“Yep. Night shift. Cliff said if I come in an hour early, I could be the barback until my shift starts.” She toys with the hem of her shirt, a nervous habit maybe, and I find myself gripping the handlebars tighter, the worn leather creaking softly under my clenched fists.
“Alright, I’ll come hang out before my shift.”
Ruby climbs into her car and peels out of the lot, heading in the opposite direction of Candace’s house. And Candace? She just keeps walking, the sight strangely solitary beneath the flickering streetlamps. My jaw clenches tight, a quiet unease twisting in my gut.
I fire up my bike, rolling forward until I’m right behind her. She glances over her shoulder. The second she realizes it’s me, she groans, rolls her eyes so hard I swear she sees her own brain, and sets her jaw as if chewing glass. Her obvious irritation is a jab right between my ribs, and I find myself perversely enjoying it.What the hell is this girl’s problem with me?
Might as well make it worse.
“Get on,” I call over the growl of my engine, my pulse quickening at the stubborn defiance flashing in her eyes.
She lets out a sharp laugh. “Not in this lifetime.”
I let her get a few steps ahead, taking the opportunity to admire the view. Those tiny, frayed shorts barely cover her ass, and her legs move with confidence that claims the pavement as her own. My throat goes dry, heat flooding southward, even as frustration tightens every muscle.When the fuck did she get so hot?
I roll up next to her again, smirking, my voice firm, edged with something deeper I don’t care to examine too closely. “Get on.” This time, it’s not a request.
She stops, turning to face me with a look that could set fire to the asphalt. Her eyes spark with defiance, igniting somethingequally volatile inside my chest. “I didn’t think you let anyone ride with you.”
I lift a shoulder, the casual movement belying the protectiveness flaring sharply beneath my skin. “I’m not letting the daughter of one of my brothers walk home alone this late at night.”
She crosses her arms, lifting her chin. “That’s sweet. Or it would be if I didn’t know you were just hoping I’d grab your waist and swoon.”
I smirk, a slow heat building in my chest, anticipation tangling with irritation. “You could grab more than that, Sour Patch.”
“Ugh. Call me that again, and I will roundhouse kick your ego into next week.”
She exhales through her nose, clearly debating whether to argue, but snatches the helmet from my hand anyway, her fingers brushing briefly against mine. Electricity jolts sharply through my body before she throws me this fake-ass sweet smile, all teeth and venom, a look that says she’s seconds away from stabbing me with a glitter pen. Climbing onto the back of my bike, she settles in; too close, too warm. The second her body presses against mine, heat rushes straight south. My jaw locks, fingers tightening around the handlebars until my knuckles ache.
I take off. Hard. She yelps, crashing into me, and fuck. I swear I can feel every inch of her through my cut and shirt, her warmth searing into my skin, branding itself deep into my bones. She flinches when I rev the engine, a visceral reaction that tells me even the sound of me gets under her skin. Good. Maybe then she’ll understand exactly how I feel.
“Jesus, asshole, you could’ve given me a heads-up.”
I chuckle, expecting her to wrap her arms around my waist, to hold on to me. But she doesn’t. Instead, she straightens, gripping the sissy bar with both hands, clinging to it likeit’s the only thing keeping her from falling straight into hell. Which, apparently, is just being close to me. My chest tightens unexpectedly, a knot of annoyance and something sharper forming in my throat. Something that tastes a hell of a lot like hurt.
I shouldn’t care. But irritation creeps up my spine, and for a split second, I consider jolting the bike just to make her lose her balance again, feel her warmth crash against me once more. I don’t.
The ride is short, too short, my pulse still thundering when we pull up to her house. She climbs off immediately, shoving the helmet into my chest, wiping her hands on her shorts as if just touching something of mine made her skin crawl. A gesture that cuts far deeper than I want to admit, and walks away without so much as a thank you.
“You’re welcome,” I call after her retreating back, bitterness sharp on my tongue.
She flips me off over her shoulder, and laughter rumbles in my chest despite myself. The only good thing about her walking away? The way those damn shorts ride up, teasing just enough to make me want to see more.
Yet as I watch her disappear inside, my amusement fades into something quieter, more conflicted. She’s a problem—my problem. Because despite the defiance, the anger, and the way she looks at me like she wishes I’d disappear, I can’t shake the gut-deep certainty that beneath that fire lies something wounded. Something I might, despite every reason not to, actually want to protect.
Shaking the thought away sharply, I fire up my engine again, feeling the vibration beneath me, familiar, grounding. Candace Giles might be trouble, but I’ve never been one to shy away from a fight. Or a challenge.
Even if the biggest battle might just be against my own damn heart.
Chapter 6
Malachi
Theparkinglotoutsidethe club is packed; a sea of bikes gleam under the streetlights. No surprise for a Saturday night. We do what we can to keep up appearances, to make the place seem like any other motorcycle club. Yeah, we do illegal shit. But it’s not mindless chaos. In our eyes, everything we do serves a purpose—a greater good. We don’t move for power or greed. We move to protect what the law forgets, to take care of the ones who fall through the cracks. It’s not clean. But it’s ours.
The scent of gasoline and smoke hangs heavy in the summer air, clinging to the denim and leather, second nature by now. Cigarette embers blink in the dark, scattered sparks floating through the shadows, and laughter echoes sharp off concrete walls—hollow, too loud. I breathe it in anyway. It’s the smell of loyalty. Of weight I chose to carry.
Victor Valentine steps out of the club, his boots crunching against the pavement as he heads toward his bike. But he stopswhen he sees me. His gaze sharpens, assessing, before a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He’s proof of what we do in the name of that greater good. To this day, he has no idea his ex-wife is rotting in the ground—courtesy of us. After what she put him through, after the hell she made him live, she didn’t deserve to breathe.
