The Biker's Rules

Red balloons go by

Date = 7 November

Place = San Francisco (Mel’s house) (Scoma’s Restaurant)

POV - Melaena

“Ouch!”

I grimace as I lift the razor. Blood blooms below my knee where I nicked myself. I hate shaving my legs, but I hate waxing even more. Careful now, I glide the razor over my knee, smoothing away the last stubborn strip of golden hair. I rinse the blade under the tap.

My skin feels slick and hot from the steam, hypersensitive, like it knows I’m already on edge.

Underarms next.

I swipe steam off the mirror with my forearm and freeze when my own eyes stare back at me. Really stare. The kind that doesn’t blink. The kind that knows things.

My stomach knots.

Because there it is. All of it. The stuff I pretend not to notice. The stuff I bury under sarcasm, busy schedules, and bad decisions.

The ugly truth — I have more feelings in my right tiny toenail for the devil I claim to hate than I have for the perfectly acceptable man who’s picking me up later.

That is … deeply inconvenient.

Worse? I want that devil naked. Sprawled. Smirking. All heat and trouble and bad ideas pressed against me.

Yep. Certified unhinged.

And even worse-worse — he was right. I do want a love that swallows me whole. The kind that knocks the air out of my lungs and rewires my DNA. Someone real. Someone who gets me in that unsettling, see-through-my-bullshit way.

The problem — because there’s always a problem — is that if I let him close enough, he absolutely will engulf me. And he probably does understand my soul.

But he’s not safe. He’s not predictable. And he’s definitely not what anyone would call sensible.

I shake the thoughts of him from my head and meticulously scrape the baby-blue Gillette Venus under each arm with military precision, rinse, repeat. Control. Order. Normalcy.

I walk into my room to get dressed.

And stop breathing.

A single red balloon floats near the ceiling, bobbing gently like it’s alive. A thin string dangles down, tied to it is an envelope with my name written across the front.

My heart slams so hard it hurts.

“Fuck.”

Terror grips me by the throat, cold and instant, and between one heartbeat and the next, I’m transported to another place and another time.

I was almost eight. Halloween night. The carnival smelled like sugar and popcorn and damp hay.

At the haunted house entrance, someone hands me a red balloon and tells me to follow the path.

Somewhere, I turned wrong.

My brothers vanished.

Three clowns appeared.

Not funny clowns. Not circus clowns. These were f**k-ass ugly, nightmare clowns — too tall, teeth too sharp, voices wrong. Bloody knives glinted under flickering lights as they closed in.

Run. I told my feet. But they were stuck.

I watched them getting closer and closer. I could already feel their teeth sinking into my flesh.

Then BANG!

My red balloon popped. The sound snapped something loose in me. I’ve always been fast, but that day I broke all records.

I don’t remember stopping. I don’t remember breathing.

My brothers went looking for the clowns. I don’t know if they ever found them.

But I do know that I hated clowns ever since. They scare me shitless.

I stare at the red blob.

It sways slightly, innocent as hell.

“It’s just a balloon,” I mutter. No clowns. No knives. No carnival music. Just my room. My bed. My walls.

I inhale. Slowly. Exhale. Again.

Warm air. Familiar smells. Safe.

Still … I don’t touch it yet.

Because another fear settles into my gut. How did it get here?

“Kiara! KIARA!” I yell, my voice cracking.

She comes tearing into my room with saucer-wide eyes, wearing only a bra and clutching her panties like a white flag. For one glorious second, all I feel is relief so sharp it makes me dizzy.

She’s okay.

“What the fudge,” she wails — and I don’t even need to point properly. I just flick my eyes upward.

She follows my gaze.

The balloon bobs gently near the ceiling, red and smug and very much there.

A crease forms between her perfect brows. Then she looks back at me like I’ve just interrupted her for no reason at all.

“It’s a balloon,” she hisses, stepping into her underwear with aggressive efficiency.

“I know that,” I snap, dragging in another breath because my lungs are clearly freelancing today. “How did it get here?”

She freezes.

“Oh … OH shit.”

Her head snaps around, scanning the room like she expects the walls to start bleeding. She lunges for the envelope, rips it open, and yanks out the card. Her voice drops as she reads.

Babe, I can't wait to make you mine. You belong to me, always and forever.

