Page 7 of My Reckless Biker

"I'm not planning to wander."

"Good."

He stops at the door and turns to face me. First time we've been alone since church, first time he's really looked at me without an audience.

His eyes are dark and flat and assessing, and I can feel him cataloguing again. Looking for cracks.

"We need a story," I say, because we didn't coordinate this and we need to before we go inside. "In case someone asks how we met or how long we've been seeing each other or any of the normal questions people ask."

"We met three weeks ago," he says, and his voice is matter-of-fact, like he's already worked this out. "You were at a bar in the next county. I was there alone. We talked, you gave me your number, I called the next day. We've been seeing each other since. Keep it vague if anyone asks for details. Don't offer anything they don't specifically ask for, and if someone pushes too hard, let me handle it."

"What bar?"

"Doesn't matter. Pick one. If they push, say you don't remember the name, it was just some place your friends wanted to go."

I nod, filing it away. "And how serious are we supposed to be? Are we exclusive, are we just seeing where it goes, what's the dynamic here?"

"Early stages. Still figuring each other out. That gives us room to be awkward if we fuck up, makes it more believable." He steps closer and suddenly the space between us is smaller. I can see the faint scar through his left eyebrow, the way his jaw is set tight. "You ever done this before?"

"Lied to a room full of people about a relationship that doesn't exist? No, this is my first time."

His mouth twitches slightly. Not quite a smile but close. "You're going to be fine. Just don't overthink it."

"I overthink everything. It's a personality flaw."

"Then tonight's going to be rough for you." His hand comes up and settles on my lower back, warm through my shirt. "Ready?"

The touch feels impersonal and deliberate and calculated all at once, like he's guiding a piece on a board instead of touching a person. No gentleness. Just the mechanical motion of a man doing what's required.

"Yes," I say.

We go inside.

The Anchor is exactly what I expected. Dim lighting, wood surfaces scarred by years of use, the smell of beer and fried food and cigarette smoke that's soaked into everything.

It's busy for a Thursday evening, tables full of people who look like they've been here since five and plan to stay until close.

A few heads turn when we walk in. Eyes tracking us.

I can feel the attention like weight, like assessment, and I'm reading the room the way I learned to read rooms in my father's world. Who's watching, who's pretending not to watch, who's reaching for their phone.

Diesel's hand stays on my lower back as he guides me through the crowd toward the bar.

People make space for us without being asked, and I recognize the dynamic immediately. They know him. They recognize the cut. They understand what it means to have a Vigil brother in the bar.

Respect or fear or both. Hard to tell which.

The man behind the counter is older, maybe sixty, grey hair and a face that's seen enough that nothing surprises him anymore. His eyes track us, assessment quick and competent.

"Diesel," he says. His voice is neutral, neither warm nor cold.

"Walt." Diesel's hand moves from my back to the bar. "Two beers. Whatever's on tap."

Walt's eyes shift to me, quick assessment, then back to Diesel. "Didn't know you were seeing anyone. In all these years, I've never seen you with a woman."

"Well, now you have." Diesel's voice is flat, giving nothing. "Things change."

"Apparently." Walt pulls two beers, sets them in front of us, and his eyes are knowing in a way that makes my skin prickle. "You got a name?"