A Biker's Obsession: Book 1: A Biker's Obsession, #1

By Hope Rosen

The obsession was unexpected for Jamison McGarrity. He'd only meant to take care of some unfinished business at his late mother's bar. He never expected to fall so damn hard for her. But now he can't think of anyone else, even when there's so much at stake. He cannot rest until he has her.

Sara Peterson has been on the run for longer than she cares to remember. She hasn't had the luxury of relaxing, not for a moment, much less falling in love with someone. And the last person she needs to be getting tangled up with is the enforcer of the local motorcycle club.

But the connection is undeniable and no matter how hard Sara tries to safeguard her heart, cocky and arrogant Jamison has a way of getting past it. She tells herself it's just the sex, unwilling to admit that Jamison just might have been put in her path for a specific reason.

But their respective pasts and way too many secrets will present a problem and Sara will have to face the fact that Jamison won't be deterred... neither will the people still after her.

Jamison and Sara soon discover that they're connected by more than just their intense chemistry and blooming love. Will their secrets succeed in tearing them apart and just what lengths will they go to to save themselves and one another?

**Note: This is Book 1 in a series and does end in a cliffhanger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Tree Publishing
• Release date: Jun 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223293132

Book preview

For my very own Bearded Biker - ever patient, and my endless inspiration.

Prologue

Just past the crest of the next hill stood a run-down, wanna-be biker joint owned by Jamison McGarrity’s former stepfather. Former because his mother had passed away two years before. Former because that wasted sack of breath that he had never called Dad was now dead. Just days before, in fact.

Frank had his fair share of enemies. He was known to be a huckster, a liar, and, worst of all, a sniveling coward, though Frank himself did not know any of this. No, all Frank knew of himself was that he was a charming, worldly businessman. Although Jamison was certain that the worn-out barmaid of Frank’s establishment, of which she was now sole employee, would have other thoughts about Frank’s business acumen.

Jamison knew that waiting in that bar was an exhausted young woman who had put up with Frank’s shit for an obscene amount of time, and Jamison could not get her out of his head. He did not know her name, and Frank must have been paying her under the table because there was no mention of her anywhere in the bar records that Jamison had scoured through. 

It had been little more than a month since Jamison had made his return to the bar that his stepfather and mother had so charmingly named Leather and Legs. He couldn’t face the motherfucker who was his stepfather after what he’d done to his mom. On the day of her funeral, Jamison vowed to himself that the next time he came face to face with the cocksucker, it would be to serve justice for his late mother. 

As angry as he might be, Jamison was not sloppy. He was precise and thorough, and he would quickly pick up and retain details that most others would miss. These traits were partially why he was such a good mechanic, and also why he was known as the Reaper that nobody wanted to fuck with. The MC that had taken him in as a youth, known as the Smokin’ Reapers, were known more for taking up for the underdog than they were for any criminal activity. In a town where the local police department was more active in creating crime than preventing it, many citizens of the fairly small community had turned to the MC to dole out justice. Jamison knew from firsthand experience that in Pike, officers were more likely to plead either ignorance or indifference when it came to wives and children needing protection from heavy-handed husbands and fathers. It wasn’t just the women and kids that asked for their help either. Too many times Jamison had to bear witness to the twisted features of anguish and anger on the faces of bereft fathers and older brothers who were pursuing justice for loved ones who had been violated. Jamison and his brothers of steel heard the same things over and over again from those seeking solace:

The officer said they couldn’t do anything.

They say that they knew her date’s family - he comes from good people and there is no point in destroying two lives.

"Boys will be boys."

That last one, in particular, got under Jamison’s skin, and he always made sure to be extra attentive to those particular cases, perhaps because he had always heard that line from his stepfather - along with a shit-eating grin - every time Jamison would catch him groping some drunk bar patron. Not being able to bear the thought of breaking her heart yet again, Jamison had never told his mom

He had planned to give the bar a wide berth once Frank’s demise had been made public. Their acrimonious relationship was well documented within the town of Pike. Jamison had borne the brunt of Frank’s backhand throughout his youth, and as soon as he outgrew Frank at the age of seventeen, he had slammed his fist into Frank’s face again and again; which was partly why Jamison had been kicked out of the house. 

And he should stay away, he tells himself. But she is there. 

She had not been a part of the plan. But after he’d snuck into the bar after hours a few weeks before and carefully rigged surveillance, he’d gotten more than he’d bargained for. He’d gotten much more than just a timeline of Frank’s habits, and just who was making unexpected calls which were established by reviewing the videos that were fed to his laptop. She was there; the lone barmaid that remained even after the other older waitress got into a lover’s spat with Frank and took off, and the greasy-haired fry cook quit in a rage after Frank denied him a smoke break. She remained. But there did not seem to be any loyalty or affection between her and Frank. In fact, she looked downright miserable. 

He’d caught her crying on tape, tucked partway in the shadows of the storage area of the kitchen. Unknowingly, she had looked straight into one of his cameras, and the vision of her watery eyes so full of pain, but shining with fire, would bore tracks into his brain where it would continually swim around, making itself known at the worst times, and then eventually all the time. She would turn her eyes from the camera and angrily swipe the tears away as she quickly composed herself, then wiped her hands on her apron and went back to work. 

He admired the steel in her spine but watching that private moment hit Jamison like a sucker punch to the gut. He was forced to realize that the watchful eye he had been keeping on the young, capable barmaid was due to much more than attempting to discern her relationship to Frank, or simply enjoying the view of her generously rounded ass as she bent over to clean the tables.

He turned the key in the ignition and his bike roared to life. He should turn around and go back to the clubhouse - anywhere far away from here. But there was something in her that called to him specifically, and in spite of all of his better senses, he was determined to answer it.