Your one true love.

D

XOXOXO

My stomach flips. Kiara goes white.

“Okay, this is getting crazy creepy,” I say.

SHATTER.

The sound explodes through the apartment.

We both yelp. Kiara grabs my arm so hard her nails bite into my skin.

Glass. Breaking glass. From the kitchen.

We are not alone.

A small, calm, annoyingly reasonable voice in my head tries to intervene. No one can get in. This complex is secure. It’s safe.

That voice gets absolutely steamrolled by panic.

My heart slams. My breath locks. Every muscle freezes like I’ve been unplugged.

I look at Kiara.

She’s staring back at me, eyes wide and wet and terrified.

Something inside me snaps into place.

I grab the baseball bat Jackson gave me — for emergencies — like this was a perfectly normal thing to gift your sister — and swing it over my shoulder. It’s heavier than I remember. Or maybe my arms are shaking.

Slowly, I move into the corridor. One step. Then another. Kiara trails behind me, clutching my towel like it’s a life raft.

The apartment feels different now. Smaller. Darker. Every shadow looks guilty.

At the edge of the kitchen, we stop. I close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Once. Twice.

Then I peek around the corner.

A man-shaped shadow stands at the coffee machine.

Of course — a caffeine-addicted intruder.

I step fully into the kitchen, bat raised, adrenaline screaming in my ears, best friend at my back.

“Freeze,” I snarl, “or I will knock your balls into next week.”

The man yelps, swears, and spins around, instinctively cupping his junk.

“Jeepers — chill! It’s me!”

Axel.

He blinks at us like WE’RE the problem.

“You nearly gave me a f*****g heart attack,” he adds, leaning his long body against the counter like he didn’t just almost get castrated.

We scared HIM.

I snort, swing the bat down, and point it straight at his nose. The urge to actually follow through is still very much alive.

“You’re the one sneaking around like a frickin’ burglar,” I sneer through my teeth.

His eyes rake over us — me in a towel, Kiara in underwear — and then he completely loses it, laughing so hard he has to brace himself.

“Wow,” he wheezes. “Did I interrupt a very aggressive sleepover?”

Kiara groans, throws her hands up, and storms down the hallway, muttering something about how the world would be a utopia if men simply stopped existing.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

Axel pours himself a cup from the Nespresso as if none of this had happened, then frowns at me over the rim.

“You asked me to babysit, remember.”

I lower the bat slowly, my pulse still hammering, the red balloon and the letter screaming in the back of my mind.

Yeah. I did. I don’t want Kiara to be alone while I’m dumping Ren.

“What’s really up with you?”

There it is. The SFB Look™ - or trademarked San Francisco Boys Look. Same one my brothers use. X-ray vision, lie detector, mild judgment. Completely unavoidable.

I sigh. “I got a balloon.”

His brow furrows. “My balls were threatened because of … a … balloon.”

“Don’t say it like that,” I mutter, keeping my eyes from rolling. “It was creepy.”

“Oh.” He takes a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Yeah, Anton at the gate brought it up earlier. Big red thing. Floaty. Dramatic. I stuck it in your room. You were in the shower, and I figured barging in would get me murdered or arrested. Or both.”

This time, I roll my eyes so hard they nearly detach. “Naturally.”

I pause for dramatic effect.

Then — “It’s from D,” I add.

He pauses mid-sip and goes for an extra-large gulp, like he needs caffeine reinforcement for that information.

“I thought it was from the douche,” he says casually.

“Ren,” I clarify.

“Yeah. Him.”

“I’m dumping the douche tonight,” I say, trying for breezy, playful, emotionally stable. I mostly succeed.

Axel exhales, full-body relief, like someone just defused a bomb. “It’s about time.”

He wanders out of the kitchen, collapses onto the sofa, stretches like an overgrown cat, and flicks on the TV as if this conversation hasn’t shaved five years off my life.

“You’d better get in the mood,” I call. “Kiara planned a whole movie night.”

I grimace, knowing they don’t share the same movie taste.

“I’m game as long as there’s popcorn,” he says. “And I desperately need a nap.”

“Don’t you sleep at the station?”

“Yeah,” he replies, eyes already drooping. “But it was a rough shift.”

