“I preferuseful,” Jordyn replies, not even smiling this time. Just… sure.
I reach for my phone. “You’re hired.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Cool. I want my own login and a locking drawer. Also, your current payroll app is garbage.”
I grin despite myself. “Jesus Christ.” But I give him the login. And the drawer.
I find Aiden Reed, City, leaning against the seat of his dark red Road Glide like he's casing the block. His boots are scuffed, his shirt untucked, legal pad resting on the gas tank. He looks like a man waiting for a tail to pass.
“Didn’t peg you for the paperwork type,” I say, eyeing the stack of zoning maps beside him.
He doesn’t look up. “Someone’s gotta keep us off the city radar.”
I step closer. His handwriting is small and surgical. Notes on land parcel IDs, shell Corp ownership trails, and audit triggers.
“You see something?”
He nods once, taps the edge of a map. “This lot here, warehouse twelve. It’s in the dummy company name, but someone refiled the lease two weeks ago. Not one of ours.”
That sets off a low warning in my gut. “Who?”
“Name’s local. Fake ID. Could be a freelancer trying to sniff us out. Or a rat with ambition.”
I drag a hand down my jaw. “How the hell did you catch it?”
“The zoning board posted updates online. No one reads those except retirees and nosy assholes like me.”
I shake my head, impressed despite myself. “Are you always this paranoid?”
His eyes finally flick up, sharp and calm. “I like knowing who’s looking our way. That’s all.”
We stand there for a second, just two guys with too many secrets and not enough backup. “You think Jordyn saw this?”
He snorts. “Jordyn’s cleaning up after we’ve already been hit. I’m trying to stop the bleeding before it starts.”
There’s no cockiness in the way he says it. Just a fact. Just the kind of presence that keeps a club like ours from getting buried under the wrong attention.
“You ever think about doing this full time?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I already do. You just didn’t know it yet.”
I nod, slow and certain. “Then it’s time the others did.”
Later that night, I find Throttle in the garage, shirt off, knuckles split and raw, wrapping duct tape around his hand like it’s a fix for broken bones instead of busted pride. Sweat slicks his back, the concrete floor under him spattered with blood, oil, and maybe whatever’s left of his dignity. The air reeks of metal and grit, thick enough to chew.
“You good?” I ask, flipping on the overhead fan. The air smells like oil, sweat, and iron.
He shrugs with one shoulder, spit trickling down from a cracked lip. “Depends. Are you any good at stitching up face wounds?”
“You get your ass handed to you underground again?”
Throttle spits blood into a bucket and grins like it’s just another Tuesday. “They said I had a chance. Didn’t mention the other guy looked like he bench-pressed a semi.”
I toss him a towel. “Why the hell are you doing this, man?”
He’s quiet at first, tightening the other hand. “My ma’s lupus meds doubled in price. Medicaid kicked back the claim. And my little brother just got braces put on last week, which my uncle, his real dad, promised to pay for before he split town.”
“They repo’d my mom’s car last week while she was still in it,” Throttle says, teeth gritted. “She walked three miles home in the rain.” He yanks the tape tighter. “I ain’t letting her do that again.” He finally looks up, eyes sharp through the bruises. “I’m the only one left to cover it.”
