Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

JENNIE

I slept better than expected thanks to the rain pitter pattering against the tin roof most of the night. That and the fact that I’m aware that there is a mean ass biker next door who will shove his boot up the ass of anyone who tries to do me any harm. People can say what they want to about bikers, but to me they are wicked protectors who will do anything for the people they love.

That’s why I write about men like them. There’s nothing sexier than a man who will burn the world down for the woman he loves. When I was younger, my Uncle Slick would bring me along for family cookouts and I observed firsthand how much love the men of the club have for their women.

Bet that’s why things never worked out with my ex. He didn’t look at me the way men like Murder look at Alexa. Or my Uncle Slick looks at Lily. Like they only have eyes for them. Come hell or highwater a man like that will do whatever it takes to make them happy.

Some people like to argue the men I write about don’t exist in the real world. They do. Most are simply taken. I’d give anything to have a love like that. One that’s undying. One that no man or woman can rattle.

I can’t help but wonder who Slick sent. I only hope whoever it is has an Ol’ lady who won’t be pissed that their man is here looking after me instead of home with them. Grabbing my mug of coffee, I take it out on the back deck to soak in the view.

The cabin I rented is located in the Appalachian Mountains in a small town that has a history of being famous for gold and gemstone mining. My family used to visit the area when I was a child. Perhaps my next book will be a historical romance about a rugged minor and a damsel in distress who gets thrown off her horse. Taking a hearty sip, I stare out at the scenic view of beautiful pine trees wet with the morning dew. Leaning over the rail, I mentally go over the scenes I should be writing.

That’s why I’m here and yet I find myself daydreaming about this guy who has no clue I exist. Some of my readers tagged me in the comments of his videos. He makes these sexy videos of himself riding his motorcycle. Others he does the trend where the guy is fully dressed but transitions to him posing shirtless in a doorway with the backdrop of a glowing red light. In every video, no matter what, he never reveals his face. The guy always wears a mask.

He oozes mystery and sexiness. There’s just something about not knowing who he is. In reality, he’s probably married and doing the content to support a beautiful wife.

A girl can dream, though.

A noise sounding from my left interrupts my daydreaming. I recognize the sound of gravel crunching under the pressure of heavy boots as the sound grows closer. What if it’s my stalker come to act out what they’ve been threatening in their menacing emails?

My pulse pounds in my ears. If I were smart, I’d run inside and lock my doors, but my feet stay rooted in place.

A tall figure emerges from the side of the cabin next to mine. Exhaling, my jaw drops at the sight of someone I recognize all too well, even if he doesn’t realize who I am. I’d know the tattoos inked across his expansive chest anywhere. I’ve watched his videos enough to identify him.

The masked biker from the videos. He’s here, in the flesh, standing not ten feet away from me.

The mask he wears for the camera is pulled up over his head, revealing a pair of intense deep blue eyes that remind me of the sky just before a storm rolls in. He’s lean and muscular in build. His jeans are beat up and faded, clinging perfectly to his long legs. He inclines against the side of the cabin with an ease that suggests he belongs exactly where he is as he props a foot against the building and lights up a cigarette.

Picture perfect as though he walked straight out of my fantasies and into my life in the flesh is enough to make me breathless. My lips part to speak, but no words leave my mouth.

His eyes meet mine. There’s a hint of curiosity in them and something knowing. Cocky even. Like he knows he stars in my every secret desire. Playing my perfect muse. Pulling in breaths of crisp mountain air, I try to steady my galloping heart. An unmistakable spark ignites in his eyes. It’s as if he knows the countless hours I’ve spent writing about men inspired by him. All the while dreaming that someone like him was mine. Was my man.

Slow and calculated in his movements, he takes another hard drag off his cigarette, his gaze never wavering from mine. My heart leaps to my throat as he continues to hold my gaze, smoking his cancer stick. All thoughts of my stalker or the man my uncle sent to protect me are long gone.

How is this possible? The one person I’ve been crushing on for months online is here breathing the same air as me. Rational thoughts war with my libido. What if this man is my stalker?

Then I’d be starring in my very own dark romance.

“Mornin’,” he breaks the silence, his voice hoarse and gravelly from the cigarette. The single word washes over me, a flash wave of raw intensity that tingles every nerve ending in my body, touching me in places that have been dormant for far too long.

“Yes. Morning,” I manage to whisper back, too aware of the way my voice sounds hopeful yet shaky.

I watch, unable to tear my gaze from his as he launches himself away from the wall and makes his way toward me. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, gazing at me with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine.

“Jennie,” he says, all deep and husky. The sound of my name rolling off his tongue full of such promises of the secret things I’ve only dreamed of is nearly enough to light my fire.

I blink at him, wondering about one thing. “How do you...how do you know my name?” I stutter out despite the shock of everything coursing through my veins.

A taunting and tantalizing smile spreads across his features as he closes the gap between us. He takes a long drag from his cigarette before flicking the butt over the railing. “Slick sent me,” he admits, looking at me through the smoke-filled haze lingering between us.

My heart palpitates in my chest as all the pieces of the puzzle slide together in my thoughts. He’s a Royal Bastard. That’s why he never shows his face and blurs out the rocker on the back of his cut in the videos.

At least I don’t sense any danger or think he’s my stalker.

“Name’s Bridger or you might recognize me as @BridgerRides.”

My cheeks turn a pale shade of pink. He knows who I am and that I follow his videos.

Kill me now.