Cover

Running on

Diesel

The Whiskeys

Melissa Foster

Copyright Page

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

RUNNING ON DIESEL

Copyright © 2021 Melissa Foster

V1.0 8.11.21

Kobo Edition

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover Design: Elizabeth Mackey Designs

Cover Photography: R+M Photography

WORLD LITERARY PRESS

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

A Note to Readers

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Ready for the Whiskeys at Redemption Ranch?

About Searching for Love

About A Little Bit Wicked

Whiskey/Wicked Family Tree

Love Melissa’s Writing?

More Books By Melissa Foster

Acknowledgments

Meet Melissa

A Note to Readers

I have been waiting years to write Diesel and Tracey’s book, and I am thrilled to bring you their emotional love story. I hope you adore Diesel, my roughest, gruffest hero yet, who withholds words as if he has a limited supply, and Tracey, the perfect mix of tough, sassy, and sweet to draw out Diesel’s very own brand of romance. If this is your first Whiskey book, all of my Love in Bloom novels are written to stand alone, so dive right in and enjoy the fun, sexy ride.

For avid fans of the Whiskeys, while I’ll be writing about the Whiskeys’ Colorado cousins next (The Whiskeys: Dark Knights at Redemption Ranch), but the Dark Knights at Peaceful Harbor series is not ending. Isabel “Izzy” Ryder will be getting a happily ever after, as will Jon Butterscotch and others in the series. Stay tuned for more details.

You can download the Whiskey family tree here:

See the rest of The Whiskeys: Dark Knights at Peaceful Harbor series here:

Sign up for my newsletter to make sure you don’t miss out on future releases and sales:

For more information about my fun and emotional sexy romances, all of which can be read as stand-alone novels or as part of the larger series, visit my website:

If you prefer sweet romance with no explicit scenes or graphic language, please try the Sweet with Heat series written under my pen name, Addison Cole. You’ll find many great love stories with toned-down heat levels.

Happy reading!

~ Melissa

Chapter One

THE MURMURS OF the crowd at Whiskey Bro’s competed with the sounds of billiards and the cold thunder of Desmond “Diesel” Black’s mounting anger as he poured a round of shots for a customer, eyes locked on Tracey Kline. The hot little waitress was getting eye-fucked by a denim-jacket-wearing, spike-haired punk who had just strolled into the bar with two other guys. Tracey, being the sweet thing she was, batted her big hazel eyes, and with a flick of her pointy chin, sent her shoulder-length silky dark hair out of her face as she motioned toward a table. Her hair tumbled back down over one eye, which only made her sexier. The denim-jacket-wearing asshole must have seen it as an invitation, because while his buddies headed for the table, he headed for Tracey. Diesel gritted his teeth.

“Watch it, dude,” Jed Moon, the other bartender, warned.

Diesel snapped around, glowering at him.

Amused, Moon nodded to the tequila Diesel was still pouring, which was flowing like a river off the edge of the bar, puddling by his black leather boots.

“Did you just growl at me? You’re losing it, man.” He tossed Diesel a towel.

“Fuck.” Diesel’s eyes shot back to the asshole talking with Tracey as he mopped up the bar.

Tracey looked over, catching Diesel watching them. Her eyes narrowed, and the dickbag’s gaze followed hers to Diesel.

Diesel rolled his shoulders back, breathing fire.

The asshole’s face blanched, but as if he’d caught himself, an arrogant grin appeared, and he said something else to Tracey, then sauntered over to his friends. Tracey glared at Diesel, spun on her heels, and stormed over to another customer.

Moon sidled up to him. “I’m beginning to think you’ve either been here too long or you need to make that girl yours.”

