The Biker's Rules

Take a little tumble

Date = 7 November

Waiting for her to arrive on her date.

Place = San Francisco (Scoma’s Restaurant)

POV - Damion

“Are you seriously considering a third dessert? Or are we finally admitting defeat and leaving?” Thalia’s eyes drill into me with that perfect mix of impatience and amusement.

She’s got a point. We’ve been parked in this cozy little corner of Scoma’s since just before four o’clock. Because — oh yeah — the cryptic message said … Scoma’s. Pick you up at 4.

Now it’s way past five, and there’s no sign of her or the douchebag.

“Can you tell me again why we are here exactly?” I stare into Thalia’s teasing face. A wicked little curl tugging at her lips. If she weren’t one of my absolute favorite humans, I’d have already strangled her with a breadstick.

Why are we here? I wish I had a neat, inspiring reason. Instead, I’m left with the usual suspects — stupidity, jealousy, and a sprinkle of possessiveness. All wildly inadequate excuses for this torture.

Then, like a scene out of a badly written rom-com, my heart decides to throw a full-on gymnastics routine — a double-take, triple somersault, and a headstand all at once, leaving me gulping for air.

There she is, sashaying through the door like she owns the place, right beside that annoying puppy-trainer — wearing the shortest, sexiest milk-pink dress that hugs every curve like it’s got a personal vendetta against decency. The tiny zipper clutching her cleavage doesn’t exactly whisper for attention — it screams.

Without thinking, I blurt, “What kind of d**k-teaser dress is that?”

Thalia, ever the encyclopedia of sass, swivels in her chair to face the door, her eyes lighting up brighter than fireworks on the Fourth of July.

“Oh, honey, that’s a zipper-front, long-sleeved, ribbed knit mini bodycon dress over black leggings,” she rattles off, laughter bubbling through her voice. “Which, judging by the drool pooling at your chin, it’s clearly doing a number on your, uh, s****l organ.”

“Smartass,” I mutter, trying to mask the fact that, yep, I’m officially turned on.

She grins wider. “Wonder if you get it in red.”

I shake my head. “Honestly, I’m not sure why I dragged you along tonight.”

“Because I’m ridiculously charming and keep you from spiraling into dessert-induced madness,” she quips. “So, who’s the blonde?”

Her enthusiasm kicks into overdrive. “And who’s the hottie hanging on her arm? Yum.”

A headache starts — a slow, menacing throb.

“She’s my best friend’s little sister,” I say carefully. As for Mr. Hottie, I mentally try to erase his presence.

“Ah, so a Blackburn,” Thalia pieces it together like a detective. “Since Logan’s your BFF.”

She’s met most of the crew, except Logan.

“Oh, look at you working that out all on your own.”

I watch that doggie-two-shoes pull out her chair.

I feel an eye twitch coming on.

Why is she here with him? And what happened to Ren?

“Wait,” Thalia interrupts, eyes sparkling with mischief, “is she the crush that birthed your rules?” She laughs, loud and sharp.

“Oh, holy moose, that explains the double dessert you don’t even like. You knew she was coming.” Ugh, she’s really, really lucky I love her to bits.

“Yes … and?”

“Stalker alert,” she snorts, perfectly delivering the eye twitch I’ve been fighting.

I groan and clutch my head. Yep, this is going to be one hell of a night.

“I get it, she’s gorgeous — like stop-traffic-and-cause-minor-accidents beautiful,” Thalia admits, biting her lip like she’s trying to hold back a confession. “But … eh,” she trails off, shooting me a look like she’s trying not to offend, “she seems so … innocently naive. And you are … well, YOU.”

“Okay, you know what …” I pout dramatically. “Judgmental people don’t get a say. End of story.”

“Oh, please,” she snorts, leaning in like she’s about to drop some gospel truth. “Can I tell you why she’s cozying up to Mr. Hot-as-hell over there instead of sitting here with your sorry ass?”

“Not interested,” I say fast, because I already know the answer, and I’m a coward when it comes to these things. “And he’s not THAT hot.”

Thalia cranes her neck for a better look, eyebrows raised so high they could compete with the Golden Gate Bridge.

Our little debate catches the attention of three church ladies at the next table, who swivel their heads in unison like we’re some bizarre street performance.

“Sorry, but he so is,” Thalia insists, voice dipped in pure sass, like she’s stating a scientific fact. “He’s smoking.”

