Wicked pickle a bad boy.., p.1
Wicked Pickle: A Bad Boy Biker Romance, page 1
by JJ Knight
the USA Today bestselling author of
Big Pickle ~ Hot Pickle ~ Spicy Pickle
Tasty Mango ~ Tasty Pickle ~ Tasty Cherry
Royal Pickle ~ Royal Rebel ~ Royal Escape
Juicy Pickle ~ Salty Pickle ~ Hold the Pickle
Wicked Pickle ~ Second Chance Santa
The Wedding Confession ~ The Wedding Shake-up
Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance
Single Dad on Top ~ The Accidental Harem
Uncaged Love ~ Fight for Her ~ Reckless Attraction
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Copyright © 2024 by JJ Knight All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews, fan-made graphics, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edition 1.0
Casey Shay Press
PO Box 160116
Austin, TX 78716
www.jjknight.com
Paperback ISBN: 9781938150425
Ebook cover photo by Artur Verkhovetskiy
Paperback cover art by Prosenjit Ray
Interior illustration by Sue’s Design Hub
Printed edges designed by JJ Knight
ABOUT WICKED PICKLE
Girlfriends, I’ve really done it this time.
I’m a bridesmaid at a bachelorette party, minding my own business at a local bar after doing six shots of Fireball, when I realize I need to pee. In size small Spanx.
I’m a large.
While I wrestle with my white-spandex belly-smasher in the only bathroom, I’m holding up the whole bar from relieving itself.
When the broody, tatted-up owner breaks down the door, thinking maybe I’ve alcohol-poisoned myself into the afterlife, my drink-addled brain decides to revisit the karate I learned around third grade.
But I misfire my karate kick and hook a thigh around his waist. Then, the sexy rock skull chains hanging off his belt snag my Spanx.
We’re stuck.
Junk to junk.
My best friend, the bride, holds back the bar room paparazzi and promises to snip us apart on one condition:
This hottie biker bad boy has to be my date at her wedding.
Friends, this is the start of one wicked love story.
CONTENTS
1. Symphony
2. Diesel
3. Symphony
4. Diesel
5. Symphony
6. Diesel
7. Symphony
8. Diesel
9. Symphony
10. Diesel
11. Symphony
12. Diesel
13. Symphony
14. Diesel
15. Symphony
16. Diesel
17. Symphony
18. Diesel
19. Symphony
20. Diesel
21. Symphony
22. Diesel
23. Symphony
24. Diesel
25. Symphony
26. Diesel
27. Symphony
28. Diesel
29. Symphony
30. Diesel
31. Symphony
32. Diesel
33. Symphony
34. Diesel
35. Symphony
36. Diesel
37. Symphony
38. Diesel
39. Symphony
40. Diesel
41. Symphony
Epilogue: Diesel
Characters With Their Own Books
Books by JJ Knight
About JJ Knight
CHAPTER 1
SYMPHONY
The one sound you never want to hear when you’re squished four to a seat in the back of a Ford Explorer is the retching sound of a girlfriend losing her liquor.
I’m stuffed into a red dress so tight I can’t even lean forward to see who it is. “Marietta, is that you?” I ask.
Marietta is a known lightweight, and we went through four bottles of blueberry Moscato at the Dumpling Palace before calling for this ride.
One-point-five of those bottles went to me, but I ate thirteen dumplings to slow down the booze. I’m a little giggly but nowhere near the puking stage.
“It’s Bailey,” Jenna says. She’s next to me and can lean easily in her shimmery ice blue sheath. “She’s trying to catch it with her fake wedding veil.”
“That’s netting!” I cry. “It won’t hold anything.”
Bailey is about to be a bride, and we’re celebrating her bachelorette party.
“You’re right,” Marietta says. She’s on the other side of Jenna, next to Bailey, who is by the door. “It’s leaking right through.”
The driver turns around. “What is that smell?” He lowers the music we asked him to crank up. “Did someone vomit in my car?”
Jenna, Marietta, and I look at each other. I try again to lean forward to see Bailey. No use. I can’t move. “We’ll clean it up,” I say.
The retching sound happens again, and this time, the three of us lift our hands to our noses. I’m glad to be by the opposite door. I’m a sympathetic puker.
“Poor Bailey,” Marietta says.
We all lurch to the left as the car slides off the road and into a crumbling asphalt parking lot.
I let out a squeal, clutching the door. Marietta screams.
“What are you doing?” Jenna cries.
The ground crunches as we skid to a stop.
“Out,” the driver says. “I have the right to terminate any ride at a safe location. Out now.”
Jenna lifts her phone. She called the ride. “I’m one-starring you into oblivion,” she says.
“Right back at you,” the man says. “And consider yourself blocked.”
Jenna stabs at her phone. “Where are we?”
I peer out the window. “Looks like a bar.”
Bailey’s door opens, sending a sharp breeze through the car.
We all sigh in relief at the fresh air.
