Bad Boy Biker

Almost

Morning light filtered through the small storage room window, painting stripes across Valentina's face. She blinked awake, disoriented. Something warm and solid supported her head—Duke's shoulder. Somehow during the night, they'd shifted closer, her body curled against his side, his arm around her.

For one suspended moment, she allowed herself to feel the rightness of it. Then reality crashed back.

She pulled away abruptly, standing to stretch her stiff muscles.

"Morning," Duke's voice was sleep-roughened, his hair mussed.

"Someone should be here soon to open up," she said, avoiding his eyes.

He stood, towering over her in the small space. "Valentine—"

"Don't." She stepped back. "Last night was... we were trapped. Emotions were high. Let's not make it into something it wasn't."

His jaw tightened. "And what was it?"

"A mistake." The word tasted like ash. "We can't go backward, Duke."

Before he could respond, the storage room door swung open. Hank stood there, keys jangling.

"What the hell? You two spend the night in here?"

"Door locked behind us during the storm," Duke explained, his eyes never leaving Valentina's face. "Battery died on my phone before we could call."

Hank glanced between them, suspicion clear in his weathered face. "Uh-huh. Well, the diner opens in an hour, Val. Better get yourself together."

He walked away, leaving them alone again.

Duke took a step toward her. "This isn't over."

"Yes, it is." She moved past him, careful not to touch. "It has to be."

She felt his eyes on her back as she walked away, but he didn't follow.

---

By mid-afternoon, the diner hummed with post-storm activity. Crews repairing downed power lines needed coffee. Families whose homes had lost electricity came for hot meals. Through it all, Valentina moved mechanically, her mind stuck on the feeling of Duke's arm around her, his hand in hers.

"Order up for table nine," Sandy called, sliding a plate across the counter.

Valentina delivered it to a family with two small children, mustering a smile as the little girl thanked her. Children. Something she and James had discussed but never pursued. Something she'd once imagined having with Duke, in another lifetime.

The bell above the door jingled, and her heart stuttered as Duke walked in. Alone this time, without his crew. His eyes found hers immediately, as if drawn by a magnet.

Instead of his usual booth, he took a seat at the counter—directly in her section.

"Coffee," he said when she approached.

She poured it silently, her hand steady despite the storm inside her.

"We need to talk," Duke said, voice low.

"Nothing to talk about."

"The hell there isn't." His fingers circled her wrist, gentle but firm. "Last night—"

"Last night was two people with history stuck in a room together," she cut him off. "Nothing more."

Duke's eyes darkened. "You're still running, Valentine."

"And you're still trying to drag me back into the past." She pulled her wrist free. "Some things don't change."

"Some things do." He leaned closer. "I've changed. Have you?"

The question hit deeper than he could know. Had she changed? Or had she just been playing a role for ten years, pretending to be Valentina Porter, sophisticated wife and socialite, when she'd been Valentine Ross underneath the whole time?

"Yes," she whispered. "But not in the ways that matter."

Duke watched her, something unreadable in his expression. "Come with me tonight. Just to talk."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both." She moved away to serve another customer, needing distance from his intensity.

For the next hour, Duke nursed his coffee, watching her. Every time she glanced his way, his eyes were there, waiting. It made her skin hum, made her breathless, made her angry. How dare he still affect her this way?

When her shift ended, she hurried to the back room to change, hoping Duke would give up and leave. No such luck. He was waiting outside the rear exit when she emerged.

"Are you stalking me now?" she demanded, wrapping her jacket tighter against the evening chill.

"If that's what it takes to get you to listen." He fell into step beside her as she headed toward Mack's. "Ten minutes, Valentine. That's all I'm asking."

"Fine." She stopped, turning to face him. "Ten minutes. Talk."

Duke glanced around the busy street. "Not here."

"Where, then?"

He nodded toward his motorcycle parked nearby. "The old water tower. For old times' sake."

The suggestion sent a flood of memories through her—star-watching, whispered promises, his hands on her skin.

"No." She started walking again. "Neutral ground or nothing."

"Fine. The park. Five minutes from here."

Valentina hesitated, then nodded. "Five minutes. Then I'm going home."

The walk to the small town park was tense with unspoken words. Duke kept pace beside her, his presence both familiar and alien. The man walking with her wasn't the boy she'd loved—he was harder, more guarded. But glimpses of that boy showed through in the way he shoved his hands in his pockets when nervous, the way his jaw worked when he was holding back words.

