All Chapters of The Rogue Biker’s Plus-Size Mate: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Chapter 82
Laila POVWe did not smash the news van.A bridge with lenses is a trap that wants fists. We gave it our backs instead.The clubhouse took us like a mouth that already knew our taste. Mother went inside with Rook and a chair and a look that could scold a god. I kissed her hair and promised the next room would not roll.“Go deal with the leather,” she said. “Then deal with the van that followed you. I can hear an engine that is not ours.”She was right.The little sender had peeled off two streets back. Harden was eating the file in pieces. That was later.Zane took my wrist.The lot. His bike. Still hot.He sat me on the tank facing him, plus size thighs open around the bars, jacket on, skirt shoved up, and he went to his knees on his own gravel like the vote had been for this.“You do not touch me,” he said. “Not until you answer.”“Answer what?”“Which light you would pick again. Dock or door. Her or the raid. Say it while I use my mouth.”I grabbed for his hair.He caugh

Chapter 84
Laila POVThe parts shop sat behind Harlan’s yard like a secret that paid rent.Dirt track. Short. Ugly. Packed earth and old tyres. Pack along the fence. Silver hair. Quiet men. Zara in a car at the far end with the window down, not invited, still breathing our air.Nessa tossed my spare helmet at my chest.“Forgot this on your lot. Careless.”I caught it.Zane took it out of my hands, checked the lining, then put it on my head himself. His fingers paused at the strap under my chin.Harlan pointed at the dirt.“One chair was paper. This is the sitting. She rides. You ride. First to the tyre wall without eating earth. If the city girl cannot hold a machine, she cannot hold a road.”“I hold a bar,” I said. “The machine is extra.”Nessa smiled.“Pillion is not riding, till girl.”Zane pulled me into the dark of the shop before the engines started. Helmet on. His mouth at my ear.“I am going to put my hand on you. You will go out wet. That is not shame. That is a weapon. She w

Chapter 86
Laila POVThe lawyer’s office smelled like toner and old victories.He was the number in Zane’s phone under Club. Grey at the temples. No leather. Eyes that had seen warrants before breakfast.He read the order twice.“They used the raid and the dirt to make her look unstable as next of kin. Temporary is the word that bites. Temporary can last long enough to lose a room.”“Stall it,” I said.“I can stall until morning if you sign a contest now and if your hospital man grows a spine on paper. I cannot kill a facility licence with a glare.”Zane stood at the window like the street might climb in.“Name the pocket.”“Not yet,” the lawyer said. “Your technician is faster than my intern. Let him finish.”I signed. My taped hand made the signature look like a fight. Good.The better suit arrived late with a folder and guilt.“I can attach the thirty day clinical letter. I cannot attach a pack stamp to a judge and expect poetry.”“Attach what lives,” I said. “Leave the poetry.”Th

Chapter 88
Laila POVThe second dock did not get her.Rook and I were there first. Paper vs wheels. The contractor looked at leather and a licence card and decided he liked his job. Mother went back up, furious, slow, alive. She told me to stop collecting corridors.Zane met us at The Masks with Harlan’s answer still on his mouth.“He did not sign the side deal. He wants Nessa in front of him at dawn. That is not the same as help.”“It is not nothing,” I said.Tape still kissed my front glass. I went to the council window anyway, jacket on, no patch, dirt washed out of my hair and still living in my hip.The clerk had already seen the strip clip. Bottle. Daylight. My thighs on a seat.“Self defence,” I said. “They cut a bike. I am the licence holder. I pay tax. I do not sell men in cages. I lock thieves. If you suspend me, say it because of sport. Do not say it because a woman in silk does not like my size.”The clerk blinked. Wrote. Asked me to come back for a hearing date.Outside,

Chapter 90
Laila POVZane did not answer the photo with a speech.He took a drum into the lot, poured in enough petrol to insult a yard, and waited until every rider was standing where they could see.Rook. Shaved head. Eyebrow scar. Quiet chain man. Harden at the bay with his bag like a nervous priest. Mother in a chair at the door because she refused a back room.I held the spare jacket by two fingers.It still smelled like Nessa’s throat and old pack soap and a promise he had not finished.“If you want it,” I said, “say so now.”“I want it gone,” Zane said.He took it from me and dropped it in.Fire climbed the leather like it had been hungry for years. The old colours twisted. The lining went first. Blood or oil, it all cooked the same.Nobody clapped.Shaved head nodded once.Rook spat in the dirt, not on the drum.“Pack leather,” she said. “Harlan will call it a flag.”“It was already a flag on her body,” I said.Zane watched until the sleeves were gone.Then he looked at the ot