Diesel’s eyes remained trained on Tracey. He wasn’t about to make any woman his. He’d been a lone wolf since he was nineteen years old, when his mother lost a long, hard battle with cancer, and he’d left the only home he’d ever known in Hope Valley, Colorado. At thirty-two, the only ties he had or wanted were to the brotherhood of the Dark Knights motorcycle club, of which he was a Nomad member—loyal to the club without claiming any chapter as his own. But Moon had a point about him being there too long. Diesel was a bounty hunter, and he didn’t usually stay anywhere more than a few weeks before he got the itch to climb on his motorcycle and take off to another town or state. But he’d stuck around as a favor to the president of the motorcycle club’s old lady, Red Whiskey. Her oldest son, Bullet, had run the bar for years, but now that he and his wife had a baby girl, he wanted more family time. Diesel had stepped in and taken over in the evenings.

Then there was the second favor Red had asked of him. The favor regarding Tracey, who had escaped an abusive relationship and had been a scared, broken bird without a nest—She’s a special girl, and I need you to watch over her. Keep her safe. The favor, and the girl, had kept him there for nearly two years.

“I’d say fuck her out of your system,” Moon said, jarring Diesel from his thoughts. “But Tracey’s not like that. She’s the kind of girl you settle down with.”

No shit. Diesel dropped the towel and stepped on it to mop the liquor off the floor. “I’d split that pretty little thing in half.”

Tracey might have come into her own these last two years and gone from a broken bird to a wise owl, but at six foot six and two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, with a cock worthy of a hundred women kneeling at his feet, Diesel spoke the truth. Tracey was only a hair over five feet tall, and couldn’t weigh more than a buck ten soaking wet. Not to mention that she was too damn sweet for the likes of him. But even that didn’t keep thoughts of having her tight little body wrapped around him at bay. He didn’t know how it had gotten to that point when he’d initially only been all about protecting her, but hell if she didn’t send lust scorching through his veins.

That was the primary reason he was planning on getting the hell out of Peaceful Harbor for good soon. Usually, when the urge hit, he climbed on his bike and took off without giving anyone a heads-up, much less notice. But he couldn’t do that to the Whiskeys. They relied on him, and he owed them time to find a replacement. He’d tell Red tomorrow that he was taking off after the holidays, which should give them time to find someone.

Tracey stalked toward the bar, shooting invisible daggers at Diesel.

This from the girl who hadn’t been able to look him in the eyes for the first few months she’d worked there. She’d come a long way from the scared girl who lived in oversized flannel shirts and baggy jeans. His gaze dropped to the sliver of skin between the hem of the Whiskey Bro’s T-shirt clinging to her perky breasts and her curve-hugging jeans. He imagined her spread out on the bar as he tasted that sliver of pale flesh on his way to the feast between her legs.

Tracey smacked her hand on the bar, snapping him from the fantasy he had no business entertaining. “Stop scaring off my tips.”

“Pull your shirt down before you get yourself in trouble.” The place was busy. She had plenty of tips coming in. She didn’t need to advertise what she wasn’t putting out.

She smirked, maintaining a challenging stare as she leaned over the bar, giving him an eyeful of cleavage and revealing a hint of black lace. “I think you have me confused with your biker hos. Just because they call you Daddy doesn’t mean you can act like my father.”

“Daddy,” my ass. He wasn’t into that shit. He leaned his forearms on the bar, bringing him nose to nose with Tracey, her enticingly feminine scent stoking the flames he was trying to ignore. He held her gaze, enjoying the quickening of her breaths, the nervous flutter of her long lashes as she visibly tried to regain her courage. He got a kick out of her newfound bravado, but she was liable to get herself in trouble acting like that.

“Getting a little mouthy, sparky,” he warned. “Better check that.”

She pressed her lips into a firm line and pushed from the bar, nervously looking at the customers climbing onto the barstools beside her. “I need a pitcher of Bud and three glasses.”

He scanned the room as he filled the order, nervous energy jumping off Tracey like fleas. Diesel caught the asshole in the denim jacket checking her out and shut him down with another threatening stare as Tracey reached across the bar for the glasses. Diesel covered her slim wrist with his hand, his fingers covering her entire forearm. She was so small, it made him sick to think a man had ever raised a hand to her.

“What?” she snapped, fire igniting in her eyes.

“Watch yourself.”