The park was empty, the playground equipment still wet from the storm. They sat on a bench facing the empty baseball field, a careful distance between them.

"Your ten minutes started when we sat down," Valentina said, staring straight ahead.

Duke took a deep breath. "I need to know if you're staying."

The question surprised her. "I don't know."

"Because if this is just another pit stop for you—a place to hide until you figure out your next escape—tell me now."

She turned to look at him. "Why does it matter to you?"

"Because I can't do this again." His voice roughened. "I can't watch you walk away a second time."

"Do what again? There is no 'this,' Duke. We're not twenty anymore."

"No, we're not." He met her gaze. "We're adults who've been through hell and somehow ended up back where we started. Tell me that doesn't mean something."

"It means life has a sick sense of humor." She shook her head. "Look at us, Duke. You're VP of an MC, for god's sake. I'm a soon-to-be-divorced socialite who doesn't even know who she is anymore. What could possibly come of this except more pain?"

Duke's hand brushed hers on the bench between them. "Maybe something real."

The touch sent electricity up her arm. She pulled back as if burned.

"Real?" She laughed bitterly. "I thought my marriage was real. I thought the life I built was real. I don't trust my judgment anymore."

"Trust this, then." Duke moved closer, his thigh pressing against hers. "Whatever was between us—good or bad, right or wrong—it was always real."

His nearness made her dizzy, made her yearn for things she'd spent years convincing herself she didn't want. His eyes dropped to her lips, and she knew what would happen next.

Duke leaned in, one hand coming up to cup her cheek. Valentina's breath caught, her body swaying toward his as if pulled by invisible strings. His lips hovered a breath away from hers, close enough that she could feel their warmth.

Time suspended. Every cell in her body screamed for completion, for the kiss that would shatter her carefully constructed walls.

But then Duke pulled back, his expression shuttering.

"You don't get to crawl back just because you're lonely," he said, voice rough with restraint.

The words hit like a physical blow. Anger flashed through her, hot and cleansing.

Before she could think, her hand connected with his cheek in a sharp slap that echoed in the empty park.

"Screw you, Duke." She stood, trembling with rage. "I didn't come back for you. The world doesn't revolve around you and what you want."

She stalked away, furious tears blurring her vision. Behind her, she heard Duke call her name, but she didn't turn around. She kept walking, pace quickening to a near-run by the time she reached Mack's.

The bar was crowded, Friday night in full swing. Valentina pushed through the throng, ignoring catcalls and propositions as she headed for the stairs to her room.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely get the key in the lock. When the door finally swung open, she froze in the doorway.

Her room had been ransacked. Clothes strewn about, drawers emptied, the cheap dresser overturned. The little she owned lay in ruins.

But what stopped her breath completely was what had been nailed to her door—a platinum wedding band. Her wedding ring, the one she'd left on the bathroom counter when she walked out on James.

Someone had found her. Someone knew where she was.

Fear washed through her, cold and paralyzing. She backed out of the room, bumping into a solid chest.

"Whoa, where's the fire?" Patty stood there, holding a stack of clean towels. Her eyes widened as she glanced past Valentina into the trashed room. "What the hell happened?"

Valentina couldn't speak, could barely breathe. She pointed mutely at the ring nailed to her door.

"Jesus Christ," Patty muttered. "We need to call the sheriff."

"No." The word came out strangled. "No police."

"Someone broke in, honey. That's a crime."

"Please, Patty. No police." Valentina felt panic rising, choking her. "I can't—I need to leave. Tonight."

Patty studied her face, then nodded slowly. "You're in trouble, aren't you? Real trouble."

Valentina's silence was answer enough.

"Alright," Patty said after a moment. "No cops. But you can't stay here, not after this." She hesitated. "I know someone who might help. Someone who can keep you safe."

Valentina knew who she meant before she said the name.

"Duke Reynolds."

Patty nodded. "He's got a place outside town. Off the grid. Nobody would look for you there."

The thought of running to Duke after what had just happened made Valentina's stomach churn. But the alternative—waiting for whoever had found her to return—was worse.

"Call him," she whispered, defeat tasting like ashes on her tongue. "Please."

Patty squeezed her shoulder. "Pack what you can salvage. I'll make the call."

Alone in the wreckage of her room, Valentina stared at the wedding ring nailed to her door. A message, clear as day: You're still mine.

James had found her. And this time, running wouldn't be enough.