Ruin Me, Biker Alphas

The Other Man

~Valerie~

The club opens officially at seven, and the floodgates break. It’s a blur of leather, denim, and the smell of stale beer. I’m moving, weaving through the crowded tables, taking orders, dodging wandering hands with a sharp glare that says don't f*****g touch. I’m getting the hang of it, the sound of the chaos, until I see Rikky.

She’s coming out of the back hallway, the one leading to the offices. Her hair is a mess, her lipstick is smeared, and her eyes are glazed in that unmistakable way.

I catch her by the arm as she nears the bar. "Rikky? What the hell happened to you? You look like you’ve been thoroughly f****d into the mattress."

Rikky’s eyes widen, her face flushing a deep, guilty red. She tries to smooth her hair, but her hands are shaking. "Val! Shh! What are you talking about?"

I lean in, my voice a teasing whisper. "Don't bullshit me. Your neck has a hickey the size of a half-dollar, and you’re walking like your p***y is sore. I thought Gunnar said no f*****g on the clock? We’re waitresses, not the talents."

Rikky bites her lip, a small, devious smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah, well... the rules don't apply when the manager is the one doing the drilling, do they? Gunnar’s got a tongue like a god, Val. I couldn't say no."

I snort, shaking my head. "You’re a menace. Get some powder on that face before someone notices."

"Pot calling the kettle black," she teases, poking my side before disappearing into the crowd of the west wing.

I head back toward the main bar counter, my tray balanced on one hand. The music is pulsing, a heavy, loud throb that matches the ache still lingering between my legs. Then, over the bass, comes a sound that cuts through everything.

The roar of motorcycles. Deep, guttural, and loud enough to vibrate the glasses on the shelves.

The front doors of the club swing open, the cold night air rushing in. Three men stride inside, their leather vests heavy with patches, their boots thudding on the floor like a heartbeat. The crowd parts for them instinctively. They’re bikers, but they aren't just members. They carry an air of absolute, terrifying authority.

I stop dead in my tracks. My heart skips a beat, then starts to hammer so hard I can hear it in my ears.

The man in the middle.

He’s tall, taller than the others, with lean, hard muscles that look like they’re coiled for violence. His hair is dark, his jawline sharp enough to draw blood. But it’s his eyes that stop my breath, cold, amber, and wicked.

I know him.

He’s the man who came to my house with Ronan over a year ago. The one who sat in our living room and looked at me once, just once, and made me wet my panties before I even knew what an orgasm was. I’d spent months dreaming about him, wondering if I’d ever see that dangerous face again.

And here he is. Walking into the center of Ronan’s world like he owns the ground he walks on.

He’s nothing like Ronan. Ronan is a storm, heavy and brooding. This man is a blade, sharp, cold, and designed to ruin you.

As he walks past the bar, his head turns. Those amber eyes lock onto mine.

My breath hitches. My n*****s harden instantly, straining against my top until it hurts. My p***y clenches, a fresh wave of heat pooling in my core, slick and heavy. The ghost of my earlier release is suddenly eclipsed by a new, more violent hunger.

Does he remember me?

My body is screaming for him. My skin is prickling, my heart racing until I feel dizzy.

Ronan was the plan. Ronan was the obsession. But as this man watches me, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his lips, I realize one thing.

I’m in so much f*****g trouble.

"Would you like me to take your order?" I manage to whisper, though I'm not sure if the words even leave my throat.

He stops, his presence overshadowing everything else in the room. He leans over the bar, the scent of leather, expensive tobacco, and raw Alpha pheromones hitting me like a physical blow.

"I think," he says, his voice a low, silky crawl that makes my p***y throb, "I’d like a lot more than just a drink, Valerie Rowe."

Oh f**k.

He remembers.