Page 5
First Encounter
Poppy
The Rusted Spur looks like nothing from the outside. Just another forgotten bar on the edge of nowhere. A faded neon beer sign flickers in the front window, one letter permanently burnt out. Pickup trucks line the gravel lot beside motorcycles worth more than most people’s houses, and country music drifts through the walls every time someone opens the front door.
Perfect. Places like this are invisible. People stop noticing strangers after the second beer.
I slide onto the same barstool I’ve occupied for the last three evenings and cross one leg over the other. Tonight, I abandoned my boots for black heels, the kind that make every step feel like a dare. Not stilettos. Those scream trying too hard. These heels lift me just enough, legs stretching long and lethal beneath denim that clings like a second skin. My charcoal top skims my waist, dipping low enough to tease, never to plead. My curls are loose instead of braided, while my gold hoops catch the light when I turn my head. My sleeve tattoo stays hidden, secrets inked beneath leather molded to every curve. I look fucking hot, and I know it. I also look sweet and approachable. Forgettable. Exactly the woman Walker Creed should underestimate.
“Another ginger ale?”
I smile at Becky, the bartender. “Please.”
She laughs. “You always come into a bar and order soda?”
“I’m driving.”
“Liar.” She crooks a brow.
“I’m very committed to the bit.”
She shakes her head, setting the glass in front of me. Most people think a drink sharpens their senses. They’re wrong. It slows reaction time and dulls instincts. But instinct is the only reason I’m still alive.
The front door opens, and the conversation dips almost imperceptibly before picking up again.
I don’t look immediately. Never look immediately. Instead, I lift my glass, take one sip, and count to three before glancing toward the entrance. There he is. Walker Creed. The man known as Judge.
The photographs were misleading. Not about his appearance. About his presence. Pictures flatten people, but Walker fills a room without saying a word. Six-foot-four, maybe a fraction taller in his worn boots, with broad shoulders stretched beneath a weathered Sons of Sin cut, the leather faded from thousands of miles on the road. The rocker across his back reads NOMAD, and no one in the bar seems foolish enough to ask questions.
His beard is fuller than the photographs suggested. Dark hair brushes the collar of his cut, silver just beginning to claim his temples.
He pauses inside the doorway. Watching, not looking, but assessing. His grey-blue eyes move across the room with practiced patience. He takes in the exits, the windows, the back hallway, the bartender, the pool table, and finally me. His gaze lingers for less than a second before continuing.
He walks to the far end of the bar, choosing the stool with the clearest view of both entrances. He orders a beer and drinks slowly. He speaks even less. The older man beside him tries to make conversation, and Walker answers politely enough to avoid being rude, but efficiently enough to end it. Within minutes, he’s alone again.
I pretend to scroll through messages on my phone. Every reflection in the screen becomes another way to watch him. The burn scar winding around his forearm. The black-and-grey tattoos disappearing beneath rolled sleeves. That crooked nose fits him better than perfection ever could.
He isn’t conventionally handsome. He’s weathered, carved by time and trouble. Like old leather. Like mountains. Like someone who’s survived more winters than most men survive fights. His jeans cling to him, indecent and dangerous, every line daring me to look longer. I catch myself noticing. How fucking annoying. I don’t need to see him as attractive. That’s not the point. That’s not the job. I need him dead.
An hour passes, and he finishes his first beer and orders a second. Never once does he lose awareness of the room around him. His gaze catches mine, deliberately, and I hold it. One heartbeat, two, and then smile. Small and curious.
His expression doesn’t change, he simply returns his attention to his drink while I bite back a grin. The second glance comes twenty minutes later, and this lasts longer. His eyes travel over me, not carelessly or simply taking inventory, but hungrily. He takes in my leather jacket, jeans, and heels. He isn’t undressing me with his eyes. He’s profiling me. The realization makes me smile even wider. Finally. Someone interesting.
Near midnight, Becky appears beside him with the bill. Walker reaches for his wallet, and I watch without meaning to. No, that’s a lie. I watch because it’s my job.
He glances toward Becky, and she forces a smile that’s just a little too bright. Even from here, exhaustion shadows her eyes, heavy and unrelenting. Her shoes are held together by hope, and even a blind man can tell she is the kind of woman who works doubles because rent doesn’t care if you bleed for it.
Walker slides cash beneath the receipt. Becky looks down, and her eyes widen. “You sure?”
He nods once. “You’ve earned it.”
Simple. Quiet. No performance. No waiting for gratitude.
He stands and walks away before she can thank him. I watch as Becky presses a hand briefly over her mouth before she tucks the money into her apron like it’s something precious.
I stare after him. That ... doesn’t fit. The file I have memorized tells me Walker Creed is a hardened Sons of Sin Nomad. A former soldier, a hardened 1%er, and extremely dangerous. A man who should think in terms of strategy, territory, and blood, not generous tips. He isn’t supposed to be the type of man who takes notice of overworked waitresses.
For the briefest moment, doubt whispers in the back of my mind, but I crush it quickly, grind it beneath my heel. One decent act doesn’t erase a lifetime of misdeeds. Monsters smile, monsters donate to charity, monsters can love animals, but they’re still monsters.
