Ride me Down

Chapter One -His Bike, Her Pride

Taylor woke up to the sharp sting of sunlight stabbing through her eyelids and the unfamiliar weight of warm sheets tucked around her like a cocoon.

Her head throbbed.

Her throat was dry.

Her dress was… missing.

Panic bloomed in her chest as she sat up too fast. The room spun—dark walls, an open window, heavy curtains swaying like ghosts, and a masculine scent clinging to every surface. Tobacco, leather, something spicy and low like danger.

This was not her apartment.

And the bed? Too big. Too nice. Rumpled sheets. No signs of another person, but the memory of heat and skin lingered faintly against her own. Her bare legs were tangled in black sheets, her bra on the floor, and her cocktail dress draped over a nearby chair like it had been tossed there in a hurry.

Oh god.

Tell me I didn’t…

Bits and pieces rushed back—Blake, the betrayal, the bar, the whiskey, him.

Jax.

His voice like gravel and seduction.

His eyes that saw too much.

She scanned the room. No sign of him. Just her pounding heartbeat and the awful realization: she had no idea what had happened after her second—or was it third?—drink.

Taylor slipped out of bed, adrenaline kicking in. She grabbed her dress, struggling into it without the luxury of underwear or dignity. Her heels were near the door, her purse half-spilled on the nightstand.

She had to get out. Now.

Slipping into the hallway barefoot, she expected a quiet house, maybe a private home. What she found was worse.

Noise.

Voices.

Laughter. Male. Loud.

And then—eyes.

Two men stood at the bottom of the stairs. Both inked, both scruffy, one leaning on the banister like he’d been waiting for her to show. They looked up—and grinned like the devil had just walked out of heaven naked.

“Morning, princess,” one of them drawled.

Taylor froze. Her spine stiffened. Every instinct screamed: run, but her body didn’t cooperate. She wasn’t just in some stranger’s house.

She was in his house.

The biker house.

And from the looks of it, she’d just walked out of the main bedroom.

Oh god.

He’s the king here. And I just walked out of his bed like a clueless i***t.

She forced a breath. Shoulders back, chin up—fake it until you make it.

“I need a phone,” she said, voice brittle.

The taller man—ink creeping up his neck—arched an eyebrow. “To call your Uber from the lion’s den?”

The other snorted. “Honey, ain’t no Uber comin’ out this far.”

Taylor’s heart stuttered.

She was well and truly trapped.

Footsteps echoed from behind. She turned.

Jax stood at the top of the stairs, shirtless, jeans hanging low on his hips, a mug in one hand like this was all normal. Like she belonged here.

Like he owned this moment, and her in it.

He took one look at her panic, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward—slow, lazy, dangerous.

“Going somewhere, darlin’?”

A shaky breath slipped from her lips as she stared at him.

Jax.

Smug. Bare-chested. That damn coffee mug in his hand like he hadn’t wrecked her entire sense of self last night.

Taylor felt naked, even with last night’s glittering dress clinging to her skin. Her heels clicked softly against the hardwood as she slipped them on, trying to summon a sharp comeback, some icy version of herself that could handle this.

Nothing came. Just static. Panic.

She didn’t belong here. Not with him. Not with any of them.

She definitely didn’t belong in his bed.

“I—I need to go home,” she said finally, her voice tight but steady enough to pass for composed. “Despite the lapse in judgment last night, I actually have a meeting today I can’t miss. So if there’s no Uber—”

She turned to the man still watching her like she was a zoo exhibit. He smirked, unbothered.

“—what are my options?”

The man tilted his head, clearly enjoying the show. “You could walk. It'll only take you... oh, 'bout three hours. If the coyotes don’t get you first.”

The other one laughed. “Or we could give you a ride. Ain’t every day we chauffeur a runaway princess.”

She gritted her teeth. Her stomach twisted.

This was hell.

“I’ll take the coyotes,” she muttered.

And then Jax spoke, voice low and smooth from the top of the stairs. “Cut it out, Diesel.”

The grinning one held up his hands like a scolded child, but Jax was already walking down, slow and deliberate, that same heat rolling off of him like smoke.

He stopped in front of her, too close, towering over her in a way that felt entirely intentional.

“You really think I’d let you walk out of here like that?” he asked, dark eyes scanning her face. “Still buzzed. Shaking in your damn heels.”

Taylor crossed her arms tightly. “Why? You need a round two?”

A flicker of amusement danced across his mouth, but his eyes stayed locked on hers, deadly serious.

“No, sweetheart,” he said. “I need to make sure you don’t get eaten alive before noon.”

Her throat bobbed. Something in his tone—the quiet control—unnerved her more than the playful taunts of the others.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you.”

“You?”

“Problem?”

She swallowed hard.

Too many. But none she could say out loud.

He turned before she could argue, tossing a command over his shoulder. “Get my keys.”

One of the guys—Diesel, apparently—grumbled something and disappeared into a side room.

Taylor followed, reluctantly, because what the hell else could she do? But her mind was racing. What happened last night? What really happened? And why did she feel like stepping into that bar had turned her life upside down?

She glanced around the place as they walked—bare walls, the hum of danger in the air. Men watching her like they were waiting to see if she’d break.

And at the center of it all… Jax.

Commanding. Calm. Like a storm wrapped in leather and ink.

