallway.

A man walked out into the main garage area, wiping dark grease off his knuckles with a rag.

The words died right in my throat.

He was drop-dead gorgeous. Standing well over six feet tall, he had broad shoulders that filled out a dark leather vest, a tight black t-shirt hugging a broad chest, and long legs encased in dark jeans. Dark, messy hair fell over his forehead, framing a sharp jawline covered in light stubble. His arms were corded with lean muscle, completely covered in dark, intricate tattoos that disappeared under his short sleeves.

God, he looked like a Pinterest board of every dark romance trope come to life. My fingers practically twitched, missing my laptop keyboard. He could even pass for an Alpha werewolf Male lead. Oh I'm about to blow up the writing platforms!

I had written about men like him. I had imagined them in my head during late-night writing sessions. I had fantasized about them. But never in my life had I seen a real human being fit my wild imagination so perfectly.

Eat your heart out, Eleanor Vance, I thought triumphantly, a sudden surge of adrenaline replacing my panic.

My eyes dropped down his chest to his flat stomach, taking in every inch of him, and my brain completely short-circuited.

"Holy abs, fuck..." I breathed out loud.

The drop-dead gorgeous man stopped a few feet away from me. Up close, he was even taller. He smelled like leather, fresh rain, and a hint of gasoline. His intense grey eyes locked onto mine, burning right through me.

"Who are you?" he asked. His voice was deep, gravelly, and sent a shiver straight down my spine.

I was still in a complete daze, my eyes unashamedly drinking in the outline of his muscular chest beneath that black vest.

"I am whoever you want me to be," I said with a seducing smile.

Oh God, why am I like this? How will they accept me when I am already seducing them the moment I walked in?!

The three guys in the background immediately burst out laughing. My face flushed bright red as my brain finally caught up with my mouth. I quickly cleared my throat, straightened my back, and offered a sweet, innocent smile.

"I mean…I am Maya," I said, outstretching my hand for a firm handshake.

He looked down at my hand. His sharp gaze lingered on my small fingers for a second before drifting back up to my face. He didn't take it. He just stood there with his arms crossed over his massive chest.

I awkwardly dropped my hand back to my side, clearing my throat again.

Well here goes nothing! I either get chased out if not killed or I get accepted.

"So... I am here to join y'all," I declared, trying to sound confident. "I want to learn how to ride.