“You okay, Bailey?” Marietta asks.
I’m done trying to lean forward. I open my door and throw out a leg. My three-inch heel teeters unsteadily on the broken ground. I hang on to the handle as I pull myself out of the seat.
Whew. I made it. I spot Bailey in the headlights. She’s already circled around to the front of the car.
“Hey, girl! Wait up!” I totter toward her, unsure of my footing in my tight dress. I feel like a stuffed sausage.
Jenna and Marietta scoot out my side, no doubt to avoid any goopy substances.
Bailey keeps walking toward the front door of the bar.
“Wait up, Bailey!” Marietta calls. She’s sensible in silver flats, so she easily catches up. Bailey still has her soiled veil wadded up in her hands.
Behind us, we hear the slam of one car door, then another. The driver has shut them. Before we can say anything to him, he leaps behind the wheel and peels out of the parking lot.
“Screw him,” Jenna says, typing a review as fast as she can.
I leave her and make it to Bailey, who has stopped by a pickup truck with huge tires. “Hey, you okay?”
She nods. Her dangling earrings twinkle from the light of the neon sign on the bar. “I’m a lot better now that it’s all out.”
“On that jerk’s floorboard!” Jenna says. She stabs her phone with flourish. “One-starred, reviewed, and blocked before he could do anything to me.” She’s pleased.
“I see a trash bin,” I tell Bailey. “Let me take that.” I squeamishly pinch the two sides of the ball of puke-veil and walk toward a rusting barrel. With a quick flick of my wrist, it’s gone.
“Thanks.” Bailey looks down. “I think I missed my dress. There might be some on my shoes.”
I take her arm. “Let’s go inside and get you cleaned up. Then we can call another car.”
She nods. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drink blueberry Moscato again.”
The four of us head for the bar entrance, a beat-up metal door in the middle of the brick wall.
“The Leaky Skull,” Marietta says, taking in the neon words with the outline of a skeleton drinking a beer. “What kind of bar is this?”
I glance around at the cars. “Lots of pickup trucks.”
“And motorcycles,” Jenna adds.
Marietta’s eyes get wide. “Do you think it’s a biker club like in the dark romance novels? Are we going to get claimed by a gang leader in black leather?” She seems quite taken with the idea.
“Come on,” Jenna says. “We’ll go in, clean up Bailey, and get back on the road.” She pulls on Marietta. “And no asking anyone about their tattoos.”
“Awww, spoilsport.” Marietta pushes through to be the first one to the door. “I’m going to let a broody stranger buy me a drink.”
Jenna and I exchange a glance. It better be sparkling water, or Marietta might sit on an ex-con’s lap.
The moment she opens the d
oor, the noise makes us all pause. Music pulses from a tiny stage where a three-man band thrashes around with drums and two guitars.
The battered wood tables are small and scattered throughout the room, all taken by the kind of men we don’t encounter much in suburban Miami.
“Whoa,” Marietta breathes.
It’s something. There are women, sure, especially close to the stage, sitting with men and sometimes on the men.
But mostly, it’s very tough-looking dudes. The motif is denim and black. Every man wears heavy boots, dark jeans, black shirts, and leather. There are chains everywhere. On vests. On belts. Hanging from wallets.
Some wear ball caps. Others leather wraps or bandannas. There are more bald heads than hairstyles.
All four of us pause in the doorway like deer in the headlights. Compared to this crowd, we look like we’ve come from a high school prom.
Jenna clutches my arm. “Maybe we should call for a ride from the parking lot.”
I glance over at Bailey. She’s grimacing at her hands. Yeah, she needs a wash down.
“Nonsense,” I say. “We’re the four whores of the apocalypse. Come on.”
I march right through the tables. We’re not going to be scared little ninnies. It’s a bar. There will be a bathroom.
I scan the back wall. Sure enough, I spot a door that says, “Outhouse.” I turn back to Bailey. “You can clean up there.” I point to the sign beyond the long bar.
“I’ll go with Bailey,” Jenna says. They beeline for the door.
Marietta is transfixed by the scene. “It’s exactly like I imagined.”
Good gracious, I better hang on to her, or she’s going to take off on the back of someone’s motorcycle in six seconds.
I thread my arm through hers. “There are some stools open at the bar.”
As we approach the long counter, I spot my reflection in the mirror behind it. It’s not hard, despite the rows of liquor bottles. I’m wearing siren red and a lot of it.
I tilt my head to examine the hourglass silhouette I achieved with a spandex body suit that starts below my double Ds and goes halfway to my knees.
It shifted my curves to all the right places. Too bad I can’t move.
Or breathe.
And judging by how tight it feels now compared to when I put it on, I better not eat or drink anything else.
We reach the stools, and I ease onto one. We’re not there five seconds when a man in a black T-shirt that reads, “Splash your skull,” sets two shots in front of us. “From the gentlemen at the end of the bar.” Then he plops down two more. “For your friends when they return.”
