The Biker Who Claimed Me: Devil's Reach MC.

(Mira) The Honda died three miles outside Crosswell. One minute the engine was running fine, the next it just cut out. I pulled over to the side of the road and watched steam rise from under the hood. Perfect. Just perfect. I tried the ignition again. Nothing. Not even a click. My phone showed one bar of service and exactly seventeen dollars in my bank account. Not enough for a tow. Not enough for anything, really. I'd spent the last of my cash on gas two hours ago. I got out and looked around. Empty highway. Fields on both sides. No houses in sight. The sun was setting and I didn't want to be stuck out here in the dark. Not with Tyler still looking for me. I popped the hood and stared at the engine. I didn't know the first thing about cars, but maybe something obvious would jump out at me. It didn't. A motorcycle rumbled in the distance, getting closer. I straightened up and waited. The bike slowed as it approached, then pulled onto the shoulder behind me. The rider was big. Leather vest over a black t shirt, dark jeans, boots. He killed the engine and swung off the bike. As he walked toward me, I saw the patch on his back. A skull with wings. "Devil's Reach MC" curved over it in bold letters. A biker gang. Great. "Car trouble?" His voice was deep, rough around the edges. "Looks like it." I crossed my arms and stayed where I was. He stopped a few feet away. Up close, he was even bigger than I'd thought. Tall, broad, with dark hair and a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His eyes weren't mean though. Just watching me. "You know anything about cars?" he asked. "No." "Mind if I take a look?" I stepped aside. "Go ahead." He moved to the hood and bent over the engine. I watched him check a few things, touch some wires, then straighten up. "Your alternator's shot," he said. "Battery's dead too. This car's not going anywhere tonight." I let out a breath. "How much would that cost to fix?" "Few hundred, probably. You got AAA?" "No." He studied me for a moment. I met his eyes and didn't look away. I was tired and broke and running from a man who'd put me in the hospital twice, but I wasn't going to act like some helpless damsel. "There's a motel in Crosswell," he said. "About three miles up the road. I can give you a ride." "I don't have money for a motel." "There's also a bar. They're hiring waitresses. Owner's a friend of mine." I looked at the darkening sky, then at my dead car, then back at him. A biker offering to help me. Probably stupid to trust him. But staying out here all night was worse. "What's in it for you?" I asked. He shrugged. "Nothing. You need help." "Nobody helps for nothing." "I do." He walked back toward his bike, then glanced over his shoulder. "You coming or not?" I grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat. It held everything I owned now. Three changes of clothes, my toothbrush, some cash I'd been hiding from Tyler for months. That was it. He handed me a helmet when I reached the bike. "Ever been on one of these?" "No." "Hold on to me. Lean when I lean. Don't put your feet down when we stop." I climbed on behind him. The seat vibrated when he started the engine. I wrapped my arms around his waist. He was warm and solid, and I tried not to think about how long it had been since I'd touched another person without flinching. We pulled back onto the highway. The wind whipped past us and I held on. He didn't go too fast. Crosswell appeared ahead, a small town with a main street and not much else. He turned down a side road and pulled up in front of a bar called The Spoke. Motorcycles lined the front. Lots of them. All with the same patch I'd seen on his back. I climbed off and handed him the helmet. "Come on," he said, heading for the door. Inside, the bar was busy. Music played from a jukebox in the corner. Men in leather vests sat at tables drinking beer and playing pool. A few women too, some with their own vests. Everyone looked up when we walked in. I looked right back at them. I'd worked in bars before. I knew how to handle myself. The biker led me past them to the bar where an older man with gray hair and a thick beard was pouring drinks. "Hank," the biker said. "This is..." He looked at me. "Mira," I said. "Her car broke down outside town. You still need a waitress?" Hank looked me over. "You got experience?" "Yes." I'd waitressed before Tyler made me quit. "You got a place to stay?" "Not yet." Hank rubbed his beard, thinking. "There's a room upstairs. Used to be storage. You can stay there if you work the evening shift. Tips are yours to keep. I'll pay you cash at the end of each week." It sounded too good to be true. But I needed this. "What's the catch?" "No catch," Hank said. "Ridge vouched for you. That's good enough for me." Ridge. So that was his name. I looked at him. He was watching me with those dark eyes, waiting. "When do I start?" I asked Hank. "Right now if you want. Apron's in the back." I nodded and followed Hank through a door behind the bar. Before it closed, I glanced back at Ridge. He was still watching me. He lifted his beer in a small gesture, then turned away. I took a breath and went to get the apron. This town, this bar, these bikers. I didn't know what I'd just walked into. But it had to be better than what I'd left behind. It had to be.