Page 5 of My Reckless Biker

Then she picked the wrong brother to get assigned to.

I crush the cigarette under my boot and head back inside to get ready for tonight, for the performance that starts in six hours, for the game that's already begun whether I wanted to play it or not.

Eight o'clock. The Anchor. Let her show me what she really is.

I'll be watching.

Chapter 2 — Sienna

The room they give me is small and clean and has a lock that only works from the outside.

Second floor of the clubhouse, window overlooking the yard where bikes are lined up like soldiers. I can hear voices downstairs, boots on wood, the low rumble of conversations I'm not part of.

The bed is made with military precision and there's a bathroom attached that smells like industrial soap. No personal items. No evidence anyone's ever stayed here before.

Just a room designed for temporary occupation, which is exactly what I am.

I sit on the edge of the bed and let myself assess the situation now that there's no one watching me do it.

Church went as well as it could have gone, which means I'm still alive and they took the deal. The fake dating addition was predictable. Clint's strategic enough to see the value in provoking my father, and using me as the provocation makes sense from every angle.

What I didn't predict was Diesel.

I expected suspicion. I expected to be monitored. I expected someone controlled who'd watch me for mistakes.

What I got was a man who looked at me like he was cataloguing weak points, who announced his distrust out loud in that room, and who's going to be touching me in public while actively looking for proof I'm lying.

That's a complication I didn't account for when I walked through their gate this morning.

The problem is he's not wrong to distrust me.

If I were him, I'd think exactly what he's thinking. Victor Crane's daughter showing up with perfect intel at the perfect time? That's not coincidence. That's strategy.

The only difference between what he thinks is happening and what's actually happening is that the strategy is mine, not my father's.

I stand and move to the window.

A brother I don't recognize is working on his bike near the garage, and I can see the Vigil patch on his cut.

I count bikes in the lot, assess the fence line, note the cameras mounted at three corners of the building. Good security but not paranoid. Confident.

That confidence will work in my favor if my father comes for me, which he will.

Victor Crane doesn't let go of what belongs to him.

A knock on the door interrupts my assessment. A young prospect steps in, baby-faced and trying for authority.

"You've got two hours," he says. "Diesel wants you downstairs at seven forty-five. Don't be late."

"I won't be."

He leaves and I move to the small mirror over the dresser. Dark hair still pulled back, face composed, no evidence of the calculation running under my skin.

I look like someone who knows what she's doing. I look like Victor Crane's daughter, which is both armor and liability depending on who's looking.

I wonder if Diesel sees the armor or just assumes manipulation.

I wonder if there's a difference.