I leave him there, cocooning himself in blankets like a tired firefighter burrito, and head to my room.

The balloon greets me first.

Still hovering. Still smug. Still aggressively red.

I stare at it, arms crossed. “Why,” I whisper. “Why go to such extremes?”

I tug on my pastel-pink knit-ribbed mini dress, soft and warm, zip it halfway up my cleavage because I’m breaking up with someone, and apparently that requires resolve. Thick black leggings follow. Then my black Doc Martens — solid, grounding, emotionally supportive footwear.

The only conclusion my brain can reach is this — the D man must be mentally unhinged. Certified. Licensed. Possibly escaped from a lab.

As crazy as a cannibalistic rabbit with swine flu. That’s the only explanation.

I sit on the bed, lace my boots tight, and let the questions roll in anyway. I get how obsession happens. I get how a lunatic can latch on and spiral.

But why me? Where did we even meet?

And seriously — why me?

I skip makeup, swipe on pink gloss, and stare at my reflection. I look normal. Annoyingly normal. Definitely not balloon-based-declarations-of-possession material.

The intercom beeps.

Ren must be at the gate.

I do one last twirl in front of the mirror and grab my favorite leather jacket — the one with the skull on the back and a hundred patches stitched on. Enrique brought it from Italy, and I add a patch everywhere I go — memories I refuse to forget.

It smells faintly of leather and old cities and independence.

Kiara hates everything about it. Which makes me love it more.

Back in the lounge, Kiara and Axel are fully nested on the couch — blankets, pillows, mugs of hot chocolate sending up sweet, steamy clouds. The room is warm and soft and safe.

For a second, my chest tightens.

I want to stay. I want to wedge myself between them and endure Kiara’s movie choice without complaint. I’ll even pretend to like it. That’s how badly I don’t want to leave.

But some things have to be done.

Even the really stupid, emotionally exhausting ones.

I square my shoulders, sling my handbag over my shoulder, and head for the door.

“See you later, guys. Enjoy.”

I make it two steps toward the door before Axel’s head snaps up like a meerkat sensing danger.

“Hey — hey,” he yaps. “Are you going like THAT?”

I stop. Slowly look down at myself. Dress is intact. Stockings are hole-free. No toilet paper sticking to my butt. No suspicious stains. No wardrobe betrayal.

“… Is there something wrong?” I ask, turning side to side, scanning for flaws like a TSA agent with trust issues.

Now Kiara’s staring too. She lets out a low whistle, then bites her bottom lip like she’s watching something she shouldn’t be enjoying.

“Eh,” Axel stutters, his face heating up fast. “Not wrong … just eh —” He scratches his cheek, suddenly very invested in the floor. “It’s a little … hot. I mean. You know. Not something I’d like a girl to wear while breaking up with me.”

I glance down at the long-sleeved ribbed mini dress again. “Too casual?” I offer.

Axel groans as if I’ve physically wounded him. He looks at Kiara for help.

But she lights up like Christmas morning. “It’s perfect,” she sneers. “Absolutely frickin’ perfect.”

Axel opens his mouth to argue, but she slams her palm into his chest hard enough to knock the air out of him.

“Now go,” she barks, shooing me with both hands.

O.k.a.y.

I give my outfit one last suspicious look and head for the gate.

“Good afternoon, Miss Melaena,” Anton says, his elderly face warm with a polite smile. “You look very nice today.”

I smile back. Anton is very sweet. And kind. He opens the passenger door of Ren’s car, and I climb in.

“Hi,” Ren says as I buckle up — his gaze lingering a second and a half too long on my dress.

Ping.

That uncomfortable little awareness shoots straight down my spine and settles in my stomach like bad champagne.

“Babe,” he adds, swallowing down spit.

I grit my teeth.

I am officially at war with cute pink piglets. I don’t know what it is about that word, but it crawls under my skin and sets up camp.

“Hi,” I reply, tense as a champagne cork about to explode.

We drive in silence for a bit. Awkward silence.

“What are you thinking about so deeply?” he asks after a while.

“Nothing, just …” I scramble. “… family stuff.”

Liar, liar, emotional pants on fire. But it’s not as if I can tell him about D.

I turn slightly toward him, trying to be present. He looks awful — pale, sweaty, gripping the steering wheel like it’s plotting against him.

