Romans & histoires Dallas Winston

I'd been so careful for months, and now everything was ruined in one moment of mechanical failure. Then I heard the sound that made my blood run cold, the deep rumble of multiple motorcycles approaching. Heavy bikes. Harleys, from the sound of them. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as five riders rolled into the circle of light cast by the spectators' headlights. The lead rider dismounted with predatory grace. Even in the dim light, I recognized him. Everyone in Coldwater knew Dax Steele. Six-foot-three of leather-clad muscle, dark hair pulled back in a knot, and eyes that could cut through steel. The Vice President of the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club.

This guy must be pumping iron. “How nice to see you here,” I say. "Are you here alone?" he asks. "No. I'm here with Dana." "Dana?" he asks, question mark on his face. "Who's that?" "My secretary. At the Washington business. Wood and Ward." The furrow clears, replaced by a broad smile. "Well. Good to see a familiar face here in Denver. There's only so much of Winston I can take in one evening," he says warmly and Winston Baxter laughs. "Winston, this is Logan's son."