THE RIDE WASstill runnin’ through my blood,wind in my face, her arms around my ribs, that damn laugh she didn’t mean to let loose. It kept playin’ over in my head sweet as sin, like some song I didn’t choose but couldn’t shut off.
I checked my watch. Midnight. Too early to sleep. Too wired to pretend.
The clubhouse walls felt too tight, so I headed out back.
The fire pit was already blazin’, big as a truck tire, flames lickin’ up into the dark, sparks driftin’ lazy against the night sky. The heat of it met the heat in my chest, but didn’t do a damn thing to settle me.
Music thumped deep from the speakers, the kind of beat that made the air pulse. Voices rolled across the yard, drunkenlaughter blendin’ with the crackle of the fire. Horse was sittin’ crooked in a camp chair, his eyes glaring at the flames, while Wrath grunted through an arm-wrestle with a prospect twice his size but half as mean.
Gearhead sat in a chair with a sweet butt in his lap, tellin’ a story loud enough the whole yard pretended they weren’t listenin’. Man had a gift for forgettin’ half the details and embellishin’ the other half until he sounded like a folk hero.
He spotted me and grinned big. “Well, look what the wind blew in.”
“I’m here,” I said, droppin’ down beside him.
“Coulda fooled me.” He nudged me with his elbow. “You got the look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I want somethin’ I shouldn’t and I don’t wanna talk about it’ look.”
“Long day,” I said.
“That ain’t what I said,” he shot back, grinning.
Before I could answer, a blonde who’s name I couldn’t remember slid onto my lap like I’d been waitin’ for her. “Chain,” she purred, fingers walkin’ up my cut like she had every right. “You been hidin’ from me?”
“Not on purpose,” I said outta habit.
Normally, I’d lean back, let her talk in my ear, let the heat of the fire mix with the heat of her skin, and let the rest of the night blur. That was my routine. My escape. Easy, no thinkin’, no feelin’—just motion.
Tonight, it didn’t land.
She smelled like beer and perfume that cost less than the bottle it came in. Her laugh hit my ear bright and loud, but it felt wrong. Not because of her. Because of me.
Because all I could hear was Lark’s laugh—high, startled, real—when she’d thrown her head back on the bike and let the night hit her full force.
“You good?” Gearhead asked, leanin’ around the girl to look at me.
“Yeah,” I lied.
The blonde shifted, her hand slidin’ higher, but before she got where she was headin’, I caught her wrist gently but firm. “Not tonight, sweetheart.”
She frowned like she didn’t understand the words. “You serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” She slid off with a pout, struttin’ toward another brother who’d definitely say yes.
Gearhead let out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Mark this day on the calendar. Chain sayin’ no? Hell must be freezin’ over.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, not even botherin’ to glare.
He barked a laugh. “Brother, you got that look. The one where trouble found you and slapped you first.”
I watched a spark drift up from the fire. “Ain’t trouble,” I said quietly. “Just… different.”
Gearhead snorted. “Different’s worse.”