“You know,” he starts, eyes fixed on the road, “when I was about fourteen, we visited Jason once.”

“How do you know him?”

He exhales. “He’s family. Our moms are cousins. Or second cousins. Or something like that.”

Oh. The surname. Duh. I suppose I should have put two and two together sooner — they’re both Steward.

“We were close … before we moved away.”

“You’re originally from here?” Something else I didn’t know.

He nods once. “San Francisco born and raised.”

The pause stretches. Too long. His jaw tightens, something dark flickering across his face.

“Until …”

I wait, but whatever memory rose up, he shoves it back down hard.

“That part’s not important,” he says roughly, swallowing. “I came to visit him and fell in love …”

My eyebrows leap up. Eyes huge.

“With you.”

My brain trips over itself. “… Come again?”

“You wouldn’t remember. I only saw you from a distance.”

His mouth twists, like he bit down on something bitter.

“You were one of Jason’s classmates.”

Right. That checks out. Unfortunately.

“I wanted you to know I didn’t ask you out on a whim. I’ve wanted to for a very long time.”

And just like that — damn it — I feel sorry for him.

He’s not a bad guy. He’s just … not my guy.

“I know I’m moving fast,” he continues, knuckles white. “But when you consider I’ve been waiting years, it’s not really fast.”

Maybe. But still — no.

“Ren,” I say gently, “I get why you’re thinking about futures and plans. But I’m nineteen. That stuff … marriage … children … is years away for me. At least eight.”

Probably ten. Maybe twelve.

“I can be patient,” he says hopefully. “Maybe in a year you’ll feel differently.”

No. I won’t.

Marriage and babies make my lungs seize, sure — but that’s not the real issue.

The real problem is simple.

I feel nothing.

And no amount of waiting will change that.

Driving down Al Scoma Way, the universe throws us a rare bone and hands us a parking spot right next to the restaurant.

Ren takes my arm, but instead of heading inside, I veer off like a nervous seagull and plop down on one of the wooden benches lining the pier. I want to do what I have to do in private … not in the restaurant.

The air smells like salt, diesel, and fried seafood dreams. Gulls scream overhead like they’re heckling my life choices.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asks, uncertainty clinging to his voice. He’s still stiff, like he’s bracing for impact.

I pat the bench beside me. “No. This place is perfect. I just …” I wince. “You’re the first guy who’s ever asked me out.”

His brows lift.

“Well — except for the one who fell off his bike and accidentally triggered a family curse —”

“You mean the one Damion assaulted to prove a point?” he cuts in.

“Yes. That one,” I nod solemnly.

I inhale. Exhale. My heart does that frantic hummingbird thing where it forgets its actual job.

“The thing is, I’ve never done this before. Like … any of this. And I don’t really know how to say what I need to say.”

I’m rambling. I know I’m rambling. I can practically hear Kiara yelling SPIT IT OUT in my head.

“Maybe just come out and say it,” he suggests. His voice is as glacial as his impassive face. As if he’s holding his breath.

In contrast … his chocolate-brown eyes search mine — hopeful, shiny, intense. Like Jinx eyeballs the cookie jar. My brain promptly short-circuits into a catastrophic mess that locks my throat so no sound can escape. Words scatter. I just stare at him like I’ve forgotten English entirely.

“Okay,” he says gently, almost pleading now, “I’m gonna need some words, because you’re a closed book to me. I never know what you’re thinking.”

Damion does.

And with that, his words slam into my chest.

“Ren,” I start, my voice wobbling, “this might sound stupid —”

And then —

“Hi, baby! Where have you been?”

A girl appears out of nowhere like a badly timed jump scare, throws herself at Ren, and kisses him full on the mouth.

I freeze.

Ren jerks back, eyes flicking to me in panic as he wipes his mouth like it personally offended him. “What the hell, Julia?”

Oh. So we’re doing this today.

He’s cheating on you, Damion’s voice supplies helpfully in my head.

Technically — he’s not. We’re not officially dating. Still, my stomach flips like it just found out gravity is optional. But it’s not because of jealousy … it’s because of pride.

Julia’s gaze rakes over me, slow and sharp, her nose wrinkling like I’m a suspicious smell. Anger flashes hot and fast through my veins — but I’m not about to claw another woman’s eyes out over a man I’m actively dumping.

