He has ‘him’ written all over him.
And I wish I knew what that meant, I wish I knew what was going on inside me — some feral mix of fight or flight that isn’t actually either, but sure involves a lot of scratching, clawing, and entangled bodies — but then Molly snaps her fingers loud enough that I hear it over the din in the bar and turn around to look at her.
“You know how to wait tables, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you know that involves actually going to the table and taking their order?”
“Yes. On it.”
I walk through the crowd toward the table she’s pointed out to me. To him. He sits alone in the corner booth, dark hair, black leather, shoulders broad enough to block out the light. The man's built like a bull in a leather jacket — broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of solid that comes from actual work, not a gym. His eyes lift and lock on mine; steel gray, cold and burning all at once, and my world tilts like I’m on a seesaw. Heat flashes through me, low and fierce, the kind that steals breath and reason. He looks at me as if he could take me apart just to see how I work.
Fear prickles down my spine, tangled with something reckless. Something I shouldn’t feel.
And for one dangerous heartbeat, I forget why I came here.
After a second, I can feel Molly’s eyes at my back, prodding me to actually do something, and I remember that I have a job to do. A job that I desperately need to do well, or else I’ll be in the kind of situation I don’t even want to think about.
Get your shit together, Riley.
I force my feet forward, notepad clutched in shaking hands.
He doesn't look away. Doesn't blink. Just watches me approach like a predator tracking prey.
When I'm close enough to smell leather and motor oil, his voice comes out low and rough. “You're new."
Chapter Two
Breaker
Rain beats against the roof, steady as the pulse of a soldier in the thick of combat. The Noble Fir smells like smoke, oil, and bad decisions — exactly how I like it. Every inhale feels like home. Home in the present, and just like my homes in the past, where patches on my chest determined my place. Back then, my patch marked me as a Marine — a specialist in Explosive Ordnance Disposal. Now it marks me as a prospect, fighting through hazing to earn my place. I'm more worried about what Havoc and Mayhem might hide in my bunk than any insurgent trap.
To be honest, I’d prefer the insurgents.
I sit in my usual corner, half in shadow, nursing a beer. It’s quieter here. I can watch the doors, the windows, and the crowd. It keeps my head calm. I’m not the only club member who does it; there are more than a couple veterans in the MC, and, veteran or not, you don’t live this life without picking up a few scars that leave you with the urge to always be scanning the entrances and exits.
It's a regular night after a day of prospect work — running food orders, mopping the shop, avoiding Havoc and Mayhem. Last time they cornered me, they sent me to Portland to pick up a package from a guy behind a Panda Express who looked like a Dick Tracy villain on meth. Only afterwards did they mention it contained volatile explosives, a taxidermied piranha, and acustom Labubu done up like Cthulhu. They were birthday gifts, they said.
Never again, I said.
Just as I’m about to yawn and consider a night ride before calling it a night, things get interesting.
Becauseshewalks in.
She doesn’t just open the door; she transforms the whole place. For a moment, every head at the bar cranes like it’s all part of some synchronized show and she’s the star. She’s soaked — blue denim slicked to her legs, pale skin flushed at the cheeks, hair streaming from under a hood in the color of bruised violets. She doesn’t hesitate, not even a beat, but there’s a flicker in her eyes I recognize — a quick count of exits and bodies, the assessment you only see from two kinds of people: trained professionals or wary prey.
She drops her gaze and moves with intent toward the bar, keeping her back to the wall as much as possible. I know the choreography well. I’ve done it myself, in cities and war zones, in places where the wrong glance meant waking up in a hospital or never waking up at all. She makes it to Molly in five long strides, ignoring the muttered comments from the peanut gallery and the dozen eyes that track her like she’s a deer weaving through a pack of starving wolves. A growl surfaces in my throat before I realize what the fuck I’m doing and then I drown it with a long drink of beer.
With a shuffle, a cleared throat, and a wave, she gets Molly’s attention.
Well, her overt attention.
I know Molly’s been watching her the whole time; Molly’s a pro, seasoned enough to read a situation before it even walks through the door, but even she looks momentarily thrown by this ragged newcomer. The woman says something low and urgent, chewing her lip. Molly narrows her eyes, nods once, andthen — with only a few words — tosses her an apron. She points to the storeroom, then the bathrooms, the kitchen, and then the old office-turned-hangout in the back, laying out the geography of the clubhouse with nothing but a flick of her wrist. The girl nods, sharp and fast, like a soldier catching field instructions.
The whole transaction takes place in less than a minute. It’s reckless, even for Molly. We don't hire strangers. Not without cause. Last time someone new showed up unannounced, Rabid had to break three fingers and dislocate a shoulder to keep the till from walking out the door.
After a moment where the girl looks ready to run, Molly opens her mouth again. They talk. Molly laughs, gestures, and just like that, the girl’s part of the place.
