Wicked Pickle Biker Bar Book Box

Girlfriends, I’ve really done it this time.

I’m a bridesmaid at a bachelorette party, minding my own business at a local bar after doing six shots of Fireball, when I realize I need to pee. In size small Spanx.

I’m a large.

While I wrestle with my white-spandex belly-smasher in the only bathroom, I’m holding up the whole bar from relieving itself.

When the broody, tatted-up owner breaks down the door, thinking maybe I’ve alcohol-poisoned myself into the afterlife, my drink-addled brain decides to revisit the karate I learned around third grade.

But I misfire my karate kick and hook a thigh around his waist. Then, the sexy rock skull chains hanging off his belt snag my Spanx.

We’re stuck.
Junk to junk.

My best friend, the bride, holds back the bar room paparazzi and promises to snip us apart on one condition:

This hottie biker bad boy has to be my date at her wedding.

Friends, this is the start of one wicked love story.
—
WICKED PICKLE is a romantic comedy about a down-on-love, dumpling-loving bridesmaid who ends up taking the outcast member of the Pickle family deep into the belly of the biggest Pickle wedding this side of the Mississippi.

Diesel’s story is part of the Top 100 bestselling Pickleverse, and includes the wedding of Rhett and Bailey from Juicy Pickle, but truly, you don’t need to read any of the other books before this one. You can start your crazy adventure with the Pickle family right here.

Chapter 1: Symphony

The one sound you never want to hear when you’re squished four to a seat in the back of a Ford Explorer is the retching sound of a girlfriend losing her liquor.

I’m stuffed into a red dress so tight that I can’t even lean forward to see who it is. “Marietta, is that you?” I ask.

Marietta is a known lightweight, and we went through four bottles of blueberry moscato at the Dumpling Palace before calling for this ride.

One-point-five of those bottles went to me, but I ate thirteen dumplings to slow down the booze. I’m a little giggly, but nowhere near the puking stage.

“It’s Bailey,” Jenna says. She’s next to me and can lean easily in her shimmery ice blue sheath. “She’s trying to catch it with her fake wedding veil.”

“That’s netting!” I cry. “It won’t hold anything.” Bailey is the bride, and we’re celebrating her bachelorette party.

“Yeah,” Marietta says. She’s on the other side of Jenna, next to Bailey, who is by the door. “It’s leaking right through.”

The driver turns around. “What is that smell?” He lowers the music we asked him to crank. “Did someone vomit in my car?”

Jenna, Marietta, and I look at each other. I try again to lean forward to see Bailey. No use. I can’t move. “We’ll clean it up,” I say.

The retching sound happens again, and this time, the three of us lift our hands to our noses. I’m glad to be at the opposite door. I’m a sympathetic puker.

“Poor Bailey,” Marietta says.

We all lurch to the left as the car slides off the road and into a crumbling asphalt parking lot.

I let out a squeal, clutching the door. Marietta screams.

“What are you doing?” Jenna cries.

The ground crunches as we skid to a stop.

“Out,” the driver says. “I have the right to terminate any ride at a safe location. Out now.”

Jenna lifts her phone. She called the ride. “I’m one starring you into oblivion,” she says.

“Right back at you,” the man says. “And consider yourself blocked.”

Jenna stabs at her phone. “Where are we?”

I peer out the window. “Looks like a bar.”

The other door opens, sending a sharp breeze through the car.

We all sigh in relief at the fresh air.

“You okay, Bailey?” Marietta asks.

I’m done trying to lean forward. I open my door and throw out a leg. My three-inch heel teeters unsteadily on the broken ground. I hang on to the handle as I pull myself out of the seat.

Whew. I made it. I spot Bailey in the headlights. She’s already circled around to the front of the car.

“Hey, girl! Wait up!” I totter toward her, unsure of my footing in my tight dress. I feel like a stuffed sausage.

Jenna and Marietta scoot out my side, no doubt to avoid any goopy substances.

Bailey keeps walking toward the front door of the bar.

“Wait up, Bailey!” Marietta calls. She’s sensible in silver flats, so she easily catches up. Bailey still has her soiled veil wadded up in her hands.

Behind us, we hear the slam of one car door, then another. The driver has shut them. Before we can say anything to him, he leaps behind the wheel and peels out of the parking lot.

“Screw him,” Jenna says, typing a review as fast as she can.

I leave her and make it to Bailey, who has stopped by a pickup truck that’s clearly been through a mud bath. “Hey, you okay?”

She nods. Her dangling earrings twinkle from the neon sign on the bar. “I’m a lot better now that it’s all out.”

“On that jerk’s floorboard!” Jenna says. She stabs her phone with flourish. “One-starred, reviewed, and blocked before he could do anything to me.” She’s pleased.

“I see a trash bin,” I tell Bailey. “Let me take that.” I squeamishly pinch the two sides of the ball of puke-veil and walk toward a rusting barrel. With a quick flick of my wrist, it’s gone.

“Thanks.” Bailey looks down. “I think I missed my dress. There might be a little on my shoes.”

