The Biker Who Called Me Trouble

For 27 straight days, I hadn't slept through a single night. At two every morning, the black Harley downstairs roared to life like clockwork. It emerged from the underground garage connected to the clubhouse next door, then tore down the narrow road beside my apartment building. The noise was so strong that the glass on my bedside table trembled. I had complained to the HOA, filed a noise complaint with the city, and even shouted at him from my window once. None of it worked. On the 28th day, my supervisor warned me in front of everyone after I called a client by the wrong name during a meeting. On my way home, I bought a large box of thumbtacks. There was a tight bend at the garage exit where every motorcycle had to slow down. I scattered the thumbtacks in a neat line across the curve, then hid in the bushes nearby and began counting down in my head. At 1:58 a.m., I heard the engine. The black Harley had barely made the turn when its rear tire began to hiss. The rider stopped in time and didn't fall. That was exactly what I wanted. I only wanted to keep him from leaving that night. I had never meant to hurt him. He took off his helmet, revealing a face that didn't match his powerful build. He had fair skin, a high nose bridge, and a faint dimple at the right corner of his mouth. But the moment his expression darkened and he swept his gaze around the garage, my brief surprise vanished. He was tall and solidly built. Muscles shifted beneath his black leather vest, and a tattoo stretched from his shoulder beneath his collar. "Who did this?" I hid behind the bushes, barely daring to breathe. He got off his bike to inspect the tire, then stepped on a thumbtack and cursed under his breath. When he looked up, his eyes met mine. I had planned to stay hidden, but he was already walking toward me. "Come out." I had no choice but to stand up. "Those thumbtacks are mine." His gaze dropped to the box still clutched in my hand. I hurried to explain, "I fell earlier and accidentally spilled them. I only came back to clean them up after I heard the noise." "What a coincidence." "Yeah. I've always had terrible luck." He glanced at the perfectly arranged thumbtacks spanning the entire lane and said nothing. Then he suddenly reached toward his back. My mind immediately went to every crime movie I had ever seen. Was he going to pull out a gun? "I'll pay for it!" I turned and ran, but after only two steps, a sharp pain tore through the sole of my foot. I stumbled forward. Before my face hit the ground, he caught me by the arm. His other hand wrapped around my waist, lifting me upright. "Don't move." He set me on the Harley's seat, crouched down, and took hold of my foot. A thumbtack had pierced through my slipper and sunk deeper into my sole than it had into his tire. Blood dripped from the bottom of my shoe. Tears kept spilling from my eyes as I pleaded with him. "Sir, I'll pay. The tire, lost wages, emotional damages. I'll pay for all of it." "Stop talking. Just bear with it." He pulled out the thumbtack, pressed the hem of his T-shirt against the wound, then took out his phone and made a call. Less than five minutes later, several motorcycles pulled into the garage at once. The man in front took one look at the flat tire, his face darkened. "Prez, who messed with your bike?" I lowered my eyes to the leather vest of the man standing before me. A black patch on his chest bore a single word, embroidered in clear letters. President. Now I knew who ran the Black Vultures MC next door—the club even the HOA steered clear of. And I had just punctured their President's tire. Knox tossed his keys to a man named Mason, then bent down and picked me up. "Fix the bike first, or deal with her?" Mason asked. "The bike isn't bleeding." Knox carried me toward the exit, his voice calm, as if I were nothing more than an unlucky bystander. It was almost four by the time I left the clinic. I was just about to come up with an excuse to get away when a message from building management popped up on my phone. Building Management: A pipe burst on the 7th floor. Unit 7C would be uninhabitable for at least three days. Every hotel in town was fully booked because of the Black Vultures' anniversary ride. After reading the notice, Knox nodded toward the brightly lit clubhouse next door. "There's an empty room on the top floor. Stay there until your apartment is fixed." I wanted to refuse, but the pain in my foot made it impossible to stand steadily. Once again, I had no choice but to let him carry me. There were at least 20 bikers in leather vests inside the clubhouse. The moment Knox carried me through the door, everyone fell silent. Someone whistled. Knox gave him one look, and the man immediately lowered his head. "She's staying on the top floor." Mason froze. "Prez, no woman has ever stayed there." Knox kept carrying me toward the stairs. "There is one now."