Page 6 of Ridin’ Dirty

Route 66 was known for its simple, classic, American style menu—the most notable items the burgers and fries. The décor was vintage, nineteen-fifties flare but with a serious biker vibe. The floors were covered in checkered, black and white tile. The walls were exposed brick, painted to look distressed, like the place hadn’t been touched-up in seventy years. Every table was a booth with red cushions, and the walls were littered with neon lit script, old, framed posters, vinyl records, rusty street signs, and Harley Davidson paraphernalia. The bar that spanned the back wall of the restaurant served soda, beer, and boozy milkshakes; and the jukebox situated near the front entrance played only rock-n-roll.

All that to say, a fifty-dollar tip wasn’t the norm.

Viv told them.

Vivienne Matthews was the epitome of a badass biker babe—and it wasn’t merely because she was the wife and ol’ lady to the president of the Wild Stallions Missoula Motorcycle Club. Viv held her own. Route 66 existed because of her. She was the boss, and she was damn good at it. Somehow, she was respected and admired in equal measure. It was hard to describe exactly how she managed it—she just did. She had this aura about her that made her magnetic.

I looked around front-of-house in search of her and spotted the back of her at the bar. Her ashy-brown hair hung loose halfway to her waist. She was taller than me by a couple of inches, standing at five-eight, and I was often jealous of the way her slender legs seemed to go on for days. She looked great in a pair of fitted jeans, which was about all she ever wore. That day, she was in a low-cut, plain white tank top, exposing the full sleeve of ink she had down her left arm.

She told me once she didn’t have ink anywhere else. Apparently, what started as a single tattoo meant to brand her as Nighthawk’s woman turned into a mosaic of their life together, spanning more than twenty-five years.

As if she could feel my stare, she glanced back at me from over her shoulder. Our eyes met, I shook my head, and she flashed me a crooked smile before turning to head for the door that led to the kitchen.

Viv and I met by chance. When I moved back to Missoula in desperate need of a job, the diner was the first place I applied. It was a fifteen-minute walk and a three-minute ride from the apartment I managed to lease by way of a heavy show of flirtation and a bit of strategic pouting. Carmy loaned me the money I needed for first and last month’s rent; and, determined to pay him back rather than ask for more, I didn’t waste a second in my job hunt.

To this day, I couldn’t say what Viv saw in me when we met, but she hired me on the spot, knowing hardly anything about me. She told me I’d fit right in, and she wasn’t wrong.

I’d learned, she rarely was.

I didn’t know she was a Stallion’s ol’ lady until my first day. Nighthawk and his VP, Cobra, were my first customers. It was hard to forget the feeling I got in the pit of my stomach when I saw that Vice President patch on Cobra’s kutte. He looked nothing like Twister, but he sure did flirt like him. It was second nature to engage, but it hit different. Not merely on account of my broken heart and wounded pride, either. I wasn’t in Gillette anymore.

I wasn’t on the compound.

I wasn’t at the Stallions’ clubhouse.

I was home—and that made things complicated.

“Lyla!”

I whipped my head to the side just in time to watch Maxine rush toward me with a huge smile on her face. If Viv was magnetic, Max was the embodiment of sunshine.

She had her dad’s thick, blonde hair, hers grown out down to her elbows. Like her mom, she was slender with subtle curves that made her look every bit as delicate and young as she was. We were about the same height—five-foot-six—which put her at eye-level as she came to a stop beside me. Her hazel-green eyes were bright with excitement, and she was practically bouncing on her toes in her exuberance.

“I’ve got news! Tell me your plans tonight involve coming to the clubhouse.”

“Oh, uh…” I hesitated, tucking the little leather folder in my hands into the apron strapped around my hips. “Maybe.”

“Okay. What do I have to do to change that maybe into a definitely?”

I turned to face her directly, resting my hands on my hips. Looking at her in all her twenty-three-year-old beauty reminded me I wasn’t so young anymore. Not that I considered myself old, but—fuck. I was thirty.

Seven years ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about where I intended to party on my birthday. The first time I ever stepped foot into a biker clubhouse, I was twenty-two, and I loved everything about it. The people. The atmosphere. The energy. It was like entering another world—an alternate dimension where the rules were different and freedom was real.

It was visceral.

It made me feel alive.

It still did—when I felt careless enough to let myself go.

But life was so different now.

I lived off the compound, which meant someone was always watching.

On my home turf, I couldn’t be stupid and fall for a Stallion; not because I learned my lesson, but because the consequences of doing so were worse than a broken heart.

“Honestly, I haven’t really thought about what I want to do tonight,” I admitted.

She sighed and gave me the biggest eye-roll imaginable.