Page 21 of My Reckless Biker

Even if it compromises his judgment.

Even if it's the worst possible tactical decision he could make.

Downstairs I hear raised voices, urgent movement, and I know the threat level just increased. Marrow isn't just in Bloomfield asking questions. They're positioning for something bigger.

My father is coming.

And I'm not running.

I'm staying exactly where I am, consequences be damned, because for the first time in my life I want something that's mine instead of his.

I want Diesel.

And I'm going to fight for that the same way I'm going to fight against my father.

With everything I have.

Even if it costs me everything.

Chapter 5 — Diesel

I don't sleep.

I spend the night in my room at the clubhouse staring at the ceiling and replaying the kiss, the way her mouth felt under mine, the way she gripped my shoulders and kissed me back like she meant it.

The way she looked at me after with swollen lips and said you can't watch me the same way after this.

She was right. I can't.

I kissed Victor Crane's daughter while Marrow was positioning in Bloomfield and I kissed her like I wanted her, like the strategic considerations mattered less than the fact that she was standing there telling me she's tired of calculating and I understood that in ways I didn't want to examine.

By five-thirty I give up on sleep.

I pull on jeans and a shirt and head downstairs where the clubhouse is quiet except for the creak of old wood settling and the first grey light coming through the windows.

The coffee pot is where I left it and I make a full batch because I'm going to need it, stand at the counter drinking it black while the cicadas start their noise outside.

My phone rings at six-seventeen.

Unknown number. I answer it because unknown numbers this early usually mean something's wrong.

"Diesel?" The voice is strained, older, unfamiliar. "This is Tom Hendricks, Ray's neighbor. You need to get to County General right now. Ray's been hurt bad."

The coffee cup stops halfway to my mouth and everything in me goes still. "How bad."

"Real bad. Ambulance took him maybe thirty minutes ago. There was blood all over his driveway, all over the side of his truck. They wouldn't tell me what happened but I heard one of the EMTs say assault, say head trauma, and Ray wasn't moving when they loaded him. Wasn't making any sound. I only got your number because it was in his phone under emergency contact."

The rage that floods through me is immediate and cold, so focused it narrows my vision to a single sharp point. Ray. Beaten. Head trauma. Not moving.

This is Crane's response to the photos.

This is the message.

"I'm on my way," I say, and my voice comes out flat and hard.

I end the call and head for the door and Clint's coming down the stairs already dressed, already moving like he heard the phone and read the tone.

"What happened?" he asks.