I take her arm. “Let’s go inside and get you cleaned up. Then we can call another car.”

She nods. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drink blueberry moscato again.”

The four of us head for the bar entrance, a beat-up metal door in the middle of the brick facade.

“The Leaky Skull,” Marietta says, taking in the neon words with the outline of a skull. “What kind of bar is this?”

I glance around at the cars. “Lots of pickup trucks.”

“And motorcycles,” Jenna adds.

Marietta’s eyes get wide. “Do you think it’s a biker club like in the dark romance novels? Are we going to get claimed by a gang leader in black leather?” She seems quite taken with the idea.

“Come on,” Jenna says. “We’ll go in, clean up Bailey, and get back on the road.” She pulls on Marietta. “And no asking anyone about their tattoos.”

“Awww, spoilsport.” Marietta pushes through to be the first one to the door. “I’m going to let a broody stranger buy me a drink.”

Jenna and I exchange a glance. It better be sparkling water or Marietta might sit on an ex con’s lap.

The moment she opens the door, the noise makes us all pause. Music pulses from a tiny stage where a three-man band thrashes around with drums and two guitars.

The battered wood tables are small and scattered throughout the room, all taken by the kind of men we don’t encounter much in suburban Miami.

“Whoa,” Marietta breathes.

It’s something. There are women, sure, especially close to the stage, sitting with men, and sometimes, on the men.

But mostly it’s very tough-looking dudes. The motif is denim and black. Every man wears heavy boots, dark jeans, black shirts, and leather. There are chains everywhere. On vests. On belts. Hanging from wallets.

Some wear ball caps, others leather wraps or bandanas. There are more bald heads than hairstyles.

All four of us have paused in the doorway like deer in the headlights. Compared to this crowd, we look like we’ve come from a high school prom.

Jenna clutches my arm. “Maybe we should call for a ride from the parking lot.”

I glance over at Bailey. She’s grimacing at her hands. Yeah, she needs a wash down.

“Nonsense,” I say. “Come on.”

I march right through the tables. We’re not going to be scared little ninnies. It’s a bar. There will be a bathroom.

I scan the back wall. Sure enough, I spot a door that says, “Outhouse.” I turn back to Bailey. “You can clean up there.” I point to the sign just beyond the long bar.

“I’ll go with Bailey,” Jenna says. They beeline for the door.

Marietta is transfixed by the scene. “It’s just like I imagined.”

Good gracious, I better hang on to her, or she’s going to take off on the back of someone’s motorcycle in six seconds.

I thread my arm through hers. “There’s some stools open at the bar.”

As we approach the long counter, I spot my reflection in the mirror behind it. It’s not hard, despite the rows of liquor bottles and the crowd. I’m wearing siren red, and a lot of it.

I tilt my head to examine the hourglass silhouette I achieved with a spandex body suit that starts just below my double Ds and goes halfway to my knees.

It shifted my curves to all the right places. Too bad I can’t move.

Or breathe.

And judging by how tight it feels now compared to when I put it on, I better not eat or drink anything else.

We reach the stools and I ease onto one. We’re not there five seconds when a man in a black T-shirt that reads, “Splash your skull” sets two shots in front of us. “From the gentlemen at the end of the bar.” Then he plops down two more. “For your friends when they return.”

“Oooooh,” Marietta says, lifting the glass and toasting it in the direction of the buyers. They have beards to their bellies and black bandanas tied on their heads.

“Don’t drink that,” I hiss.

“Watch me,” Marietta says. Then she downs the shot.

“It could be drugged!”

The bartender, a young guy probably barely old enough to drink, rolls his eyes. “I poured them myself.”

“See?” Marietta croons. “Chicken.”

Oh no, she didn’t just challenge me. I snatch up the shot and down it.

Flames lick along my throat.

Fireball. I recognize that taste from my undergraduate days. I don’t think I’ve had one since.

Marietta hops from her stool. “I’m going to go talk to them!”

Oh, Jesus.

She picks up the other two shots and heads down the bar.

“Wait. I’m coming.” That shot is going to hit her any second, and she’s holding liquid dynamite.

I hop down, glad for the mega-bra keeping my boobs in line and follow her.

Upon closer inspection, the men are easily twice our age. But she doesn’t care. I know what she’s thinking.

Age-gap romance.

I crane my neck to see if Jenna and Bailey have made it out of the bathroom yet. Hopefully a new ride is on the way. We’ll smile for a second, thank them for the drinks, and get out of here.

“I heard you got us shots,” Marietta says.

The two men grin at her. This cannot be part of her motorcycle club fantasy. They are grimy and tattered. I’m pretty sure the smell that’s wrinkling my nose is coming from them.

“Hello, darlin’,” one of them says. “Why don’t you take another one of those shots right now?”

Oh, hell no. Marietta will be under the table in five minutes from the one she already did. I snatch both of them out of her hands and down them.

“Hey!” she cries. “Those were mine.”

“You need to slow down if you’re going to talk to them,” I tell her, sounding way more like her mother than I like.

