The Biker's Rules

Hangover

Date = 6 November

Drinking because of a stupid guy is fun. Waking up with a hangover not so much.

Place = San Francisco (Paws and Claws)

POV - Melaena

Damion took me home.

The thought tries to land in my tequila-soaked brain and immediately slips, falls, and cracks its skull. At the moment, everything is conspiring against me — the shame, the headache, the nausea, the criminal lack of sleep, my relentlessly perky friend.

It all blends into one nasty cocktail that leaves me cranky, fragile, and yearning for my bed like it’s a long-lost lover.

I’m contemplating turning around and running back to bed and never participating in society again.

The sunglasses are doing absolutely nothing. The sun is offensively bright, the sky smugly blue, a pleasant breeze teasing my hair. The day is beautiful — and I feel like punching it in the face, grabbing it by its ear, and beating the s**t out of it until its heart is a little less warm.

“You look like shit.”

Of course, Kiara would disapprove. You wouldn’t catch her dead in public like this — jeans, hoodie, zero makeup, hair unbrushed and piled into a crow’s nest on my head, secured with a clip.

Too bad. She’s the one who dragged me out of bed this morning, chirpy and relentless.

“Was it really that bad?” I whimper, my soul trying to leave my body at the memory. Telling him — to his face — how sexy he is. Dear God. Please smite me now.

“Yep, you were crushing just a little,” she says cheerfully. “But he was so sweet … closing his eyes while helping me to get you dressed. It was unexpected but so bitterly cute I almost melted,” Kiara says in a sugary voice. And for her to go on like this … he must have made an impact.

“Ugh, you’re the worst friend ever,” I mutter. “You made him help you strip me.”

“Hey,” she snaps, and a very accusing finger gets pointed my way, “You were the one begging him to stay. And you know I have weak arms.” I snort. Weak ankle, maybe. I’ve seen her lift her own body weight like it’s nothing.

And sweet? That man is anything but sweet.

BUT he hadn’t taken advantage of me last night — which, considering his cheeky mouth and cocky everything, means he’s — annoyingly — a good guy.

I groan and press my palms to my temples. My head feels like it’s plotting an explosion.

“Get over it,” she says unsympathetically. “It’s self-inflicted.”

She’s right. Nobody forced me to drown in tequila. I did that all by myself.

“Cheer up. It’s not a death sentence.”

“No, it’s much, much worse. You don’t have an annoying stalker, or annoyingly protective brothers, and an even more annoying brother’s friend, who annoys you. And you didn’t say goofy stuff to that same annoying ass because he’s so annoyingly sexy, and now he’s going to be even more annoying.” I squint my eyes trying to count how many times I’ve said the word ‘annoying’, but it still doesn’t seem enough.

“You sure you got enough ‘annoyings’ in there?”

Crap.

That voice. Low. Teasing. Criminally captivating.

Good thing I’m not sane today. Bad thing he heard my entire rant.

“Good morning, you annoying hot sexy hunk,” Kiara chirps, using my exact words from last night. Her eyes sparkle with pure evil.

“b***h,” I mutter under my breath, briefly wondering how much jail time one gets for killing an adoptive cousin — and if there’s leniency and a reduced sentence if you had a very, very good reason.

“What the hell do you want now?” I snap, turning on him, eyes blazing behind my sunglasses. “I’m already being punished. I don’t need to deal with YOU, too.”

I absolutely do not notice how unfairly handsome he looks in jeans and a white shirt.

“Well,” he drawls, “ain’t you just a scoop of grumpy in a bowl of bitchy this morning. While I come bearing gifts.”

My stomach betrays me instantly. Cafe Rosalena. My mouth starts to drool. I frickin love that place.

“I forgive your insult,” I say, snatching the parcel from his hand, “but only because you brought food.” It smells deliriously, deliciously like breakfast in a roll.

“I was not insulting you, I was describing you, angel.”

He steps closer, hands me a bottle of water. Kiara grabs the bag and bolts to a nearby bench like a feral raccoon.

“Drink this first,” he says. “The Tequila dehydrated you.” He pulls out painkillers. “Two of these might help.”

I take them without question, mostly because I’m dying.

“Breakfast burritos!” Kiara shouts. “You’re my frickin hero.”