THE GALL OF this beast trying to tell me what to wear and how to act. There was a time when Tracey would have cowered under the controlling touch or warning glare of a man, especially one the size of a mountain who grunted more than he spoke. But she was no longer the weak, friendless girl she’d been when she’d escaped the wrath of her asshole boyfriend, Dennis Smoot, and she’d come too far to let anyone tell her what she could or couldn’t do.

She held Diesel’s dark stare, heat and fury warring inside her as the familiar and all-too-confusing clutch of attraction or hate—she could never tell which with him—dug its claws in deep. “I’m just trying to make a living,” she bit out. “You watch yourself.”

Yanking her arm free, she gathered her order, sure smoke was coming out her ears. She stalked away, trying to calm herself down on her way to deliver the drinks. Why did she let him get under her skin? Her answer came as she passed Dixie Whiskey-Stone’s side of the floor. Dixie was a tough redhead who handled the books for the Whiskey family businesses and waitressed a few nights a week. As always, her tables were packed with high-tipping men, while Tracey had two empty tables, and her other customers were mostly women, thanks to Diesel’s Don’t go near her or I’ll rip your arms off stare.

The bastard.

Last Thanksgiving Tracey had finally figured out why Diesel scrutinized every male customer who came near her, and Red Whiskey had confirmed her suspicions. When Tracey had first started working there, Red had been worried Tracey’s ex might come looking for her, and she’d asked Diesel to watch over her. But that was two years ago.

It was time to put an end to Diesel’s bodyguarding, because it was either that or quit, and quitting was out of the question. She loved her job and she adored the Whiskeys. There was no way in hell she’d let that Neanderthal mess that up for her. No matter how insanely hot he was or how often she had sexy dreams about him.

The Whiskeys were her motorcycle-riding, tatted-up, leather-clad guardian angels. She’d met them through the Parkvale Women’s Shelter, where she’d stayed after escaping her abusive ex. The shelter was run by another Dark Knights family, and Wayne “Bones” Whiskey, a physician, volunteered there. The Whiskeys had helped her get back on her feet, giving her this job, and more importantly, welcoming her into their large, though close-knit, circle of family and friends. Including her roommate, Izzy Ryder, whom she’d lived with since leaving the shelter. Izzy also bartended at Whiskey Bro’s. The Whiskeys did so much for the community, it seemed like everyone in Peaceful Harbor knew them. Tracey had been isolated for so many years before getting away from Dennis, it had taken her a while to let her guard down, but the Whiskeys and their friends had been patient, making her feel safe and wanted, like she was part of a real family again.

Thoughts of her mother pressed in, bringing a wave of sadness. They’d had a falling-out when she’d moved away with Dennis, and now, six long years later, she didn’t even know where her mother was. But she couldn’t afford to get lost in that devastating swamp right now. She had five more hours of tips to earn.

She flashed a friendly smile at the slick-talking guy in the denim jacket, who was far too into himself, as she set the pitcher and glasses on the table. He and his friends were passing through town for a couple of nights, or so he’d said when they’d arrived. “Sorry this took so long, gentlemen.”

“No problem. Seein’ your pretty face was worth the wait.” Mr. Slick lifted his chin in the direction of the bar. “What’s the deal with you and Bigfoot?”

“If I had a dollar for every time I’ve asked myself that, I’d be a rich woman by now.”

She glanced at Diesel, filling an order for Dixie, who was standing at the bar chatting, but Diesel’s eyes were trained on Tracey, causing those funky feelings to claw at her again. He really was a mountain of grunting, scary-as-all-get-out muscle, tattooed from neck to wrist, with absolutely no people skills. The battered old black baseball cap he wore every day didn’t fit with the rest of his tough-guy image, which made her curious about why he wore it. Did it have sentimental value? Is it a trophy from a man you killed? She laughed inwardly. When she’d first met Diesel, he was so cold and looked so lethal, she’d actually toyed with the idea that the man who was practically a legend in his own right for Lord knew what could be a serial killer. A really great-smelling serial killer. He always smelled clean and fresh, like a cold winter’s day. But she’d learned the truth. Desmond “Diesel” Black definitely wasn’t Bigfoot or a serial killer. He was just a cold-blooded watch dog, and she was his charge.

