"What's your real name?"
Chapter 3 - King
“What’s your real name?” she asks me.
Most people in Blackwater Falls have forgotten that Noah Bradley ever existed. Hell, some days I forget it myself. King isn't just what they call me. It's who I became when I built this club from nothing and claimed this dying town as my territory.
After all, I still remember everything. Eight years ago, I rolled into this shithole with nothing but military training, a bad attitude, and enough demons to fill a graveyard. The same people who used to pretend the scrawny Bradley kid didn't exist now cross the street when they see me coming. Funny how respect works when you've got the muscle and the reputation to back it up.
"King works fine," I say, not quite meeting those blue eyes that see too damn much.
She tilts her head, "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
For a moment, I think she might push. There's something stubborn in the set of her jaw that reminds me she's the woman who refused to back down from three armed men. But then she nods, accepting the boundary I've drawn even if she doesn't like it.
"Okay then, King." She emphasizes the name slightly, testing how it sounds. "Can I ask you something else?"
"Shoot."
"Why did you really come here this morning?"
The question catches me off guard, mainly because I don't have a good answer. I told myself I was checking on Emma'sgranddaughter, making sure she was settling in okay. But the truth is messier, more complicated than simple civic duty.
"This town is my domain," I say finally. "Everything that happens here is my responsibility. I wanted to make sure everything was fine."
"You don't look like the kind of man who cares about other people's problems."
She's not wrong. The King who runs the Savage Riders MC doesn't give a shit about anyone outside his immediate circle. The King who's spent eight years building a reputation as someone you don't cross, don't question, don't fuck with, certainly doesn't go around delivering coffee and offering construction help to strangers.
I shrug, because I have no idea what to say. I have no idea why I'm here, standing on the rotted porch of a ruined Victorian house, making promises to a woman I met twelve hours ago. All I know is that something about Luna Hartwell makes me want to be better than I am, and that's the kind of thought that gets people killed in my line of work.
She's about to say something else. I can see it forming in her expression, another question that will probably cut too close when the sound of approaching engines cuts through the morning air.
Multiple bikes. Big ones. Riding hard and fast through residential streets where the speed limit is twenty-five and normal people are trying to start their day in peace.
Fuck.
No Savage Rider would ride like that in town during daylight hours. We learned a long time ago that drawing attention fromthe locals is bad for business and worse for keeping the peace. My boys know better.
I glance both ways down Elm Street and count seven, maybe eight bikes approaching from different directions. They're coordinating, moving to surround us, and even from a distance I can see the patches on their cuts.
Iron Eagles. Here. Now. In my fucking town.
"What's happening?" Luna asks, picking up on the sudden tension that's turned my muscles to coiled steel.
"Go inside," I tell her, not taking my eyes off the approaching bikes. "Now. Stay there until I come get you."
"No way." She steps closer to me instead of toward the door. "I'm not hiding while—"
"Luna." My voice carries the kind of command that makes even hardened criminals snap to attention. "Get. Inside. Now."
She opens her mouth to argue, and that's when the lead bike accelerates directly toward me. The rider—young, maybe early twenties, with the kind of eager stupidity that gets people killed—has a baseball bat raised above his head like he thinks this is some Hollywood movie.
Time slows the way it always does in combat situations. Training kicks in, the same instincts that kept me alive through Afghanistan and countless fights since then. I don't think; I just move.
The bike's now close enough that I can see the rider's eyes. Wide with adrenaline and fear disguised as aggression. He swings the bat in a clumsy arc meant to take my head off, but he's telegraphed the move from fifty feet away. I catch the bat mid-swing with my left hand, feeling the impact jar through my shoulder, and use his momentum against him.