“Oooooh,” Marietta says, lifting the glass and toasting it in the direction of the buyers. They have beards to their bellies and black bandannas tied on their heads.
“Don’t drink that,” I hiss.
“Watch me,” Marietta says. Then she downs the shot.
“It could be drugged!”
The bartender, a young guy probably barely old enough to drink, rolls his eyes. “I poured them myself.”
“See?” Marietta croons. “Chicken.”
Oh, no, she didn’t just challenge me. I snatch up the shot and down it.
Flames lick along my throat.
Fireball. I recognize that taste from my undergraduate days. I don’t think I’ve had one since.
Marietta hops from her stool. “I’m going to go talk to them!”
Oh, Jesus.
She picks up the other two shots and heads down the bar.
“Wait. I’m coming.” That shot is going to hit her any second, and she’s holding liquid dynamite.
I hop down, glad for the mega-bra keeping my boobs from bouncing hard enough to give me two black eyes, and follow her.
Upon closer inspection, the men are easily twice our age. But Marietta doesn’t care. Based on my knowledge of her bookshelf, I know what she’s thinking.
Age-gap romance.
I crane my neck to see if Jenna and Bailey have made it out of the bathroom yet. Hopefully, a new ride is on the way. We’ll smile for a second, thank them for the drinks, and get out of here.
“I heard you got us shots,” Marietta says.
The two men grin at her. This cannot be part of her motorcycle club fantasy. They are grimy and tattered. I’m pretty sure the smell that’s wrinkling my nose is coming from them.
“Hello, darlin’,” one of them says. “Why don’t you take another one of those shots right now?”
Oh, hell no. Marietta will be under the table in five minutes from the one she already did. I snatch both of them out of her hands and down them.
“Hey!” she cries. “Those were mine.”
“You need to slow down if you’re going to talk to them,” I tell her, sounding way more like one of my many foster mothers than I’d like. All their warnings about what it takes to be a good girl are exactly what made me into hell on wheels.
“You need to lighten up, little lady,” the other man says. “Your friend here is having a bit of fun.” He turns to the bar. “Can I get another Fireball for this cute thing?”
Marietta lights up at that. Oh, damn. We’re in trouble.
But then I see him.
Another bartender. He has a confidence about him that’s wholly different from the younger man pulling a pint of beer from the tap.
He flips the bottle in his hand and pours the shot with practiced ease. “Found yourself a girl who doesn’t already know your reputation?” he asks as he pushes the glass across the wood surface.
Oh, that voice. It’s like silk sliding over naked skin. Despite feeling outraged that he called Marietta a girl, I’m mesmerized. He wears the same black T-shirt as the other guy, but his is filled out with a chest that could break brick. Arm muscles bulge as he sets down the bottle. Tattoos don’t just peek out from the sleeve, but they are sleeves, full ones, snakes and roses and an elaborate iron cross.
Now I’m the one wanting to ask about tattoos. And maybe trail my fingertips over those.
He looks at me and catches me watching. His eyes are smoky gray as we lock gazes. He takes in my red dress, and I brace myself for a flicker of disappointment that I’m not some sexy waif. But he lingers. Cleavage, waist, hips.
My heart speeds up. He didn’t hate what he saw.
In fact, he keeps looking longer than he should. Then, one heavy eyebrow lifts for a second.
What was that? Interest? Or amusement?
I want to know.
But Marietta’s reaching for the shot.
I can’t let her do that.
I snatch it up and down it, too. God, that’s four already.
“Symphony!” Marietta cries. “Stop drinking my shots!”
The bartender’s eyebrow lifts another inch. “How many of those can you do?” he asks.
It sounds like a challenge. I like the idea of showing off to this man. I can hold my liquor.
I lean on the bar. “As many as you can dish out.”
He pours a fresh one and clinks it onto the counter in front of me.
I pick up the shot and down it. “That’s five,” I tell him.
He whistles, and the sight of his lips puckering makes my pulse race. He pours another.
“Isn’t your boss going to wonder where all his Fireball went with no receipts to back it up?” I ask.
He pushes the glass my way. “It’s my bar. I can do what I want.”
The owner. That’s something.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Diesel.”
Damn. Now, that’s a name for a man in a biker bar.
“I’m Symphony.”
“Sounds like music someone could spend all night listening to.”
Holy shit. I’ve been made fun of all my life for this name. But now, I love it.
Despite three yards of skin-tight spandex holding in my lady bits, I feel them yawning. Open for this one, they say. He’s a hot one.
God, I sound like Marietta.
His gaze drops to the glass.
I pick up the sixth shot. I’m feeling the first one. The others will be close to follow. But I don’t back down from a dare, so I lift the glass and down it.
“Symphony, what’s going on?” Bailey comes up behind me. “And why is Marietta hanging onto two old men?”
I turn to look. She’s right. Marietta stands between the stools, one arm on each man’s shoulder.
“We better get her,” Jenna says.
