Clean run.
That was how we liked it. In and out, no flashing lights, no loose ends, no heroes trying to make their names on our backs. By the time we pulled into a roadside bar outside Albuquerque, the sun had already dropped, and every one of us had that same road-worn look—faces gritty, shoulders tight, throats raw from wind and miles.
The bar wasn’t much. Low ceiling. Warped wood. Neon signs buzzing over bottles that had seen too many regrets. It smelled like burnt grease, stale whiskey, and bad decisions made in bathrooms with broken locks. Perfect place to wash the desert out of our mouths before heading home.
Edge hung near the back door with his phone pressed to his ear, talking low to his woman. Tank took the stool beside me with a grunt like his bones had opinions. Bullet was across the room working a blonde over the pool table like flirtation was a contact sport. River leaned against the bar, half watching the room, half watching our backs.
Normal night.
I tipped my longneck and let the beer cut cold down my throat. It didn’t do much for the grit, but it helped. Three pulls and half the bottle was gone. I set it down, rolled my shoulders once, and felt the room shift around me.
Women.
I didn’t have to look hard. I knew the feel of it. Had known it since my twenties, since the first time I patched in and realized a kutte did half the talking before a man ever opened his mouth. Some women saw leather and wanted danger without consequences. Some saw scars and thought they could be the soft place a rough man finally landed. Some just wanted a story to tell their friends after brunch.
Tonight there were five of them. One near the jukebox pretending to choose a song while watching me in the reflection. Two by the dartboard whispering into each other’s ears. A redhead at the bar twisting her straw until the paper wrapper shredded. Another one sitting with her knees angled toward me, all glossy mouth and practiced patience.
I knew women wanted me. Wasn’t vanity. Wasn’t a guess. It was math I’d learned the hard way. The bike, the shoulders, the tattoos crawling down my arms, the scar cutting through my left eyebrow and another ridge of old damage along my ribs from a wreck I didn’t talk about unless I was drunk enough to forget my own rules. Women looked at all that and built a man in their heads. They liked the idea of being chosen by something dangerous.
Used to be, I let them.
Used to be, I’d pick one before the second beer, let her laugh too close, let her hand climb my thigh, let the night turn into skin, sweat, and a motel room that smelled like bleach over old smoke. Quick. Easy. Forgettable, until morning made it awkward. Until she wanted breakfast or my number or a promise I hadn’t offered. Until I had to untangle fake lashes from my sink, find her earring in my sheets three weeks later, or watch her try to wear my shirt like we’d built something between midnight and regret.
I was done with it.
Done with one-night stands that left perfume on my pillow and nothing in my chest. Done with women who liked the rough edges until they cut. Done with pretending empty felt like freedom just because nobody stayed long enough to ask questions.
Tank caught me watching the room and smirked into his beer. “Your fan club showed up.”
“Lucky me.”
“Don’t sound too excited.”
“Trying not to hurt myself.”
River laughed under his breath. Bullet, hearing just enough from across the room, grinned like an idiot and sank a shot. The blonde clapped for him like he’d invented pool.
A brunette slid onto the stool beside me before Tank could keep running his mouth. She was pretty enough, maybe late twenties, tight jeans, soft mouth, hair curled in waves that had taken effort. She smelled like coconut lotion and tequila. Her hand drifted over my forearm, fingers tracing the black ink there like she had permission.
“You riding alone tonight?” she asked.
I looked down at her hand first. Then up at her face.
“Not with that line.”
River choked on his beer. Tank turned his head, shoulders shaking.
The brunette’s mouth tightened. “Asshole.”
“Usually.”
She muttered something under her breath and pushed away from the bar, pride dented but not broken. She’d find somebody else before last call. Most people did. That was the whole point of places like this. Everybody hunting for a warm body to stand between them and whatever followed them home.
Bullet came over a minute later, grinning wide enough to irritate me on sight. “You broken?”
I grabbed the fresh beer the bartender slid my way. “No.”
Tank leaned back, stool creaking under him. “Could’ve fooled us.”
