The Biker's Rules

Something real

Date = 6 November

Place = San Francisco (Mel’s house)

I had to go. Obligations.

POV - Damion

BANG-BANG-BANG!

“Go left,” Logan barks through my headset, his voice clipped and sharp. “We’ll hit them from two sides.”

I swing my character left, boots crunching over digital gravel.

THUD.

My screen jolts red.

“Fuck.” I duck behind the rusted shell of an abandoned car, heart racing like this is real life and not pixels and caffeine. I spin, scanning rooftops.

BOOM. BOOM.

“It’s Sean,” I shout. “Roof. Third building.”

“Keep him busy. I’m going in.”

I pop out, firing blind to draw heat.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG.

“Holy f**k!” Someone touches my shoulder. In real life.

I jolt like I’ve been tasered, wrenching my headset off and nearly dislocating my neck in the process.

Mel stands there.

In HER living room.

Alive. Breathing. Radiating fury.

My mouth moves into an automatic grin.

Because of this planned game date, I was FORCED to leave her with that smug, too-pretty trainer. The one that makes my gut twist into jealous knots. But now she’s here.

Logan notices her and freezes mid-war.

“Uh—wait, guys,” he says into his mic. “Girl in the house. I’m pausing.”

He removes his headset like he’s defusing a bomb.

“Hi, sis,” he says in the sweetest voice a menace like him can fake. “You’re home.”

“What,” she asks coolly, crossing her arms, “are YOU doing in MY house?”

Her eyes are literal flames. Her hands shake just enough to be noticeable.

“We’re playing Call of Duty,” Logan says, gesturing vaguely at the screens. “Duh,” he adds as if that were a rather stupid question.

“Great,” she hisses, “And you’re doing it here, in my place, because — "

Well, I’m here to see her. Logan might have different reasons.

“Sean and his brother are playing at my place,” he explains. “Ilkay wouldn’t open the door.”

“He’s not a genius for nothing,” she lispers. “What about the other morons?” she asks tightly.

“Axel is coming here after his shift. Jackson is sulking for some reason, and Enrique is at a photoshoot.”

She rolls her eyes like she might sprain something. “Idiots.” And hangs up her keys.

“We’ll leave when Kiara comes!” Logan says. And suddenly it dawns on me — we’re actually here cause he doesn’t want her to be alone.

“She’s not coming … oh … wait, she is going to c*m … multiple times … while having s*x!”

And with that cheerful announcement, she storms off and slams her bedroom door so hard the walls flinch.

Silence.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Logan asks.

My brain is still stuck on multiple orgasms.

“f**k if I know,” I mutter. “She’s your sister.” I’m pretty sure her mood has something to do with me. Which part of me — that is irresolute.

He shrugs. “Yeah. But she’s still a girl.”

Fair.

I put my headset back on. “Sean, man, we’re back.”

But my mind is not on the game anymore. Niall, Sean’s older brother, sneaks up and kills me instantly.

My digital corpse collapses.

“Okay,” Logan says calmly, ripping off his headset and throwing it onto the couch. “Round two. Get ready.”

Then he glares at the screen like I personally betrayed him.

“What were you thinking? We had them.”

I shrug and escape to the kitchen. I need coffee. And distance. And possibly a lobotomy.

I mean, it’s not as if I can tell him what I’m actually thinking. Which is undressing his sister and having my way with her. Multiple orgasms. f**k … it’s stuck in my brain.

“Hey,” Axel says, walking in just as the Nespresso wheezes to life. He drops his keys and wallet on the counter. He looks exhausted, freshly showered, firefighter-tired. “You called.”

“Great,” Logan snaps, shoving a controller into Axel’s hands. “Take over. I’ve got problems at the club.”

I hand Axel the full mug of coffee. He takes it like a holy offering.

“Still doesn’t explain why I’m here instead of unconscious in my bed,” he grunts.

“I don’t want Mel to be alone,” Logan says, pointing at me. “And he needs a new partner.” He claps Axel on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”

Axel stares at me like I personally ruined his life.

“Order food,” Logan adds, already opening the door. “You know Mel’s always hungry.”

So am I. Just … not for food.

The door shuts. I lock it. Then I meet Axel’s unimpressed stare — judging, weary, and deeply offended by fate itself.

Yeah.

“Hey, inviting you was not my idea,” I say lightly. “But Kiara’s bed is technically available for the night.” His mouth twitches into something dangerously close to a smile.

“And I won’t snitch.”

I take a slow sip of coffee. Bitter. Hot. Useless against where my attention immediately derails — down the hallway, toward the steady hiss of running water behind a closed door.

My eyes glaze over.

