Page 1 of My Reckless Biker

Chapter 1 — Diesel

The wrench slips in my grip and I readjust, torque the bolt another quarter turn.

The garage behind the clubhouse is all metal, concrete and the smell of oil that's been here so long it's part of the air. The heat sits heavy even in the shade, the kind that doesn't lift, just presses down and stays.

Tate's at the workbench cleaning the carburetor from his Harley, and the radio's playing something low enough that it's just background noise under the cicadas outside.

I'm bent over my bike's engine when Cain appears in the doorway.

"Clint wants everyone inside," he says. "Now."

Tate looks up. I set the wrench down and straighten, wiping my hands on a rag that won't do much good. Cain's already gone, moving fast enough that I know this isn't routine.

"Fuck," Tate says, which sums it up.

We head for the clubhouse, boots crunching on gravel that's been baked white under the sun. The yard is all dust and chrome, bikes lined up near the building reflecting light hot enough to burn skin if you're stupid enough to touch bare metal in this heat.

Inside, the common room is cooler but not by much.

Brothers are already gathering, spreading out along the walls and near the windows. Holt's got his arms crossed, face unreadable. Roan's at the table. Knox leaning against the far wall with that stillness that means he's already calculating what's coming. Clint's at the head of the table, and his face is giving me nothing, which means this is serious.

I take position near Tate and wait.

Clint doesn't waste time. "We have a visitor. Walked up to the gate ten minutes ago. Says she's Victor Crane's daughter and she wants to make a deal."

Nobody moves.

The ceiling fan creaks overhead, turning slow, and I can hear Holt's breathing shift and Knox's weight settle back harder against the wall.

Victor Crane. Marrow MC. The man who's been pushing at Bloomfield's edges for six months, testing our lines, seeing what he can take.

The man whose people put two of our guys in the hospital last month and burned Ray's truck in the parking lot outside his shop just to make a point.

That Victor Crane.

And his daughter just walked through our gate...

"It's a trap," I say.

Clint's eyes shift to me, flat and assessing. "Probably. But we're going to hear her out." He nods to the prospects near the door. "Bring her in."

They leave and the room stays silent, but I can feel every brother here doing the same math I am. What kind of game is Crane playing, how many moves ahead is he, and how many of us die when it goes wrong.

The door opens and she walks in flanked by the prospects.

Dark hair pulled back tight, not a strand loose. Dark jeans that fit close enough to show she's not hiding weapons, black shirt with sleeves to her elbows.

Composed face that doesn't show the fear she has to be feeling walking into a room full of men who have every reason to kill her.

She's not small. Soft curves visible even in clothes that aren't designed to advertise, full breasts that press against the fabric of her shirt in a way I notice before I can stop myself, thick thighs in those jeans, wide hips that give her the kind of shape most men would look at twice and I'm looking despite every intention not to.

She's substantial, takes up real space, the kind of body that doesn't apologize for existing.

And that's the first thing that makes me suspicious.

Victor Crane's daughter wouldn't walk in here without calculating every advantage, and a body like that is an advantage if she knows how to use it.

The question is whether she does, whether the vulnerability in how she's standing is real or just another layer of performance.