Silence settles over the space again.
The biker stands there for a second watching the empty road, hands resting loosely at his sides. The streetlight above him throws half his body into shadow, outlining the broad shape of his shoulders and the Iron Reapers patch stretched across the back of his cut.
I push off the wall without really thinking about it.
Because that was…
Honestly, it's kind of impressive. Also extremely fucking hot.
I take a couple quiet steps forward before realizing I’ve just walked halfway across the lot like a curious raccoon that wandered too close to a campfire. Smooth, Rae, really subtle.
The gravel crunches under my boot. The biker’s head turns slightly and suddenly I realize he probably knew I was standing back there the whole time.
THREE
GHOST
I hearthe back door open before I ever see her. It’s just the faint scrape of metal hinges and the soft crunch of gravel under a boot, but that’s enough. Most people would miss something that small, especially when they’ve got three loud men standing in front of them trying to throw their weight around. I don’t miss things like that. You survive long enough doing the kind of work I’ve done by noticing everything, even the details that seem insignificant. I keep my back to the building anyway, letting her think she slipped out unnoticed, because the three men in front of me still believe this conversation is about them.
The one in the middle, the guy who did most of the talking inside the bar, takes a step closer like he’s trying to reclaim control of the situation. He’s got that smug look men get when they think intimidation works on everyone the same way it works on the people they’re used to pushing around. His jacket smells faintly of cheap cologne and cigarettes when the breeze shifts between us.
“You got a problem?” he asks. His tone makes it clear he already thinks he knows the answer.
I glance down briefly at the gravel near my boots, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable before lifting my eyes back to his face. “Yeah,” I say evenly. “I do.”
The three of them exchange a look, and I can see the moment where curiosity starts mixing with irritation. “Oh yeah?” the man says, folding his arms across his chest. “What’s that?”
“You’re bothering the wrong bar.”
The guy snorts like I just told him a joke he’s heard before. “That bar isn’t your business.”
“It is tonight.”
One of the other men shifts his stance, his boots grinding against the gravel as he leans slightly forward. “You the owner or something?”
“No.”
“Then you should probably mind your own damn business and walk away.”
I tilt my head slightly as I study them. The streetlight above us throws just enough light across their faces for me to see the moment they finally notice the cut on my back. Their eyes flick over the leather, lingering for a second on the patch. Iron Reapers.
The man in the middle notices it too. His expression tightens just a fraction, the confidence slipping a little around the edges. “You one of those biker boys?” he asks.
“Something like that.”
He glances at his buddies before looking back at me again, clearly trying to decide if he still wants to play this game now that the situation has changed slightly. “We’re just having a conversation with the owner,” he says, forcing a casual tone. “Nothing wrong with that.”
I shake my head once. “You threatened him.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“No,” I say calmly. “That’s what happened.”
The man takes another step closer, trying to close the distance between us like proximity alone might give him the upper hand.
“Look,” he says, lowering his voice like he’s suddenly the reasonable one in the conversation. “This doesn’t concern you. The guy running that bar could use some help keeping things smooth around here.”
“He’s got help.”