Traitorous b***h.

“Hey — that’s my food,” I protest, sitting down and reclaiming the bag.

Inside — burritos. Glorious, holy burritos.

I take my breakfast burritos seriously, and Cafe Rosalena has the best of-the-menu breakfast burritos in California … if not the world. I will fight people over this.

“No need to battle,” Damion reads my mind, smiling through thick dark lashes. “I made sure there’s enough. I already ate.”

Good. Because I’m so hungry, my legs feel hollow.

Judge me all you want. I try to eat healthy. But junk food has my soul.

He cradles his coffee like it’s life support and goes back to mainlining caffeine. I take a heroic bite of my wrap and actually moan a little, because WOW.

The tortilla is perfectly rolled — soft but toasted just enough — hugging fluffy eggs, sinful bacon, molten cheese, and whatever other magical nonsense is sprinkled in there. It’s not food. It’s therapy.

I demolish the entire thing, chase it with water, and feel myself crawl back toward humanity. Wrapper tossed, I dig out another, take a savage bite, and add coffee to the mix this time. The jackhammer in my skull downgrades itself to a dull, resentful tapping.

Progress.

I pop the last of the burrito in my mouth and scrunch up the paper. Chewing thoughtfully, I swallow and then suck down some more coffee.

Darn. This was just what I needed.

And he knew. Of course he did.

I get up and dump the evidence in the trash. “I need to go. Class is starting.”

Kiara nods, still wrestling her first burrito as if it might escape. She swallows and holds up a finger. “I’ll be there in my usual seat to cheer you on as soon as I finish this.”

“Hey, guys,” someone shouts, emerging from reception. It’s Lucinda. And she looks way too c**k-a-hoop for this early on a warm day. Granted, she didn’t marinate herself in tequila last night, but still. Something about her cheerfulness sparks an irrational urge in me to punch her lightly on the nose.

“What are you doing here?” Kiara asks, finishing her last bite.

“Oh,” Lucinda says breezily, “I heard about the sexy trainers and thought I’d come see what the fuss is about.” She wiggles her eyebrows so enthusiastically that her glasses nearly take flight.

“I’ve got dibs on the hunk with the dog,” Kiara announces.

“Hunk with the dog is off-limits. Got it.” Lucinda grins, then turns to me. “Bad night?” she chortles — like she wasn’t there for half of it.

I give her a smile that probably looks like a hostage negotiation. “The worst.”

She laughs and pats my arm like I’m a fragile child who’s been through something traumatic. Which … is rude, but accurate.

“So where’s pen number three with the supposed hotties?” she asks, linking her arm through mine and tugging me down the narrow path.

Well. Okay then. Friendship upgrade unlocked.

“I see your hot-ass brother’s sexy friend is here.” She adds casually — “Are you two dating?”

Every nerve in my body goes alert.

I’m not very comfortable because —

One: I don’t know her well enough for this question.

Two: I don’t appreciate commentary on Logan’s ass.

Three: I definitely don’t enjoy hearing other girls describe Damion as sexy.

“No,” I say quickly. “I actually hate him.”

Which would sound more convincing if he hadn’t just fed me, medicated me, and resurrected my soul.

She shrugs. “You don’t have to like someone to have s*x with them. I’d just use him for an orgasm. I mean — have you seen the man? He’s like perfection on steroids.”

Oh. Okay.

New discovery — I like it even less when another woman casually puts Damion, s*x, and orgasms into the same sentence.

Noted.

Luckily, we’ve reached our destination before I can spiral any further.

The trainers and a handful of girls from our group are already inside the fenced area. I breeze through the gate and make a beeline for the puppy enclosure — a chaotic, tail-wagging mash-up of mostly Labradors, Retrievers, Malinois, and Alsatians.

This class isn’t just for cuddles and i********: content. Or drooling over hot trainers. The puppies are evaluated for obedience, focus, and temperament to decide where they’ll fit — like search-and-rescue, service work, or K9 units, to name a few.

The ones who don’t make the cut get adopted out as family dogs.

Lucky them.