“Not.” I flick a glance at the guy in question.

“Well, she’s right,” the first lady chimes in, voice laced with that kind judgment only church ladies can wield. “If I were a few decades younger and my hips still held up …”

“Nope,” I cut her off sharply. “He looks like me — if I had longer hair, different eyes, and a really long stick shoved up my ass.” The three ladies exchange wide-eyed glances as if I’ve just unleashed a hurricane inside a convent.

“But you’re hot and smoking too, dear,” another one ventures cautiously.

Thalia, sensing the mood shift, tilts her head. “So, are you pissed, or jealous?”

“Neither,” I say through gritted teeth. Dammit. “Both. But that’s not it.”

“Men have two emotions,” pipes up the third lady, eyebrows waggling like they’re conducting an orchestra. “Horny and hungry.”

“And you can’t be hungry — you ate two desserts already,” Thalia deadpans.

“Just … shut up.”

Thalia chuckles but wisely keeps her lips sealed, studying me like she’s trying to decode an ancient riddle. After a long beat, she says, “You know, I haven’t seen much about your man-w***e ways in the news lately. Actually, nothing since the accident.”

“Nope.”

“You stopped f*****g around?” she probes, eyes wide like she just spotted Bigfoot.

The church ladies gasp so loud I’m half expecting the heavens to part. They look at us with so much biblical holiness on their faces that I feel like doing a Hail Mary. Instead, I opt for a goofy smile, which only makes them blush like beets, giggling behind trembling hands.

I sigh and turn back to Thalia. “Is that so hard to believe?” I keep my voice down, hoping our neighbors might be a little hard of hearing.

“Yes.”

“I believe you, son,” the first lady says, leaning in conspiratorially. Nothing wrong with their ears.

“Oh, you don’t know him,” Thalia replies with a sly, lispy smile, then shoots me a questioning look. “Wait, you’re serious?”

I nod, feeling like I just admitted to a crime.

“So, no s*x at all?” she asks, sounding shocked, almost hesitant.

I shrug. Not exactly.

“Not with a girl,” I clarify. The ladies audibly suck in their breath. I keep forgetting about them.

“With a boy?” one ventures, voice dripping with innocent curiosity. That’s actually diametrically funny, but I’m not in the mood to laugh.

“I think, Bertina, he is talking about a catholic handshake,” her friend helps her right. Bertina pulls big eyes, her lips forming a silent ‘O’ shape.

“f**k!” Thalia swears. She slaps a hand over her mouth as she looks at the ladies. “Sorry,” she mumbles from behind her mouth.

“It’s alright, dearie. Happens to the best of us,” Bertina chimes in like a saintly referee.

Thalia shoots me another look. “Hell … you really, truly, frickin’ love that girl.”

Her surprise is almost adorable. Why is me loving someone such an earth-shattering concept?

But I don’t even fully get it myself yet — my d**k wants her, my heart misses her, but my brain is still rebelling.

“Awwww,” the ladies coo in unison, sounding like they just watched the finale of a rom-com.

That’s my cue to bail. I’m not exactly comfortable unpacking my emotional dumpster fire in front of complete strangers.

I stand up, ready to escape before they start passing around knitting needles and tissues.

“Nice to meet you, ladies,” I manage to say without turning bright red or sounding like I just swallowed a lemon. Thalia flashes them a smile and hooks her arm into mine as if she owns me.

I steer us straight to THAT table. I didn’t plan on it, but hey, sometimes life just hijacks your limbs.

“Hi,” Thalia chirps, holding out her hand like a game show host introducing the next contestant. “You must be Mel.”

There’s a sly little tease in her voice that makes me feel about as comfy as a cat in a bathtub. “I’m Thalia Green.”

Mel looks just as unsettled as I do, which honestly is a relief.

I nod at the dude sitting beside her, my face a perfect portrait of simmering pissed-off. His diamond-blue eyes glint with something — something familiar and creepy, something begging for recognition. It makes my skin crawl like I just walked through a spider web.

“Girl, I LUUUVV the dress,” Thalia says to provoke me. She’s pretty good at that. Always has been.

“Thanks.” Mel sounds unsure. But my d**k is pretty sure that dress is shouting out for wicked, unrighteous, s****l behavior.

“Mel,” I say like a lovesick i***t, locking eyes with her. It’s like a one-two punch in the gut.

