ONE NIGHT WITH THE BIKER ALPHA

Elena stood outside her own front door, takeout bag in hand, smiling like an i***t because the caterer had cancelled and she finally had an afternoon to herself. Then she heard the laugh. "Marcus, stop, someone's going to hear you—" She pushed the door open. Marcus shot up off the couch so fast he nearly took the coffee table with him. "Elena. This isn't what it looks like." "Really." Her voice came out flat. "Because it looks like you're sleeping with my maid of honor three weeks before our wedding." Claire pulled a blanket up over herself. "Elena, I never meant—" "Don't." Elena set the takeout bag down very carefully. "Don't you dare explain. I don't want an explanation. I want you out of my apartment." "It's our apartment," Marcus said. "Not anymore." "Elena, come on, can we just talk about this like adults—" "We're done talking, Marcus. We were done the second I walked through that door." "You're overreacting." "Overreacting." She almost laughed. "I found you with Claire on our couch three weeks before our wedding, and I'm the one overreacting." Claire finally found her voice. "Elena, please, it just happened, it wasn't planned—" "I don't want to hear it. Either of you. Get out." She didn't remember packing. She didn't remember the drive out of the city, only the moment the radio turned to static and the sky opened up into a full storm, rain so hard her wipers couldn't keep up. A sign buzzed at the edge of her headlights. Rusty Anchor. Bar. Gravel lot full of motorcycles. Neon beer signs. Bass leaking through the walls. Not her kind of place at all, but her hands wouldn't stop shaking and she needed to be anywhere that wasn't inside her own head. "You look like you're regretting that decision already," a voice said the second she stepped inside. She turned. A man leaned against the bar, watching her with an amusement that should have annoyed her and somehow didn't. Big, but not gym big. Dangerous big. Dark hair pushed back, a jaw like carved stubbornness. "I'm fine," she said. "You're soaked and you've been standing in the doorway for ten seconds like you're deciding whether to run." He nodded at the empty stool beside him. "Sit. Nobody here bites. Much." "Comforting." "I try." He signaled the bartender without looking away from her. "What are you drinking?" "Whatever's strongest." That got a real smile out of him, quick and crooked. "Rough day?" "Rough month." The word slipped out before she could stop it. "Rough everything." "Want to talk about it?" "Not even a little." "Good." He slid a glass toward her. "Talking's overrated anyway." "Is that your professional opinion?" "Bartenders and bikers, we're basically therapists. Except we don't ask questions." "That's the appeal, huh." "That's the whole business model." He tipped his glass toward hers. "Ryder, by the way." "Elena." "Elena." He said it slow, like he was testing how it sat in his mouth. "You come here a lot?" "First time. You?" "More than most people would admit to." "That an answer or a warning?" "Both." He turned fully on his stool, looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at. "You're staring," she said. "I'm allowed. You walked in here soaked and furious and somehow still the best thing that's happened to this bar all year." She laughed, surprised by the sound of it. "That might be the worst line I've ever heard." "Worked though, didn't it. You're smiling." "I hate that I am." "Don't hate it. Hating a smile is a waste of a perfectly good smile." "Is that a biker proverb too?" "Made it up just now, actually. Pretty good though." Outside, thunder rattled the windows. Someone cut the jukebox and the whole bar leaned into the sound of the rain. "You're not driving back in this," Ryder said, watching her check her phone for a weather update that only made things look worse. "I don't have anywhere else to be." "You do now." He stood, held out a hand. "I've got a place a few minutes from here. Storm shelter, dry blankets, and I promise, scout's honor, better company than an empty apartment." "That's a terrible pitch." "Is it working?" "Depressingly, yes." "Then don't overthink it." She looked at his hand for a long moment. "Don't make me regret this." "Wouldn't dream of it." "If you're secretly a serial killer, I want it on record that I had a bad feeling." "Noted. For what it's worth, I'm not." "That's exactly what a serial killer would say." "Fair point. Guess you'll have to find out." She took his hand anyway. The rain didn't let up the whole ride there. It didn't let up while they stood on his porch soaked and laughing about nothing, and it didn't let up until long after the two of them had stopped needing an excuse to stay close. Whatever this was, whoever he really was, Elena spent that night forgetting every reason she had to be careful. By morning, the storm had passed. So had he. The other side of the bed was cold, the sheets neatly turned back like he'd never been there at all. On the nightstand sat a note with nothing on it but her name. Elena sat up slowly, heart hammering. "You don't even know his last name," she said out loud, to no one, and the empty room didn't answer. She had no idea yet how much that single storm would cost her. Or how far he would come to find her again.