My puppy, Bree — a black Lab with floppy ears and a permanently wagging butt — loses her tiny mind when she sees me. I scoop her up, and she immediately goes for my chin with that rough little tongue. As I inhale the unmistakable scent of puppy breath — warm milk, popcorn, biscuits, and pure happiness — I know, with absolute certainty, that it’s one of the best smells ever.

“That scent never gets old.”

Fantastic. Another mind reader.

The voice is getting way too familiar.

Alejandro drapes a friendly arm over my shoulder like he’s been doing it his whole life. He looks like a fallen dark angel with military seasoning — tall, stoic, attitude-ridden, and carved from bad decisions and protein powder.

It reminds me, irritatingly, of another pompous, domineering specimen currently leaning against the fence — worn-in jeans hugging his unfairly fine body. A white button-down, untucked, sleeves rolled up like he’s auditioning for hot-guy-who-pretends-not-to-care. His hair is doing that messy thing that probably takes effort, peeking out beneath a 49ers cap. He looks bored. Dangerous. Like a tiger deciding whether the effort of murder is worth it.

Those apple-green eyes flick toward us, sharp and assessing.

And damn it — something deep inside me reacts. A stupid, traitorous flutter that has no business existing.

I shove that feeling into a mental dumpster, wiggle free from Alejandro’s arm, and set Bree down on the grass. She sits instantly, tail thumping like she’s already won an award.

Adam pairs Lucinda with her own puppy — a gray Alsatian with oversized paws and an expression that screams future menace.

Then the nippy girl from our first day sidles up to Damion.

She says something I can’t hear, tilting her face up at him with a full-blown I-am-available-and-up-for-anything smile. She laughs. Touches his arm. Then — because the universe hates me — she takes his hand and writes her number on it.

It shouldn’t matter.

It absolutely, annoyingly does.

I focus on Bree. She’s smart. Laser-focused. Especially when treats are involved. Her soft brown eyes stay locked on me, waiting for instructions — and snacks. I follow Alejandro’s commands, praise generously, reward often, and slowly lose track of time.

When I finally glance back at the fence — Damion’s gone.

Fantastic.

Probably off somewhere private with Ms. Aggressively Available.

My chest tightens, irritation flaring hot and irrational. I hand Bree off and storm out, blowing straight past Alejandro, past Kiara flirting shamelessly with Ken, and directly into a solid wall of human.

Strong hands catch my arms, steadying me before gravity can humiliate me further.

“Hey,” Noah, the shy engineer, says, mossy-green eyes dancing. “You’re in a hurry.”

I glare at him. He immediately releases me, lifting his hands in surrender.

“Okay, wow. I swear I didn’t do it on purpose,” he chuckles, easy and harmless. Right. He’s not the one I want to murder.

“Will you let me live if I buy you a milkshake?” he offers. “The café here makes a mean double-fudge chocolate cookie dough one.”

My stomach betrays me with an enthusiastic growl.

Double fudge and cookie dough?

Yeah. That’s a bribe I respect.

“For sure,” I say, already mentally seated with a spoon in my hand.

Kiara saunters over with Ken in tow, practically glowing like she’s already halfway through dessert. I introduce Noah, because — manners. Barely.

“Girl,” she stage-whispers, eyes sparkling with sin, “I’m going on a date.” She flicks her gaze toward Ken like he’s a prize she already unwrapped. “Can I drop you off at home?”

The thought of being alone right now makes my skin crawl. Also — Kiara’s version of a date usually doesn’t end before sunrise.

“Nope,” I say firmly. “I’m having a milkshake with Noah. I’ll call an Uber. Or a brother.” I pause, resolute. “Nothing stands between me and that double-fudge.”

Noah grins. “We can drop her off.”

I smile back at him — because he’s six-foot-five of freckled ginger kindness, soft green eyes, and not at all like the men in my usual orbit. No ego posturing. No testosterone fog. Just … nice.

“Perfect,” Kiara says. “See you later, bitch.” And with a final wave, she’s gone — undoubtedly toward multiple orgasms and zero emotional consequences.

Lucky cow.

“Jesse’s waiting in the café,” Noah says as we start walking. “I was actually coming to get D-boy.”

“D-boy?” I blink.

