CHAPTER ONE
1282 Words
Shirley
Ashridge didn’t look like the kind of town you got lost in—it looked like the kind that swallowed you.
The sign was rusted at the edges, leaning to one side like it was too tired to hold itself up. Ashridge – Welcome Home, it read, in fading white letters. If I believed in omens, that would’ve been my first red flag.
But I didn’t believe in anything anymore. Not men. Not marriage. Not fate.
Just escape.
I’d driven for six hours with nothing but a packed suitcase and a stomach full of sour coffee. The winding roads were lined with pines that clawed at the sky, their dark silhouettes flickering past like shadows of something I didn’t want to name. My phone buzzed with no signal, and for once, that was a comfort.
I pulled up in front of the house—my father’s house. The only thing he left me aside from abandonment and a name I no longer wanted to carry. I hadn’t been here since I was eleven, before he disappeared and left Mom to clean up the wreckage of whatever life he’d tried to build.
The cottage looked like it belonged to someone else—two-story, chipped blue paint, overgrown grass, and windows that stared back like watching eyes. Still, it was mine now. I grabbed my duffel and stepped out into the crisp air.
As soon as I reached the porch, a chill raced down my spine. Not just the cold kind—the someone’s watching you kind. I froze. The trees stood still. No wind. No movement. No sound.
Just breath. My breath.
I shook it off. “You’re being dramatic,” I muttered, jamming the key into the lock. The door creaked open with a groan loud enough to wake the dead.
Inside smelled like dust, pine, and something faintly burnt. The house had been locked up for years, but everything was oddly… untouched. Like someone had been expecting me.
I didn’t unpack. Just peeled off my hoodie and went straight to the bathroom for a quick shower, scrubbing away road dust and second thoughts.
I had an interview to catch.
—
By the time I pulled up to Dante’s Biker Bar, the sun was dipping behind the trees, bleeding gold across the gravel lot. The place was loud, alive, and wrapped in shadows.
The neon sign flickers above the door in blood red: Dante’s. Below it, the shape of a snarling wolf’s head coiled around a spade. The bikes out front were lined like war horses, matte black and chrome glinting under twilight.
Inside, it was all exposed brick and metal. Dark wood floors, low-hanging lights, a long, polished bar with a row of dusty liquor bottles behind it. Music thrummed low—something dirty and slow. The air smelled like whiskey, leather, and smoke.
I stepped in, instantly aware that I didn’t belong. Not yet.
Behind the counter stood a woman who looked like she could throw a punch and not spill her drink. She had thick curls pulled into a ponytail, hoop earrings, and eyes that scanned like they missed nothing.
“You the new girl?” she asked, drying a glass without looking up.
“Shirley Winters. I’m here for the bartender position. Interview with Mr. Ryker.”
She smirked and nodded toward the back. “He’ll be out in a bit. You can wait there.” She gestured to a small booth tucked away near the back corner. “I’m Zara, by the way. Don’t let the boys bite.”
I gave her a tight smile and headed for the booth.
The noise swirled around me, laughter and shouting blending into something almost feral. I kept my head down, fiddling with my phone, until a man slid into the booth across from me.
“New girl, huh?”
I looked up. Mid-forties, stubble, beer-stained shirt, eyes too glassy to be safe. “Just waiting for someone,” I said politely.
He didn’t move. “Maybe I’m who you’re waiting for.”
I scooted back. “I’m good. Please leave.”
He reached across the table, grabbing for my wrist.
And that’s when the air changed.
It wasn’t just the smell of motor oil and leather that hit me—it was the pressure. The weight. Like the room itself shifted around the man standing beside the booth.
Tall. Broad. Tattooed from throat to wrist in ink that looked like flames and beasts. His shirt clung to a chest built for violence, and his dark hair was slicked back in a way that made him look like he either just got out of a fight—or was about to start one.
“She said no,” he growled, voice low and lethal.
The drunk guy backed off immediately, mumbling apologies as he stumbled away.
I blinked. “Thanks…”
The stranger didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. He just looked at me—like he knew me. Like he was reading something no one else could see.
“Mr. Ryker?” Zara called from behind the bar.
He didn’t look away from me. “You’re early.”
I swallowed. “You’re Dante?”
He nodded. “Surprised? Follow me.”
His office was at the far back, behind a steel door with claw marks etched across the paint. Inside was cleaner than I expected—mahogany desk, black leather chair, biker patches framed on the wall like trophies.
I perched on the edge of a seat, trying not to fidget.
“You’ve bartended before?” he asked, leaning back.
“Four years in Chicago. I can handle rowdy crowds, drunk idiots, and I know when to cut someone off before it gets ugly.”
He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle missing a piece.
“No references,” he said. “No local ties.”
I stiffened. “I’m just trying to start over.”
Silence stretched. Then he nodded once. “You start tomorrow. Zara will train you.”
“That’s it?”
Dante stood, towering over me. “That’s it.”
I left with my heart pounding, the smell of leather still clinging to my clothes.
My car died halfway down the road. Great!
The engine coughed, sputtered, and died. I slammed my hands on the steering wheel, groaning. No cell service. No lights. Just trees and empty roads ahead.
A low rumble approached behind me—a bike.
It was Dante.
Of course, it would be him. I don’t understand why his looks were affecting me this much, I should be despising men by now, not drooling over them. It was beginning to look embarrassing.
He pulled up beside the car, engine purring like some kind of mechanical beast.
“Do you always break down this easily?” he asked.
I forced a smile. “Only on the worst nights. And I’m guessing that tonight is one of them.”
“Hop on.”
“I—what about my car?”
“Worry about that later.”
I hesitated, then climbed on behind him. The bike roared beneath us, heat and vibration seeping into my bones.
He took me not to my house—but a quiet roadside bar on the edge of town. We sat in silence, drank whiskey, and didn’t pretend it was just small talk.
By the time he drove me home, the air between us felt thick enough to drown in.
I turned to thank him.
Instead, I kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed me.
It didn’t matter.
His mouth tasted like danger and heat and something I’d never tasted before—something I shouldn’t have wanted.
- Writer