“Hey, sunshine,” Slick said, bringing her attention back to her customers.

“Yes? Sorry.”

“So you and he aren’t a thing?”

“No.” I like guys who can actually string together complete sentences.

“What time do you get off?” He leaned closer, a creepy grin crawling across his face. Before she could get a word out, he said, “Let me rephrase that. What time can I pick you up and get you off?”

The two guys he was with chuckled.

Ugh. Between Diesel’s ridiculously protective grab and this creep’s entitlement, she wanted to punch something. “Sorry, but I don’t date customers. Enjoy your drinks.”

She went to help other customers, then headed up to the bar to place an order. Eagle Eyes watched her the whole way, igniting those confusing flames beneath her skin, which had been burning hotter ever since her friend Sarah and Bones’s wedding several weeks ago. Diesel had been devastatingly handsome that night, all his muscles nearly busting out of his dress shirt and pants. Another friend’s five-year-old daughter, Kennedy, had dragged him onto the dance floor, and the man who Tracey was sure had a heart of stone had twirled that sweet little girl and taken her into his arms with such tenderness, if Tracey hadn’t already known him as the grunting pain in her ass that he was, her panties might have melted off.

She walked over to Jed’s side of the bar. Jed was her friend Josie’s husband. He was also a Dark Knight, but he was the antithesis of Diesel, with a warm demeanor, piercing blue eyes, and thick dirty-blond hair. Jed was a big guy, but not massive like Diesel, and he was madly in love with his wife and their seven-year-old son, Hail.

Jed flashed a warm smile. “What can I get you, Trace?”

“A back massage, a foot rub, and maybe a guy who actually knows how to flirt without being a jerk.”

Jed cocked a brow. “Rough night?”

She eyed Diesel, who was setting a drink on the bar for a customer, his dark eyes sliding her way again. “Let’s just say the guys my bodyguard doesn’t scare off are the ones I wish he would.” She placed the drink order and watched two couples leaving as she waited. The guys had their arms around the girls. One of them kissed his partner’s temple, and Tracey sighed inwardly.

She’d never known what a good relationship looked like until she’d met the Whiskeys, but now she could spot them a mile away. Her mother had left her abusive father when she was only six, and she’d never seen her with a man after that. When Tracey was old enough to date, she’d met Dennis, and what she’d thought was love had really been a nightmare in the making. But these last two years, as she was embraced by the Whiskey family, she’d watched and learned. Biggs was a gnarly biker to his core, and Red was as tough as a biker’s wife had to be to live in that world. They’d been married forever, and the love, trust, and respect they had for each other were insurmountable, resonating in everything they did and in the people around them. They’d raised three strong men who went by their road names—Bullet, Bones, and Bear—and a tough-as-nails daughter, Dixie. All four had hearts of gold and loved their significant others and friends like they needed those relationships in order to breathe.

Lately Tracey longed for that type of trust, friendship, and intimacy, too.

Jed pushed the drinks across the bar, catching her attention. “Hey, Trace, think you can babysit Hail Wednesday night? Josie’s been working so hard to prepare for the bridal expo, I want to take her out someplace special.”

Josie owned a gingerbread business. She and her sister, Sarah, a hairdresser, were sharing a booth at a bridal expo next month with Finlay, Bullet’s wife, who owned a catering business, and worked part-time for the bar. Tracey and a few of their other friends were going to help them at the event. She mentally ran through her schedule as she put the drinks on the tray. Between her martial arts classes and waitressing, she didn’t have all that much free time, but she loved watching Hail. “Sure. What time?”

“Does seven work?”

“Yeah,” she said as Diesel closed the distance between them. “I’ll be there.”

“Be where?” Diesel’s voice was rough as sandpaper.

She lifted the tray off the bar, determined to mess with him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Jed is setting me up on a mud-wrestling date.”

Diesel’s nostrils flared.

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