My brain helpfully supplies visuals I did not ask for. Her. Hot. Naked. Wet. Shimmering. Soapy. Naked. Wet.

“Hey, dude,” Axel taps my shoulder, “Where is your head? I’ve asked like five times what pizza you want.”

Right. Reality. Kitchen. Coffee. Not on a run-of-the-mill male fantasy. About my best friend’s little sister.

“Greek,” I blurt. “Extra pepperoni.” He orders three pizzas before looking at me again.

“Next thing,” he beams, “you’ll start thinking about dating her for real.”

That thought already came, unpacked, rearranged the furniture, and left emotional shrapnel everywhere — but sure, let’s pretend it didn’t.

“Huh.”

Whatever guilt flashes across my face must be neon-bright, because Axel throws his head back and laughs.

He’s still chuckling when I ask, “What do you mean?”

“Dating,” he explains slowly, like he’s reading from a dictionary. “You know — seeing someone socially due to romantic interest, with the intention of evaluating long-term compatibility for an intimate relationship.”

I can get on board with the intimate part.

“I think you need some sleep,” I say, “Cause fatigue is eating away your brain cells.”

“Oh, come on, dude, you know Kiara tells me everything —” Yeah, Kiara long ago adopted Axel as her little baby brother — even though she’s just about 3 months older than him. “And Mel shares with her.”

Fantastic. The female intelligence network strikes again.

“Why are you not in bed yet?”

“I’m dead hungry. Also, it’s fun messing with you.” He leans against the counter, enjoying himself far too much.

Then his gaze drifts down the hallway again, and his tone shifts — lighter, but edged with something real.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, bro,” he says quietly. “Because Kiara and I? We’ve got doubts.”

So do I. Big ones. Loud ones.

“Well, you and Kiara can both f**k off.” He studies me for a long beat, eyes sharp now, amusement fading.

“I’m worried about you,” he says. “Unlike last time, Jackson won’t just bark. He’ll kill you.”

Great. So the zoo incident has officially made the rounds. Of course it has. Axel’s the psycho twin’s confidant.

“Yeah, about that,” I say dryly. “You think he’ll actually murder me or just maim me?” He chortles and raps me on the head with his knuckles.

“He’ll probably let you live, just so he can continue the torture on a daily basis,” he laughs again.

Sounds exactly like Jackson.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He shrugs. “I’m gonna enjoy it even more watching you squirm.”

“Asshole.”

“The things we do for love,” he sings.

I scoff. “What do you know about love?”

He arches a brow. Then an unknown emotion flickers in his eyes.

Wait … what? Axel has been in love?

“I know if you don’t man up,” he snaps, “You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Wow. Just wow. You think you know someone. And here I thought his version of a relationship is planking one of his co-workers in the Station 34 broom closet when the need arises.

“I’m being careful.”

“You’re being a d**k. If you really like her,” he continues, “and you’re not just screwing around — go for it.”

“What about Jackson?” I snap. “You gonna tell him?”

“No,” Axel says immediately. “Not my place.” Then, softer, “But you know … he’s probably already figured it out.”

Unfortunately, I do know.

I nod, keeping my eyes glued to my coffee like it might save me from the anxiety crawling up my spine.

Knock. Knock.

Pizza delivery.

“Okay, I’m gonna take this and fall into Kiara’s bed,” Axel grabs one box.

I take the other two, the cardboard warm against my palms, grease already seeping through.

I walk down the hallway. Toward her door. Toward trouble. Toward whatever the hell this is turning into.

It’s empty.

From the bathroom comes a voice — Alan Walker’s Lost Control, butchered beyond recognition. Off-key. Painfully enthusiastic. She can’t hold a tune for s**t, and somehow it’s f*****g adorable.

I grin and drop the pizza boxes on the dresser, then reach for the soft toy abandoned on her pillow. The turtle. I flop onto her bed and lift it up, turning it until I find the tiny red heart stitched onto its flipper.

She kept it.

After everything.

I press it to my chest, smug satisfaction spreading warm and slow — until an intrusive scent hits me. Clean. Sweet. Familiar in a way that sinks straight into my bloodstream.

That’s my perfume.

Her phone lets out a soft, rude little fart on the nightstand. Without thinking, I grab it.

Bad idea.

Ren: I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight. I’ll pick you up — 2morrow at 4. Scoma’s. Talk then. ♥💘❤

I scowl. Douchebag. She doesn’t love him — any i***t with eyes can see that — so what exactly is there to talk about?

Another message sits higher up. Older. Darker.

D Stalker: You are mine💗 Stay away from the biker!

My jaw tightens. The message crawls under my skin in all the wrong ways.

This jerk rattles me more than her jagoff boyfriend.