He bursts out laughing and points over my shoulder. Alejandro is heading toward us, his black Doberman pup, Jinx, glued to his side like a shadow. During class, the trainers’ dogs stay obediently parked on one side of the pen, judging us all.

“That’s what we call him,” Noah says. “Alejandro’s such a mouthful.”

“It is,” I agree. “But why that?” My curiosity has claws.

“They think it’s funny because I was Delta Force,” Alejandro answers evenly.

“Well, I suppose it beats Poochiekins,” Noah howls.

Alejandro snorts. “f**k, I forgot about that one.”

“Poochiekins?” I repeat, horrified and delighted all at once. “Please continue.”

Alejandro’s expression doesn’t change, but he shoots Noah a look. A loaded, masculine look. I recognize it immediately — my brothers speak fluent Eye Morse Code.

“Susie,” Noah says, savoring it. “She stayed in the same foster home as my sisters. Cute girl. Sweet. Crushed hard on our boy here. Went all in. Feelings. Expectations. Matching energy.”

“And a pet name,” I guess.

Noah nods solemnly. “Poochiekins.”

I giggle. I can’t help it.

“The only issue,” Noah continues, “was a tiny communication breakdown. She thought they were exclusive. Alejandro here … did not.”

“There was nothing to commit to,” Alejandro mutters. “I never even slept with her.”

“So,” Noah says, warming to the story, “Susie did what any slightly unstable girl might do — she tried to convince him they were meant to be together. At three a.m. With cable ties. And duct tape.”

Alejandro exhales sharply. “She had a f*****g knife. You always forget that part.”

“Oh?” I squeak.

“Allegedly,” Noah says, leaning closer to me like he’s spilling forbidden lore. “Anyway, D-boy panicked, enlisted in the Navy, and vanished into the night.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Alejandro mutters.

“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Noah adds with a grin.

I stare at them. “So … what happened to Susie?”

Noah doesn’t miss a beat. “Juvie,” he says flatly. “Stabbed her foster parent with a knife.”

I bark out a laugh, half shock, half realization — they’re not that different from the guys I know.

The reception area is big and breathing — wide-planked wooden floors warm underfoot, sunlight pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows that frame rolling paddocks, open fields, and a glossy man-made lake shimmering in the distance like it knows it’s part of the sales pitch.

Along the walls, plush benches invite loitering. In the center sits a circular counter — the nerve center of the whole operation — where everything seems to happen.

A door to the right leads into the café. We find Jesse tucked into a cozy corner table like he’s claimed it as his natural habitat. I slide in beside him, Alejandro takes the chair opposite, and the moment his ass hits the seat, Jinx — without so much as a whisper of a command — flops to the floor with a dramatic little sigh. Chin on paws. Big soulful eyes. The picture of long-suffering devotion.

Noah returns, balancing four ridiculous milkshakes filled well past the brim, condensation sliding down the glasses like they’re sweating from excitement. He also places a long sausage neatly in front of Jinx.

To my surprise, the dog doesn’t even twitch.

Instead, he locks eyes with the sausage like it’s a religious experience. His whole tiny body vibrates with restraint.

“Eat,” Alejandro says casually. Like a speed train, he snarfs it down and licks his chops, then sits and eyes his human with blatant optimism.

“Down.”

The dog collapses back to the floor, offended, eyes squeezed shut in what can only be described as a puppy pout.

I turn my attention to my milkshake.

It’s obscene.

Layer upon layer of chocolate decadence — double fudge swirled with creamy chocolate, chunks of cookie dough suspended like buried treasure. It looks thick enough to qualify as a structural material.

I take a sip through the curly straw.

The cold hits my tongue in a sugar explosion that makes my eyes roll back slightly.

“Holy hell,” I murmur, taking another greedy sip. “This is criminally good.”

“Told ya,” Noah says, smug as sin.

“I should bring Jackson here,” I add thoughtfully. “He’d commit murder for their triple toffee cream with strawberries.”

Jesse chokes on his drink. Like — actually chokes.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, patting his arm as he coughs.

“Eh … Jackson … and murder in one sentence …” he wheezes. “It’s just a little … intense.”

I snort. But get it. “He can be a little overwhelming.”

I pause, then add — because loyalty runs deep — “But underneath that tough-boy act is a real softy. He’d burn the world down for the people he loves.”