“Call me later, sweetheart,” she purrs, trailing a finger along Ren’s cheek before sashaying off, hips swaying like she’s auditioning for a music video.

Ren opens his mouth. “It’s not what it —”

I hold up a hand. “It doesn’t matter.” Because it really doesn’t. “We’re not official.” He looks hurt. As if I’ve deeply offended him.

The adrenaline kick-starts my spine. Courage, meet rage.

“I was going to say,” I continue, voice steadier now, “that I want a love that engulfs me. With someone real. Someone who understands my soul.”

He goes rigid. Oh, he’ll probably blow a gasket if he knew whose words I’m quoting.

“And you’re not that person.”

The words land hard. He exhales like he’s been punched straight through the ribs.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I really am. I wish people could choose who they fall in love with.” God, I really do. “But you can’t.”

Silence stretches.

“So,” he says finally, voice rough, “does that mean you’re in love with someone else?”

Am I?

“No,” I answer honestly. “That’s not what this is about. I don’t know who my soulmate is. Or what the future holds. I just know … love can’t be forced.”

A pause.

“If you want,” I add, defaulting to cliché survival mode, “we could still be friends.”

He stands. His face is pale, cracked open with something raw and defeated.

“I can’t be your friend,” he says quietly.

Fair.

By the time my brain catches up, he’s already at his car. He glances back once — just once — and the look on his face guts me.

Mindless dejection. That’s what it is.

His tires peel out of the parking spot, and then he’s gone.

I stay seated, staring out at the boats bobbing lazily on the water, rocking back and forth without a care in the world. The bay glitters. The air hums. Life moves on.

And I sit there, wondering why doing the right thing can still feel like such a punch to the chest.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

D Stalker: Did you like my letter? 💌🎈

I don’t want to reply. I really don’t. Engaging feels like inviting him closer, like opening a door I’ve been leaning my weight against.

But my fingers betray me.

Mel: Not in the mood 🤢

The words feel thin. Useless.

Anger. Sadness. Fear. A cocktail no one asked for.

I set the phone on my lap and watch the boats drift, steady and unbothered, their gentle rocking mocks how unsettled I feel. As if they’ve never made a bad choice in their lives.

Something wet touches my leg.

“Frock!”

I jump up, trip over absolutely nothing, stumble like a baby giraffe, and somehow regain my balance in one dramatic, Olympic-level maneuver.

“Woof.”

I look down.

A puppy sits at my feet, tail wagging like he just witnessed a miracle.

“… Jinx?”

I scan the pier. No towering, broody, hot-ass menace in sight.

“Woof. Woof. Woof.” He barks proudly, chest puffed, as if I’m a prize that leads to treats.

“Good boy.” Alejandro’s voice slides in behind me like trouble. “You found her.”

“Woof.”

“I didn’t know I was lost,” I turn, surprised smile popping free before I can stop it — annoyingly grateful for the interruption. And the company.

“What are you guys doing here?” I ask.

Alejandro’s icy blue eyes lock onto mine. Full attention. No blinking.

“Training. And you?”

His gaze flicks — briefly, politely — over my dress. Same scan Axel did. Same pause. But unlike Axel, Alejandro keeps his mouth shut. And unlike Ren, I don’t feel uncomfortable.

I scratch Jinx behind the ear. He melts into my legs like I’m furniture he owns.

“I’m deciding between having dinner alone,” I say, “or grabbing take-away and eating it dramatically in an Uber.”

Alejandro tilts his head toward the restaurant. “There’s another option.”

Uh-oh.

“You could help Jinx and me with training.” A beat. “If you’re in the mood.”

The mood. For eating. Always.

“Training?” I repeat. “In the restaurant?”

He chuckles, low and amused. “A dog’s got to eat.”

“Woof,” Jinx agrees enthusiastically.

“Well,” I sigh, “who am I to stand between a dog and his food?”

I’m still ninety percent sure dogs aren’t allowed in restaurants, but Alejandro takes one step forward and — boom — Jinx heels perfectly on his left.

And without thinking, I fall into step on his right.

Apparently, I, too, respond well to structure and the promise of food.