My pulse spikes, irritation flaring hot and possessive before I can stop it.

She’s mine.

The thought is instinctive. Dangerous. Unfiltered.

The water turns off, and I quickly put the phone back on the stand.

A beat later, the bathroom door opens.

“Shoot!” she yelps, jumping back like I’ve fired a warning shot.

Her hair is wet and wild, curls escaping in every direction. She’s wearing men’s boxers —rolled at the waist — and a skimpy red tank top that clings like it was designed to ruin men’s lives. No bra. None.

I go painfully still.

I’ve seen her in bikinis before. Plenty of times.

I should be used to it by now. But, if anything, it makes this worse. Her body is all curves and heat and familiar danger, and my brain takes an unscheduled vacation.

Her n*****s press unmistakably against the thin fabric.

Hello. I am a man. A very deprived one.

My gaze drops to the boxers. Black. Skull pattern. ‘Whatever’ printed across the front.

My throat tightens.

Those are not hers. I have an idea … but need to make sure.

“Nice pj’s,” I say casually, because apparently I enjoy flirting with death. “Let me guess — Jackson’s?”

Her face gives her away instantly. Relief slams into me, fast and physical.

“Told you,” I smirk. “I read you like a magazine.”

I wink at her and love the way she tries to nip her blush in the bud, but fails.

“What are you doing in my room?” she snaps, scanning the room like she expects her brother to materialize out of thin air. I swing off the bed.

“He had to go to the club.”

She reaches into her cupboard, stretching up to grab a hoodie, and I am rewarded with a view that will haunt my dreams for the foreseeable future.

Her ass should be illegal.

She pulls the hoodie on. Tragedy.

I pace instead, restless energy buzzing under my skin, pretending to examine her room while she plops onto the couch and flicks on Netflix — The Vampire Diaries.

She doesn’t press play.

We stare at each other. A silent standoff.

As if playing a game, I keep picking up random objects from her green dresser, looking them over, and placing them back, while she keeps her eyes on me without saying a thing.

I pick up a book. Moby d**k. I hold it up so she can see the cover.

“Tell me you see the problem with the whale’s name.” She frowns, stubbornly mute.

“It’s about a massive white SPERM whale,” I deadpan.

Her snort betrays her.

“I’ve always wondered if Mr. Melville did it on purpose,” I say in a monotone voice.

I open the top drawer of the green dresser.

Mistake.

Tiny. Lacy. Colorful. An entire army of underwear stares back at me.

Blood abandons my brain.

I lift a lavender scrap between my fingers. “Does this come with a bra?”

“Put it back!” she yells.

I obey — barely — shutting the drawer before my imagination commits crimes.

I notice the dresser now. Apple green. Same as the wall opposite. I know she likes green.

“What color is this?” I tap it.

“Dulux Wicked Witch,” she answers instantly. “My favorite.”

Good. Filed away forever.

“It’s nice. I like it.”

“You should … it’s the color of your —” she says, but stops herself. “The color of apples,” she mutters. “Fresh apples.”

I lazily walk to the open cupboard, and — freeze. There it is.

My old jacket. Black leather. Monster and Reaper logo stitched on the sleeve.

She kept that too.

“So,” I say quietly, “you and Ren had a fight?”

“What’s it to you?” She crosses her arms and glares at me as if contemplating doing something to me that will hurt. Badly.

“Just curious.”

I watch the expressions on her beautiful face. She regroups herself and then says casually. “He just wants different things.”

“Like?” I expect her to be stubborn and not answer.

“Commitment … marriage. Kids.” She grimaces. “I’m not even legal to drink everywhere, and he wants me playing house.”

That’s absolutely NOT happening. Not the marriage. Nor the kids. Not with him anyway.

“What do YOU want?” I turn to face her from across the room. “Really.”

She hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“I think you want a love that swallows you whole,” I say softly. “Someone real. Someone who gets your soul.” My voice breaks. f**k I’m so hexed.

She looks at me like I’ve just pulled a secret from her chest.

“Do you know someone like that?” It’s barely a whisper.

Yes. “Maybe.” I stop breathing.

“I’m not sure you can find all of that in one person.” That one hits.

I move toward her slowly. Deliberately. Each step tightens the air between us.

“If you trust,” I murmur, “you can.”

I brace my hands on the couch on either side of her. Inches. Nothing but heat and breath and tension.

“What are you doing?” she whispers. Her voice croaks with anticipation, maybe a little fear. She’s not blinking.

“I’m trying not to kiss you.” Her scent — soap and sugar and something unmistakably her— wraps around me.

I pull back. Barely.

“I brought pizza,” I say hoarsely.

Because if I don’t joke right now, I’m going to ruin both of us.