“Damion.” Feeling winded and desperately trying to keep my little man from misbehaving, I bail before things get embarrassing.

Thalia smiles back over her shoulder, giving them a farewell glance. But I don’t dare to look back.

“Well, someone just fell flat on his face,” Thalia teases, making me take a quick jab at the side of my bike. Her laughter explodes like fireworks.

She can thank her fanny that she’s not a guy right now, or her nose might be bleeding.

I help her strap on her helmet, and we peel out with tires screeching, slicing down Jefferson Street like we own the damn road.

My mind, predictably, takes a detour to a very naughty place it shouldn’t while driving — where I’m pulling down that tiny zipper on her dress.

Suddenly, a violent yank from behind snaps me back. Thalia jerks me just in time to avoid a boat trailer fishtailing wildly into our lane. The bike sways, but I manage to wrestle it back on course.

Holy s**t, that was way too close.

I glance down at the speedometer — 70 miles an hour. Yeah, way too fast for a street that’s basically a glorified alley.

I hit the brakes, heart pounding, my mind now clear, and on something completely the opposite. What if something happened to Thalia? I won’t f*****g survive another demon.

We’re not slowing down.

Panic sets in like a bad hangover.

I slam the brakes again.

Still nothing.

“Fuuuuuck!”

A cold cleat starts crawling over my body, slow and merciless, starting at my scalp and sliding down my spine like death taking notes.

The brakes aren’t working.

Fuck.

Okay. Okay. Think.

I downshift hard. Nothing. The clutch might as well be decorative.

Dammit.

“Hold on,” I shout over my shoulder.

Thalia is glued to my back like a terrified tick, her arms locked around me so tight I can feel every ragged breath through my jacket. We’re running out of road fast. Ahead — a concrete walkway running along a thin piece of beach.

We’re going to fall. Hard. That’s inevitable.

Bruised, bone-breaking, or life-threatening … that’s the question.

I suck in a breath that tastes like salt and fear and burnt rubber. Panic wants the wheel, but I shove it into the backseat.

Stay calm. Stay alive.

My eyes flick everywhere, brain firing a thousand useless thoughts a second until one finally sticks.

The beach.

If I hit it just right … and pray to every god I’ve ever insulted … we might lowslide instead of cartwheel.

Might.

I aim for the sand. At the very last second, I force the bike sideways and let the wheels give out beneath us.

The impact rips the breath straight out of my chest.

We slide — sand tearing at us, friction screaming — then the world tilts and suddenly we’re dragged into icy water. The ocean swallows the noise, the chaos, the panic, and we finally grind to a stop.

I stagger up, boots sinking into cold surf, chest heaving as if I’ve just run from hell.

I stand there for a second longer than necessary, waves licking my legs, just making sure the world hasn’t ended.

I’m f*****g wrecked.

“Thalia!” I shout, spinning around.

She’s sitting in the shallow water a few feet away, hands shaking violently as she fumbles with her helmet.

“Are you okay?” voices shout from everywhere at once. People come running, faces a mix of horror, curiosity, and holy-s**t-that-was-close.

I yank my helmet off and raise my hands. “I’m good,” I bark, though my pulse is still trying to escape my body.

The gasps come first. Someone whispers my name, and it’s like blood in the water.

“That’s Damion Grimm.” The words land more heavily than the crash.

I know the routine. Now comes the whispers. Then the phones.

Screens bloom around us like fireflies — subtle at first, then bold, unapologetic.

People stop seeing the wreck. They see a story. A clip. A moment.

I grit my teeth. Ignoring them is all I can do. I focus on Thalia.

She’s still struggling with her helmet. I wade to her, crouch, and steady her as she stands. Her knees wobble. I unbuckle her helmet and ease it off.

“Are you hurt?”

“I will survive,” she mutters, stubborn as ever — but then I see it. Her left wrist. She’s holding it tight, jaw clenched.

Shit.

“What happened?” she whispers.

I hurl my helmet onto the sand. It bounces, hops twice like it’s mocking me, then finally settles.

“No brakes,” I say flatly.

I pat myself down, adrenaline still buzzing, and find my phone. A pile of missed calls lights up the screen — Mel. Axel. Over and over.

What do they want?

I call my dad, voice clipped and controlled, give him our location like I didn’t just almost die.

Then I pick Thalia up into my arms, carry her onto the concrete walkway, and we sit, side by side, soaked, shaking, alive.