Jesse lifts his milkshake in a lazy toast. “It’s always the hot ones that come with an arson-level personality disorder.”

Hot ones? Something clicks into place with an audible thunk.

There it is. The missing puzzle piece. The casual way he said it. The complete lack of awe, rivalry, or heterosexual panic. He’s batting for the other team.

He pauses to look at Alejandro. “Facts.”

Alejandro’s mouth twitches. Noah smirks.

Jesse nods thoughtfully. “Take D-Boy, for instance. Attractive enough to cause traffic accidents, emotionally unavailable enough to cause therapy bills.”

“I mean, think about it,” he continues, warming to his theory. “If a man looks like he was sculpted by a bored god with a grudge, chances are high he’s at least a little unhinged.”

It’s true. I sigh deeply into my milkshake.

“But hey,” Jesse says, softer now, “At least it’s nice to know someone unhinged has your back.”

Also true. Jackson has saved me more times than I can count … one way or another.

I glance around the table — Noah stretched out and easy, Alejandro quiet in that watch-everything way, Jesse leaning back like he belongs exactly where he is — and something clicks.

They’re close.

Not gym-bro close. Not we-drink-together close.

The other kind. The kind built out of shared years, shared walls … and secrets duct-taped tight.

And Noah mentioned foster care.

Uh-oh. Curiosity, my oldest frenemy, clears her throat.

“So,” I say lightly, stirring my shake casually, “how did you guys meet?”

Alejandro keeps sipping, unreadable as a locked vault. Noah presses his lips together like he’s biting back words. So, naturally, I turn to the most approachable one.

Jesse.

“Noah and I are cousins,” he says easily. “And D-boy’s our foster brother.”

Oh.

My heart does that stupid, traitorous drop it does when reality sucker-punches me.

Right. Of course they are. Orphans. Like me. All of them.

And because my mouth hates me, it keeps going. “What happened to your parents?”

Three men. Three different expressions. All grief, just wearing different disguises.

Shit.

I cringe internally, mortified. “Sorry — wow. That was tactless. I lost my parents, too. We didn’t end up in foster care, but I guess … pain’s pain, right?”

Or not.

The air goes still. Heavy. Like the room just inhaled and forgot how to exhale.

“Let’s change the subject,” I rush in, trying to CPR the mood I just drowned.

“My mom died of cancer,” Alejandro says quietly. He stirs his shake with the neon curly straw, the ridiculousness of it clashing hard with his voice. “My dad’s alive. I’ve seen him from afar. I just … haven’t had the guts to actually meet him yet.”

Noah exhales through his nose. “I keep telling him he’s an i***t,” he says gently. “And a chicken.”

Alejandro doesn’t even argue.

“Our parents died on the same day,” Noah continues, pointing between himself and Jesse. “Same accident.” His jaw tightens. “I’d give anything to have them back. And you —” he looks at Alejandro “— you have that chance and won’t take it.”

I get it. God, do I get it. I’d trade just about anything for one more conversation with my mom.

My dad, though?

Yeah … not so much.

“I understand,” I say softly, meeting Alejandro’s eyes. “He’s probably an ass. Like my dad. And honestly? No one likes proppers.”

There it is. Brain officially on vacation. Mouth driving drunk.

“Proppers?” Jesse asks, blinking.

“You know,” I say, shrugging. “Parental droppers.”

Alejandro lets out a surprised snort, the sound sharp and completely unguarded.

“You’re a real treat, Sorella (Italian = sister),” he says dryly.

I have no idea if that was affectionate or insulting, so I clamp my mouth shut and bury my face in my shake like it might save me from myself.

Noah starts talking about his sisters. Leyla, eight years old — and Aria, 21 — working odd jobs, holding things together with grit and duct tape until he graduates and can support them properly.

I nod. Smile. Listen.

And inside, something twists.

Because suddenly my problems feel … small. Soft. Padded.

I swallow hard, my throat tight, realizing how insulated my life has been. How cushioned. How blind. While they were learning how to survive, I was busy drowning in my own self-absorbed nonsense.

The realization lands like a punch to the ribs.

I’ve been living in a bubble.

And it doesn’t pop gently.

It bursts.