Throttle's Seduction(Insurgents MC Romance Book 7)(8)

By: Chiah Wilder



Fuck her—cute ass, pink hair, smart mouth, and all.





Chapter Three





Kimber Descourt laughed aloud when she heard Throttle’s Harley peel out of the parking lot. What a chauvinistic asshole. I bet I fix a Harley way better than he does. I probably ride better too. She smiled and went back to fixing Banger’s motorcycle. Since she’d decided to earn a living as a mechanic, she’d run into all types of guys, but the worst, by far, were the bikers, especially the old-school jerks like Throttle. She loved yanking on their chains, confident in her abilities as a class-A Harley tech. She had her dad to thank for that.

Kimber paused and took a deep gulp of air; oil, gas, and grease filled her lungs. Her dad had often told her that the smell of exhaust fumes and earth were the best scents in life because they symbolized freedom. A small ache pulled at her heart; she missed her dad. Even though he’d died seven years before, the pain was still raw, and she missed talking to him, riding with him, and working with him, side-by-side at his repair shop in Johnston, Iowa.

At twenty-three years old, she’d felt lost, even though she and Chewy had still been together. They had gone back about five years. They’d met at a motorcycle rally, and he’d tried really hard to impress and catch her. When she finally let him in, they were inseparable until she was hooked and hopelessly in love with the tall, tattooed biker. After that, club parties until four in the morning had been the norm for him, and when she’d threatened to move on, he’d calm down only to start it all up again when things had smoothed over.

She’d suspected that he’d been fucking the club whores at the parties, but she couldn’t pin anything on him, and none of his brothers would ever have breathed a word. When she’d found the neon thong in his back jeans’ pocket, she’d been livid and had been ready to shove it in his face when she’d received the call that’d changed her life: her father had been in a life-threatening motorcycle accident. Chewy’s late-night partying with his brothers, his drug use, the scent of cheap perfume, and the neon thong paled in comparison to what she’d been told over the receiver.

After a month on life support, she’d made the toughest decision of her life—letting her father fly free to join her mother, who’d died when Kimber had been three years old. She’d had to admit that Chewy had stepped up to the plate and had been there for her, holding her close while she’d wept inconsolably, supporting her decision to set her dad free and holding her up at his funeral.

Chewy had told her he wanted them to get serious, so they’d rented a small house together, and he’d given her his patch. She’d been thrilled to wear it, and she’d even begun dreaming of having kids. She’d stopped her studies at the local college and threw herself into running her dad’s repair shop, even though she’d have to lock the door to his office several times during the work day to hide her tears of sorrow. It’d seemed so incongruous.

A couple years later, Chewy had begun using again, staying out all night with his brothers, and reeking of cheap perfume. The fights between them had escalated until one cold winter night he’d slammed her head against the wall, causing bits of plaster to fall on the floor. Two black eyes, a couple broken ribs, and a bump the size of the state of Iowa later, she’d lain on the hospital bed realizing that she’d had enough. In all the times they’d fought, he’d never once laid a finger on her. Everything had changed. His bouquets of flowers, his apologies, his pleas for forgiveness, and his statements of undying love meant nothing; they’d all been crushed with that first punch.

By the time Chewy had staggered home from one of his club parties, she’d been on her way to Silver Ridge, Colorado, to work at her dad’s old Army buddy’s bike shop. She’d sold her dad’s business to Buster, the manager, and left everything behind except for her photo albums, cards her dad had given to her over the years, and her clothes. She’d left her patched vest on the bed with a note that had simply said, “Don’t come looking for me, asshole. We’re through.”

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