About Running on Diesel:
A funny, sexy, and emotionally riveting standalone contemporary romance by New York Times bestselling author Melissa Foster. RUNNING ON DIESEL is the perfect love story for those who enjoy fiercely loyal and insanely sexy alpha heroes, smart, sassy heroines, strong family bonds, bikers, babies, and more!
Desmond “Diesel” Black is a Nomad with the Dark Knights motorcycle club. He protects others with his life and always rides alone. Tracey Kline left the only family she had for a man who broke more than her spirit, leaving her untrusting and on her own. When a twist of fate reveals pieces of the other no one else sees, will they be able to help each other mend their past hurts and learn to trust the chemistry and connection that’s too strong to deny?
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Excerpt: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 Ridge, 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.
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