Inside Scoma’s, the smell hits me like a warm, buttery slap — garlic, seafood, sizzling heaven. My stomach growls loud enough to embarrass me. My mouth waters. Actively.

Jinx doesn’t break posture, though his nose works overtime, darting through the air like it’s conducting its own investigation. His eyes stay glued to Alejandro, sheer willpower and strong training keeping him in line.

“You’re torturing the poor thing,” I whisper.

Jinx immediately collapses onto the floor with a dramatic sigh the moment we sit.

“He’ll get his share,” Alejandro says calmly. “But he needs to stay focused no matter the distraction.”

And that’s when MY distraction walks straight toward us.

With a woman melted into his side.

Of course. The girl is so beautiful it’s rude.

Faded jeans cling to her like they were tailored by sin itself. A loose emerald top brings out her smoldering apple-green eyes. Whiskey-colored hair falls over one shoulder as she flips it back, flashing a smile that could single-handedly end winter.

But it’s her arm that really cooks my goose.

Hooked around Damion’s. Familiar. Possessive. Like she belongs there.

Like she belongs to him.

My chest tightens, sharp and unwelcome.

Is she the one he loves? Fantastic.

I tell myself to be mature. To be cool. To not care.

I fail instantly. Yep. I’m frickin’ jealous.

And judging by the way Jinx lifts his head and growls softly under his breath — I’m not the only one.

“Hi,” she says, holding out her hand. “You must be Mel.”

Her smile is warm. Genuine. The kind that says I-recycle-and-my-plants-are-alive.

Great.

“I’m Thalia Green.”

Of course you are.

I’m feeling rather green myself. Nauseous. Envious. Possibly radioactive.

And to add insult to emotional injury, she seems … nice. Not one of Damion’s usual brunette disasters with a personality like wet cardboard.

Damion and Alejandro nod at each other — one of those stiff, silent acknowledgements men do. Like civilized cavemen deciding whether to share fire or throw rocks.

Damion’s face says it all. Utterly. Pissed. Off.

Alejandro, on the other hand, watches the exchange with a strange, unreadable hunger in his gaze. Not jealousy. Not anger. Something deeper. Something I don’t understand — and that somehow makes it worse.

“Girl, I LUUUVV the dress,” Thalia says, drawing out the word like honey, then smirking at Damion as if they’re sharing some private joke.

Excuse me while my soul briefly exits my body.

The boys are still locked in a stare-off. D-boy’s eyes sparkle with pure misconduct. Not an ounce of fear, even though Damion looks seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

“Thanks.” I think. Glancing down at my dress. It’s tight. Short. Yes.

But plain. Modest. The zip is pulled up to a morally acceptable level. No bra sticking out.

I really don’t see the crime here.

“Mel.”

The devil says my name like a warning. Or a promise. Or both.

“Damion.”

That’s all. No goodbye. No explanation.

They turn and walk off. Just like that.

I stare after them with the expression of someone who’s just watched their favorite balloon drift away into traffic. Thalia looks back at me with wide eyes — part guilt, part victory.

Like a mouse in a cheese factory. Congratulations, girl. You won.

“You know,” Alejandro says lightly, leaning closer, one thumb scrolling on his phone as if the screen holds the secrets of the universe, “my gran always says if it has tires or testicles, it’s going to give you trouble.”

He nods toward the window without looking up.

“And he’s sort of both.”

Through the glass, I see Damion lifting Thalia’s helmet, helping her secure it with practiced ease. His hands linger. Familiar. Careful.

Trouble doesn’t even begin to cover it.

My phone vibrates. I unlock it without thinking.

D Stalker: Mayday! Mayday! A little biker took a tumble! 💀

My heart slams into my ribs.

“What —?”

I jolt upright and sprint toward the door, adrenaline turning my limbs into jelly — but they’re already gone. The roar of the bike has vanished down the street.

A sound escapes my throat.

Small. Broken. Horrifyingly pathetic.

My legs give out.

I barely manage to brace myself before collapsing onto my knees, one hand scraping against the tar, the rough heat biting into my skin.

Fear floods me. Thick. Dizzying.

My chest feels like a fist is squeezing it tight, barely letting me breathe, and somewhere between the ache, I feel Jinx’s rough tongue brushing my cheek.