People hover around us in loose circles, whispering, staring, replaying our near-death like it’s entertainment.

My hands finally start to shake.

Yeah.

That was way too close.

I dial Axel back, thumb hovering for half a second before I commit.

Mel can wait. I don’t have the guts for that conversation yet.

“f**k, dude,” he shouts after the first ring. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, forcing my voice into something casual. “We had a little accident.”

I listen while he explains the message — the panic, the cryptic crap from D — while my eyes stay glued to the bike. A few guys are wrestling it out of the surf, water pouring off it like blood from a crime scene.

Something cold slides down my spine.

The fucker tampered with my bike.

My jaw tightens so hard it hurts. f*****g asshole. This wasn’t some prank. This was clear intention. He wanted us hurt … or dead.

My stomach knots.

I tell Axel we’re okay. Mostly scrapes. Bruises. A healthy serving of adrenaline poisoning. I mention my dad’s on his way.

“You had us worried, dude,” Axel says, then drops his voice. “— especially Mel.”

That lands harder than the crash.

So she worries.

Does that mean she cares … or just that she’s decent and cursed with empathy?

“Please,” I say quietly, staring at the ocean like it owes me answers, “look after her for me.”

When the call ends, I don’t move. I just sit there, boots wet, jeans heavy with salt, watching the waves roll in and out like nothing just happened. Like the world didn’t almost end.

I think about Mel.

And about the bastard who’s terrorizing her.

“So,” Thalia says, breaking the silence like she always does, “do you love this girl?”

I open my mouth. Close it again. Keep staring at the water as if it might blink first.

“Wow,” she continues sweetly. “Damion Grimm — speechless. Precious. Can I film this?”

I blow air through my nose and grind my jaw.

“I take it back,” she says after a beat. “Naively innocent or not, that girl is perfect for you.”

I throw some sand at her, but she ducks, laughing, unbothered, infuriatingly alive.

“Careful,” I mutter. “I’ve got the overwhelming urge to rip someone’s throat out right now.”

She just laughs harder. She knows I’d never hurt her. She’s been immune to me since we were kids. Easily the most annoying woman in my life — right after Mel and my mother.

“I don’t know,” I say finally. “If this is love.”

I pause. Swallow.

“But I do know she’s the only f*****g girl on this planet who can drive me completely insane.”

“I thought I drove you insane,” Thalia pouts.

“You do,” I say flatly. “But only my mind.”

Then I add, “You definitely have no impact on my body, heart, and penis.”

Her eyes go huge.

“Oh my God,” she squeals. “You’ve fallen HARD.”

Then she adds — “Shit.”

“So what’s the problem?” she presses. “You’re obviously p***y-whipped, and the s****l tension between you two is so thick you can drive your bike on it.”

“Besides the fact that she’s my best friend’s sister,” I say slowly, then hesitate before I add — “I’d have to break my rules.”

Thalia knows about my rules … she’s one of the few people who know almost everything about me. Almost.

She goes quiet. Then — softly — “You paused.”

She leans her head against my shoulder, finding that familiar spot like she’s always belonged there.

“If you have to think about it … it means the rules aren’t what’s stopping you.”

I stare at the sand for a long while, trying to make sense of what she just said.

She’s right.

It’s not Logan. Not the rules. Not the past year and a half of restraint.

It’s Mel.

She scares the living s**t out of me.

I’m not fearless. I’m reckless. There’s a difference.

“I’m a coward,” I say at last. “Plain and simple.”

“Well,” Thalia says, settling in comfortably like we’re not sitting in post-trauma chaos, “there are three possible outcomes. Only one of them good.”

I grunt. Of course.

“One — you do nothing and stay miserable forever.”

Hard pass.

“Two — you man up, get rejected, and stay miserable forever.”

Even worse.

“Three — you man up and get your happily ever after.”

That’s the one.

“Your choice,” she adds dramatically.

“If there’s even a small chance,” I say slowly, “that I could be happy with Mel … then yeah. I should try.”

Thalia smiles into my shoulder.

“And between you and me?” she says softly. “That girl loves you, too.”

I scoff. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Oh, she just doesn’t realize it yet,” Thalia says. “But she will.”

I stare back at the ocean — this time not empty-headed, but terrified and hopeful all at once.

Yeah.

That’s the part that scares me the most.