Bad Boy Biker

Home Isn't Safe

Riverdale hadn't changed much in ten years. Same cracked sidewalks. Same faded storefronts. Same feeling of being trapped in amber while the rest of the world moved on.

Valentina parked outside Mack's Bar & Grill, the neon sign buzzing and flickering just like it had when she was eighteen. The place looked seedier than she remembered, but beggars couldn't be choosers. And right now, she was definitely a beggar.

The bar smelled of stale beer and fried food. A few early drinkers hunched over their glasses, not bothering to look up when she entered. Valentina approached the bar where a heavy-set woman with faded blonde hair wiped down glasses.

"Help you?" The woman looked up, recognition flickering in her eyes. "Well, I'll be damned. Valentine Porter. Or is it still Valentine Ross?"

"It's Valentina now," she corrected, her married name sticking in her throat. "And it's Ross again. Hi, Patty."

Patty whistled low. "Never thought I'd see you back in this dump. Heard you married some rich fella out west."

"Things change." Valentina forced a smile. "I heard you rent rooms upstairs. I need one."

Patty's eyebrows shot up. "Trouble in paradise, huh?"

"Something like that."

Twenty minutes and two hundred dollars later, Valentina had a key to a tiny room above the bar. The space was barely big enough for a double bed and dresser. The bathroom down the hall had to be shared with two other tenants.

She sat on the bed, the springs creaking under her weight. So this was rock bottom. At least it was clean.

After a shower that never quite got hot enough, Valentina changed into fresh clothes and headed back downstairs. The bar had filled slightly, and she kept her head down, not wanting to be recognized again.

"You need a job."

Valentina looked up to find Patty watching her. "What?"

"You're broke, ain't you? Why else would Valentina Porter be staying above my bar?"

"Ross," she corrected again. "And yes, I could use work."

Patty nodded toward the diner across the street. "Blue Plate's hiring waitresses. Pay's s**t, but the tips are decent if you can handle the grabby truckers."

"Thanks."

An hour later, Valentina walked out of the Blue Plate Diner with a job starting tomorrow. The owner, Hank, had barely looked at her application before handing her an apron. Desperation had its advantages.

By evening, Valentina had bought some essentials from the dollar store and settled into her room. She sat by the window, watching motorcycles pull up to Mack's below. The Riot Kings. Duke's motorcycle club.

Her stomach knotted. Would she see him tonight? Was he even still in Riverdale? Maybe he'd left like she had.

A familiar rumble made her heart stop. She'd know that engine anywhere. The custom Harley with the modified pipes that growled rather than roared.

Duke.

She pressed back from the window, heart pounding as he pulled up. He climbed off his bike with that same fluid grace, removed his helmet, and ran a hand through his dark hair.

He was broader now, harder-looking. The boy she'd known had become fully a man, intimidating in his leather cut with the Riot Kings emblem on the back. A vice president patch stood out on his chest. Second in command.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Duke looked up toward her window. Valentina ducked back, breath caught in her throat.

Too late. She'd seen the recognition flash across his face.

Sleep didn't come easily that night. Every time the bar door slammed downstairs, Valentina tensed, wondering if heavy footsteps would climb toward her room. But Duke never came.

Morning brought clouds and drizzling rain. She dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, tying her hair back with a band. The uniform at the Blue Plate was casual, thank god.

The diner hummed with breakfast crowd chatter. Hank showed her the ropes quickly, then threw her to the wolves. By noon, Valentina's feet ached, and coffee stains dotted her apron.

"Table six needs a refill," called Sandy, an older waitress with kind eyes and a cigarette-roughened voice.

Valentina grabbed the coffee pot and turned—then froze.

Duke sat alone in booth six, a half-empty mug in front of him. His dark eyes locked on hers, expression unreadable.

For one wild moment, she considered running out the back door. But where would she go? This town was too small to hide in.

So she walked over, coffee pot steady despite her trembling insides.

"Refill?" Her voice came out huskier than intended.

Duke didn't respond immediately. His eyes traced her face, her body, noting all the changes ten years had wrought. The scar on her forearm from a cooking accident. The tiny lines around her eyes. The absence of softness.

"You look like hell, Valentine." His voice was deeper than she remembered, rougher.

"It's Valentina now," she said automatically. "And thanks for the compliment."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "What are you doing back here?"

She poured coffee into his mug without answering.

"Your fancy husband know you're slinging coffee in this shithole?"

The question hit like a slap. "No," she said finally. "And I'd like to keep it that way."

Duke leaned back, assessing her with those penetrating eyes. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because Valentina Ross wouldn't be caught dead back in Riverdale unless something went very wrong with her perfect life." His tone wasn't mocking, just matter-of-fact.

Before she could respond, the bell above the door jangled. Three men in Riot Kings cuts walked in, stopping short when they spotted Duke with her.

"Well, look what the cat dragged back," said the tallest one—Axel, she remembered. His beard was fuller now, streaked with gray.

"Valentine Ross," said another, Denny, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Heard you were a Porter these days."

"It's Valentina," she said tightly. "Can I get you guys anything?"

"Just coffee," Duke answered for all of them, his eyes never leaving her face. "We won't be staying long."

The men slid into the booth, their presence filling the small space. Valentina felt dizzy suddenly, memories flooding back. These men had been like brothers once. Now they were strangers.

She brought their coffees, feeling Duke's eyes burning into her back as she walked away. The weight of his gaze stirred something she'd thought long dead.

When they finally left, Duke paused at the counter where she was refilling salt shakers.

"Whatever you're running from," he said quietly, "it followed you here."

Her head snapped up. "What?"

His eyes darkened. "This isn't over, Valentine."

"It's Valentina," she whispered.

Duke's mouth curved in a cold smile. "Not to me. Never to me."

He walked out, leaving her heart racing against her ribs like it was trying to break free—just like it had ten years ago, every time he looked at her that way.

Home wasn't safe after all. It never had been. Not with Duke in it.