He eased his bike onto the road and turned towards the bar. It was time to finally see the woman in person who had been haunting his dreams and his every waking hour. He just hoped she was ready for him. 

Chapter 1

Miss, Miss? I’ll have another.

Just a sec, Sara called out from behind the bar as she set down another tray of empty mugs and longnecks through the order out window. She shoved them out of her way to deal with later. For the last month, she had acted as a dishwasher, cook, and sole waitress to this dump. And for the last three weeks, she had also acted as manager after her prick of a boss had gone and gotten himself killed. 

Inconsiderate asshole.

She supposed she should feel bad, but after continually shorting her on her wages, giving her no insurance, making her work obscene hours, and, worst of all, implying to some of the drunk patrons that she was his feisty sidepiece, she could not feel too bad that someone had finally done what she had fantasized about doing several times. 

She yanked down her tight black miniskirt for the umpteenth time that night. She was not sure if it was because she had had to wash it so many times that it was starting to shrink, or because her only meals of late had been the leftover burgers and fries. Either way, her ass was perilously close to popping out from under her skirt. She hated this getup: short skirt, low necked tight t-shirt. It was great for tips, but now that she was a cook and dishwasher as well, it did not guard her against the hot water or hot grease that occasionally popped. Before her erstwhile co-workers had run out of town, she’d made the ridiculous uniform work to her advantage, but now she could give hardly a thought to how well the snug outfit hugged her form when she was acting as waitress, cook, and dishwasher. Thank heavens, most of the menu items were crappy boxed items that she simply had to microwave or heat in the oven. The fryer, however, had become her nemesis with oil popping out unexpectedly and catching the delicate skin of her chest and upper arms. 

Miss! the middle-aged man’s voice whined again. Who was she kidding? Everybody that came in here was a middle-aged man. Her boss, Frank Sever, had had hopes of running a biker bar that would attract the older Harley riders. The midlife crisis blowhards that had enough dough to shell out on fancy bikes that they only rode once a week - weather permitting. These guys pushed pencils and made phone calls during the week, then spent their weekends wearing freshly purchased leather that wasn’t even cracked. They wore shiny rings that they hoped would authenticate them as genuine bikers, and tried to play the part and act tough, but usually, if she snarled, they backed into a corner and piddled themselves. 

Leather and Legs. She supposed she was now the legs in the title, although she started working for the place a few years after it opened. She has no idea whose sorry set of legs were the originals, and at this point, she was so dog-tired she didn’t care. The place was by no means booming, but it was just enough to cause her to fall into an exhausted stupor in the early morning hours. So why did she endure all these indignities and soreness? Because Frank didn’t do background checks. No background check, no official I.D., no way to track her down. Frank didn’t care if she was fresh off the boat or running from some crime, as long as she looked good in the uniform and could hustle the customers, then she was hired. She suspected that part of him enjoyed how hiring someone who did not want to be found added to his biker cred. After all, he had fancied himself a renegade outlaw who had simply chosen to lay down roots in a shabby bar out on the edge of the county line. 

The front door of the bar swung open, letting a shaft of early evening light pierce the darkened bar. Sara squinted at the large figure outlined in the light. The figure stepped forward, letting the door slam behind him. The large outline materialized and eyed the patrons wearily. The man, who could not be much older than she was, clutched a motorcycle helmet in one big, meaty hand. He stood there and took in the scene carefully, not appearing at all self-conscious at the curious stares looking back at him. 

Sara could not help but stare at the man who cut quite an impressive figure. His black long-sleeved t-shirt encased a thick, well-muscled chest. She checked out the patches on his leather vest as he passed by the bar, his heavy boots echoing on the cheap wooden floors. The back of it bore a top and bottom rocker, as well as a huge emblem in the center with a grim reaper clutching a cigarette in between its’ teeth. The top read ‘Smokin’ Reapers,’ the bottom had the state of origin: Oklahoma. 

She raised an eyebrow. Well, I’ll be damned. We’ve got ourselves a legit club member. There is a first time for everything.

The noise on the floor quieted down slightly as the man walked across it, but resumed back to a normal level once he found a seat across from the old jukebox that didn’t work anymore. He crossed his boots on the seat across from him, his eyes swept the room again, then finally rest on hers. He gave her a frank perusal before his gaze landed back on her eyes. This was a look that she was not unfamiliar with, but for some reason, she did not have the urge to throw a drink in his face like she typically did. Instead, she continued slowly wiping down the beer mug in her hand and stared right back. If she was not mistaken, in his head he had her top off and was working on her bra by the look on his face. The corner of her mouth tilted upward slightly. It was nice to be coveted by a man that didn’t make her want to gouge her eyes out. That was a feeling she had not had in quite a long time. Her eyes fell to the man’s hand that was idly fiddling with a metal lighter. She felt a heat spreading through her belly.

What do I have to do to get a refill around here? the same whiny voice. 

I’m coming! Keep your pants on, she hollered to the table. She sighed; back to reality.

She fixed the whiner his drink and hustled it over to his table just in time to hear the man tell his friends in a smug voice, I bet if I took my pants off she’d really be coming, he laughed. A couple of the men at the table laughed right along with him; the other guys shifted uncomfortably. The whiner looked up at her standing there holding a beer in her hand and looking down at him sternly. He chuckled, Well, hey there, Sweetcheeks. It’s about time you paid a visit.

She held back a sneer and then smiled sweetly at him. Well, you’ll have to forgive me, Sugar. I wanted to make sure the temperature was just right, she said in a syrupy voice before she tilted the mug of beer over and poured it all over his lap.

The man shoved back his chair, knocking it over in the process, You dumb bitch!

Sara did her