Blade snorts. Mason gives her a long look, somewhere between amused and tired. “Working on it.”
Then he turns toward the door. “Mount up.”
Chairs scrape lightly across the floor as the guys move for the exit. Boots thud across the wood. The energy in the room shifts again, the tension that filled the place when we walked in easing just enough now that a plan is in motion.
I hang back a second longer than the rest. Partly because I want to make sure Wayne’s good. Mostly because Rae’s still watching me.
She pushes off the bar when the others start filing out. “So that’s it?” she asks. “You guys ride off dramatically and handle business?”
“Something like that,” I tell her.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You’re going to keep me in the loop, right?”
“I’ve got your number now,” I say. “Remember?”
That crooked smile shows up again. “Right.”
Blade pauses near the door and glances back at me. “You coming or you moving in here?”
“Hold your horses,” I mutter.
He smirks and steps outside with the others. The rumble of engines starts building almost immediately. I look back at Rae one more time. “Stay out of trouble.”
She rolls her eyes. “No promises.”
“Rae.”
She lifts both hands like she’s surrendering. “Fine. I’ll try not to start any biker wars while you’re gone.”
“Appreciate that.”
I head for the door before she can add anything else.
Mason swings onto his bike first. Dagger follows. Riot pulls his helmet on while Tank kicks his engine over. Blade’s alreadymounted up, one boot planted on the pavement while his bike idles.
I climb onto mine and start the engine. The vibration rolls through the frame and into my hands, familiar and steady.
Mason looks down the line of bikes. “Jackson.”
Engines growl louder as everyone settles in.
I glance back toward the bar one last time. Rae’s standing in the doorway now, one shoulder against the frame, watching all of us like we’re some kind of traveling circus. She catches me looking. That smug little smile appears again.
I shake my head once and pull my helmet on.
Then Mason rolls out of the lot and the rest of us follow, engines roaring as we head back toward Jackson and the clubhouse.
By the time the clubhouse comes into view, the sky’s starting to shift toward late afternoon. The Iron Reapers compound sits just outside town, gravel lot wide enough for trucks, bikes, and whatever else the club drags in and out on any given day.
Mason rolls in first.
The rest of us follow, engines cutting one by one until the lot settles into silence again.
Boots hit gravel as everyone dismounts. Riot pulls his helmet off and runs a hand through his hair. Tank stretches his shoulders like he’s already gearing up for a fight.
Nobody says much as we head inside.
The clubhouse smells like coffee, motor oil, and old leather. Familiar. Solid. The kind of place where plans get made and problems get solved.
