I laughed, short and sharp. “I want you to believe I saw something. I don’t care if you call it a ghost or not.”
He waited for me to continue. When I didn’t, he spoke, every word measured. “You’ve been running hot lately. I get it. Wolves do that when they’re cornered. But if you’re slipping, I need to know.”
I bristled at that, the muscles in my jaw going hard. “I’m not slipping.”
“Then what are you?”
I looked past him, at the wall lined with club history, photos of men who’d gone down fighting, flags taken from enemy charters, the dried blood on the corner of a championship trophy. I thought about the woman in the woods, the way she’d looked at me, not like a monster but like she wanted to be seen, truly seen.
“I’m pissed off,” I said. “I’m tired of pretending that what happened didn’t happen. Fuck, Vin, most of us came from the ashes of Hell, and half of us can shift into a fucking wolves. Why’s it so fucking hard to believe what I saw?”
Vin grunted. “Still sounds crazy as shit, Moab.”
I leaned in, my hands braced on the desk. “I’m not crazy. And if I am, it’s your fault for giving me this job in the first place.”
Vin smiled, and for a second, it was almost human. “Maybe. But it’s your job to scare the wolves, not become one.”
I laughed again, but this time it caught in my throat. The desk lamp threw shadows on the wall, and for a second, my own silhouette looked like a wolf with its hackles up.
He reached for a manila envelope on the desk and slid it across. “You’re on perimeter tonight. If you see her again, bring her in. I want to see for myself if this is real, or if you need a long weekend in the lockup.”
I took the envelope without opening it, my fingers leaving smudges on the heavy paper. “And if she doesn’t want to come?”
Vin’s eyes went cold. “That’s what you’re here for, Sarge. Do it how you want, but bring her in breathing.”
I nodded, but inside, something was already fraying.
He lifted the bourbon, drained it, and then gave me the last word. “Don’t get dead. Don’t get caught. Don’t come back without answers.”
I left the office with the taste of fear and cheap whiskey in my mouth. The rest of the clubhouse was silent, every man gone off to his own brand of denial. I didn’t blame them. But as I walked out, Shivs caught my arm.
“You look haunted,” he said.
I shrugged. “Maybe I am.”
He squeezed my shoulder, his grip like steel cable. “Just remember, even the best wolves need a pack.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
I went to my room in the back, closed and locked the door, and lay on the bed. I didn’t do this often, but I also didn’t often see a beautiful woman in the road. I pushed my pants off and closed my eyes, grabbing my dick as I thought about the woman.
I pretended my hand was hers, cool-palmed and deft, those gray eyes following as I slid lower. I’d never gone in much for jerking off, honestly. It always felt like one more bar fight against myself, something you did out of boredom or sick, sad necessity, just another itch to scratch. But now, now I wanted it. Wantedher, the girl in the woods, the way she’d looked at me like I was half ghost, half gunman, something that could end her or save her, depending on my mood.
I used the heel of my palm, squeezing just tight enough to bite. Swiped my thumb over the tip, then down the length, everything already hot and half-hard just from the recall. I drew her face in my mind, the way her mouth twitched when she was about to run, then lingered on how she might taste if she didn’t. How she’d fit in my lap, skinny but strong, braced between my knees and my hands in her hair.
I ran my grip up and down, rougher now, greedy, because imagining her bent over the seat of my Harley made my cock pulse and my jaw clench. I thought about how she’d taste—sweet, maybe, like wild apples and a bite of blood from a split lip. Hips grinding hard against my fist. I could hear, in some fucked-up echo, her voice in my ear, nothing like the squealing moans of the lot lizards who hung around the yard, but a low chanting rhythm, a prayer or poetry, the kind of noise that said she wanted it as much as I did, even if she’d never say it out loud. The head of my cock was already slick, and I caught up the precum on my thumb and smeared it down, slow, almost careful at first. Then I lost patience and spat in my palm, working the shaft until every muscle in my arm burned. I curled up, flexed my ass, and caught the friction just right.
The taste of her, the memory of her whipcord body in flight—fuck, I had to slow down so I didn’t end it in under a minute. I took my time, letting the images flip through like a magazine. Her knees were white with cold, her nipples sharp enough to cut, her hair in my fist or my mouth, wild and smelling of frost and smoke. I circled my thumb under the head and pressed, flexed my hand the way I liked, then pictured her doing it, looking up at me with those too-wide eyes, pupils blown out, waiting for permission that I would never give because I wanted her to ask,to beg, or to take it for herself. The pressure built until it was all I could do not to groan loud enough to shake the walls. I braced my forearm across my mouth, biting down as I jerked harder, faster, the pulse building with every twist of my wrist.
When it came, I saw her face—not scared this time, but wild and laughing, hair stuck to her cheek with cold. I finished onto my stomach, the aftershocks ringing my teeth and making me go a little dizzy. For a few seconds, nothing hurt. Not my head, not my arm, not even the raw place inside that hurt every time I thought about the woods. I wiped up with the shirt I’d thrown off, tossed it into the laundry pile that was more floor than pile, and lay back. I stared at the ceiling, counting each ragged breath, my pulse still stuttering in my throat. When it was over, when the calm slid in to replace the need, I felt the cold start to creep back up the legs of my jeans. And along with it, the old craving, ugly and sharp, for whatever the hell made that girl hers.
***
The clubhouse emptied out fast when the sun set. Most of the crew scattered to their safe houses or lovers, or both. The few that stuck around were the ones with nowhere else to be, so the bar was less a watering hole and more a confession booth for the damned.
I found my favorite stool at the end of the counter, where the only illumination was the spill from the fridge’s open door and a half-dead neon sign advertising bourbon nobody actually drank. The bottle in front of me had gone from full to surrender in less than an hour.
I didn’t hear Shivs come in. He moved like someone who’d learned to tiptoe around landmines, which wasn’t far off. He slid onto the stool beside me, bringing with him a reek of chainlube, cold sweat, and whatever synthetic shit passed for cologne at the truck stop. He said nothing at first, just poured himself a shot from my bottle, threw it back, and set the glass down with a gentle tap that was more intimate than a handshake.