She had a very bad feeling that whatever this was—it wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Her heart raced. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this kind of fear—not even when she walked in on Blake and Madison. That had been heartbreak. This was something else entirely. Adrenaline. Vulnerability. A sharp, simmering panic layered with something disturbingly warm.

A mental note branded itself into her skull: stop drinking. Forever. No more whiskey. No more “just one.” How the hell had two drinks landed her in his bed?

Bits and pieces flashed in her memory—his voice in her ear, hands that knew exactly where to touch, the way he looked at her like she wasn’t broken, just wild.

And now? As she watched him pull a black tee over that ridiculous body, her mouth went dry. Her thighs clenched on instinct, traitorous and uninvited. Apparently her body remembered more than she did.

And then he turned.

Her heart jumped—straight into her throat.

Without a word, he tossed something at her. She caught it clumsily, nearly dropping it. A leather jacket. Heavy. Warm. Worn in the way only something truly owned could be.

“Can’t have you freeze your cute ass off.”

She gaped at him, stunned at the casual dominance of the gesture.

“I’m not putting this on,” she blurted.

He quirked a brow. “Why not?”

“Because it smells like… you.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. His smirk deepened, and now she really wanted to slap him. Or maybe kiss him. Hard to tell.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” she muttered, reluctantly slipping her arms into the jacket anyway. Dammit. It was warm. And soft. And made her feel…safer than she wanted to admit.

The sleeves swallowed her hands, and it hit her how small she looked in it—how out of place she was in this entire twisted scenario.

She folded her arms tight across her chest. “This doesn’t mean anything, by the way.”

He glanced over, unlocking the front door. “Sure,” he said. “You’re just borrowing it. Like you borrowed my bed.”

Her cheeks flamed.

God, he was insufferable.

And worse… he wasn’t wrong.

Outside, the sun was sharp and cold, the sky bruised with leftover clouds. A matte black motorcycle waited by the curb, parked like it owned the road.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Oh hell no. I’m not getting on that thing.”

Jax tossed her a helmet. “Unless you’ve got a better idea, princess, this is your ride.”

Her eye twitched. “You have a car. I know you have a car.”

“I do,” he said, straddling the bike with infuriating ease. “But you climbed off me, not my SUV. So get on.”

She stared at him, helmet in hand, leather drowning her shoulders, dignity barely intact.

This was a nightmare.

But it was also, somehow, the most alive she’d felt in months. With a dramatic sigh, she swung a leg over and climbed on.

“I swear to God,” she hissed in his ear, “if we crash and I die, I’m haunting you.”

He laughed, low and wicked.

“Can’t wait.”

And just like that, the engine roared to life—and the world she thought she knew started to fall away behind her.

They pulled up in front of her apartment building—a sleek, glass-paneled tower in the middle of downtown. The kind of place people posted on Pinterest boards and pretended they didn’t need daddy’s money to afford. Except Taylor didn’t use hers. She paid for it herself.

Her parents hated that.

They hated her job, her independence, her refusal to sit in some corporate cubicle wearing pearls and smiling through board meetings. They called her “unfocused,” “reckless,” “spoiled.”

All because she made money creating content. Because brands chased her instead of the other way around.

They barely called anymore. And honestly? She was done begging for their approval.

She thought she didn’t need them.

She thought she didn’t need anyone—because she had Blake. Because she had Madison.

How wrong she’d been.

The motorcycle rumbled to a stop, loud and unapologetic, drawing a few side-eyes from the building's doorman and a woman walking a very small dog in a very big sweater. Jax parked like he belonged there—like this world wasn’t meant to exclude him.

Taylor slid off the bike, wincing a little as the hem of her dress rode up. Her legs ached. Her pride ached more.

She didn’t see the look he gave her—helmet still on, visor down—but she could feel it. That smirk. That impossible confidence.

She yanked the helmet off and shoved it at him.

“T—thanks,” she said, hating the stammer in her voice.

Jax took the helmet slowly, like she’d just handed him something more personal than a borrowed piece of gear. His gloved fingers brushed hers. Barely.

But it was enough to send a jolt straight up her spine.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared, unreadable behind that black glass.

Then the visor lifted.

And there they were—those eyes. Dark and steady. A little amused. A lot intense.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Though I’m not sure what for.”

She blinked. “For the ride. The jacket. Not…letting me get murdered in the woods by coyotes, I guess.”

Jax chuckled. Low and rough.

“You think I let just anyone on my bike?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that a flex?”

“Maybe.”

He handed her the jacket she forgot she was still wearing. She shrugged out of it quickly, cheeks flushed. She suddenly felt very exposed, standing there in her rumpled dress, last night still clinging to her like perfume.

“Look,” she said, gripping the jacket awkwardly, “whatever happened last night—thanks, I guess. But we don’t have to make this a thing.”

He stepped a little closer. Just enough to make her heart skip and her breath hitch.

“You keep saying that. But you’re the one making it a thing.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. God, he was infuriating.

“Goodbye, Jax.”

“See you around, Taylor.”

It wasn’t a question. Or a maybe.

It was a promise.

She turned and walked inside without looking back. But the second the door shut behind her and she stepped into the quiet of her lobby, she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the entire ride.

She leaned back against the marble wall, heart still hammering, hair a mess, everything inside her buzzing like a live wire.

Whatever that was—it wasn’t over.

And somehow… she knew it wouldn’t be.