“You need to lighten up, little lady,” one of the men says. “Your friend here is having a bit of fun.” He turns to the bar. “Can I get another Fireball for this cute thing?”

Marietta lights up at that. Oh, damn. We’re in trouble now.

But then I see him.

Another bartender. He has a confidence about him that’s wholly different from the younger man pulling a pint of beer from the tap.

He flips the bottle in his hand and pours the shot with practiced ease. “Found yourself a girl who doesn’t already know your reputation?” he asks as he pushes the glass across the wood surface.

Oh, that voice. It’s like silk sliding over naked skin. Despite feeling outraged that he called Marietta a girl, I’m mesmerized. He wears the same black T-shirt as the other guy, but his is filled out with a chest that could break brick. Arm muscles bulge as he sets down the bottle.

His hair is thick and tousled. His eyes flick over to me, one heavy eyebrow lifting for a second.

My heart hammers painfully. What was that? Interest? Or concern? Or amusement?

I want to know.

But Marietta’s reaching for the shot.

I can’t let her do that.

I snatch it up and down it, too. God, that’s four already.

“Symphony!” Marietta cries. “Stop drinking my shots!”

The bartender’s eyebrow lifts another inch. “How many of those can you do?” he asks.

It sounds like a challenge. I like the idea of showing off to this man. I can hold my liquor.

I lean on the bar. “As many as you can dish out.”

He pours a fresh one and clinks it onto the counter in front of me.

I pick up the shot and down it. “That’s five,” I tell him.

He whistles, and the sight of his lips puckering make my pulse race. He pours another.

“Isn’t your boss going to wonder where all his Fireball went with no receipts to back it up?”

He pushes the glass my way. “It’s my bar. I can do what I want.”

The owner. Okay, then.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Diesel.”

Damn. Now that’s a name for a man in a biker bar.

“I’m Symphony.”

“Sounds like music someone could spend all night listening to.”

Fudge knuckles. I’ve been made fun of all my life for this name. But now, I love it.

Despite three yards of skin-tight spandex holding in my lady bits, I feel them yawning. Open for this one, they say. He’s a hot one.

God, I sound like Marietta.

His gaze drops to the glass.

I pick up the sixth shot. I’m starting to feel the first one. The others will be close to follow. But I don’t back down from a dare, so I lift the glass and down it.

“Symphony, what’s going on?” Bailey comes up behind me. “And why is Marietta hanging onto two old men?”

I turn to look. She’s right. Marietta stands between the stools, one arm on each man’s shoulder.

“We better get her,” Jenna says.

I look back at Diesel. “Six good enough for you?”

He gives a slow grin. “I’m pretty damn impressed.”

His words slide over me like warm water. “Good.”

“Hey!” Marietta says. “What are you doing?”

Jenna pulls on her arm. “I called a ride. It’ll be here in five minutes.”

Diesel meets my gaze. “My bar isn’t good enough for ladies like yourself?”

Jenna looks up from where she’s trying to extricate Marietta from her suitors. Yeah, that drink is hitting. Marietta looks like she’s suddenly made of bread dough.

Bailey watches me, a gleam in her eye. She doesn’t seem the worse for her puking. “Jenna, cancel that ride. The gentleman is right. This is as good a place as any to spend our bachelorette.”

Diesel lifts that eyebrow again. “Bachelorette? Who’s getting married?” I don’t miss that his gaze shifts to me for a split second.

Is he hoping it’s not me?

“I am,” Bailey says, scooting between stools to put her elbows up on the bar. “Can I get a glass of water? I had a little too much booze earlier.”

“Certainly.” He fills a glass for her, then a second one, passing it to me. “I recommend one to one booze for water.”

That’s practical for a place like this.

I plan to take a sip, but realize I’m parched and down half the glass in one go.

The spandex tightens down, and suddenly, I have to pee. Urgently.

I’d rather stay and flirt with Diesel, but I might be one sneeze away from a tsunami wave in my Spanx. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Bailey.

I hurry along the bar stools to the outhouse, assuming I’ll enter a big room with stalls.

But no, it’s just one tiny space with a toilet and sink.

That can’t be up to code for a bar this size. Maybe there’s another one somewhere else.

I slam the door and slide a hook into a metal loop. That doesn’t seem secure.

But my bladder has sensed the proximity to relief and is ready to blow. I have to get out of this contraption holding me together.

I shimmy the red dress up my hips, revealing the long expanse of white. There’s no zipper or snaps. I’m held in by the power of microfibers and my sheer will when I dragged this size-small torture device over a size-large body.

I manage to get my thumbs under my bra and into the top elastic.

But as soon as the band realizes it’s got somewhere else to go, it rolls into the tightest coil I’ve ever felt around my waist.

I shove my thumbs inside to move it down. I push. I grunt. I tug. I sweat.

But the spandex vise is stronger than me. I shove my whole hand in there, hoping to get it to budge.

Then I can’t get it out.

Holy hell.

I’m trapped.