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I knew she needed a firm hand, maybe even firmer, since she was so tough now. She wouldn’t refuse me. I snaked my other arm around her waist, tugging her body against the rod in my jeans. I could feel her body quake against mine as she began to give in.
Then, outta nowhere, a gunshot cracked through the air, chaos erupting around us, sending patrons scrambling. Instinct kicked in. I shoved Star down, covering her with my body to shield her from the bullets or whatever hell was breaking loose.
Pinned close, her body against mine, the danger of the moment made it clear how much I wanted her, needed her. Lying there on the grimy floor, the world outside faded, leaving just the raw, undeniable pull between us.
“You good?” I asked, scanning the room for the shooter, my voice rough with concern.
“Yeah,” she answered, surprisingly calm.
When I spotted the shooter booking it out, adrenaline surged. I was off Brat in an instant, pulling her to her feet with a rush of urgency. “I’m going after him,” I declared, the decision firm in my voice.
She was quick to join in. “I’m with you.”
I hit the pavement, heading for my bike, half wishing she’d jump on behind me. But Star, true to her fire, hopped on her bike, engines roaring, declaring her own fierce independence loud and clear.
The chase kicked into high gear. Our mark was tearing up the late-night traffic in a car, dodging through like a bat outta hell. Brat blasted ahead, her Harley roaring, her fiery hair streaming behind her as she got right up on the car’s tail. My heart was hammering, adrenaline pumping for the chase but also out of real concern for her.
I watched, heart in my throat, as she flirted with danger, maneuvering her bike with a daredevil’s grace. I throttled my bike, pushing to catch up. Then some jackass in a car cut across, nearly taking me out, forcing me to swerve hard. But my eyes stayed glued on Brat. Admiration mixed with a good dose of fear watching her square up against the car. She was all guts, no doubt, and it both fired me up and scared the shit out of me.
The glint of a gun from the car’s window ramped up my fear to full-blown terror.
Before I could react, Brat swerved away, vanishing from my sight. Panic clawed at me, cold and sharp, as I slammed the brakes and spun around. Screw the chase, screw the shooter. I needed to find Brat, make sure she was still in one piece.
I found her quick enough. Her bike was trashed in the ditch, sticking out like a sore thumb in the night. My heart damn near stopped till I saw her moving, trying to untangle herself from the bike’s mess.
I ditched my bike and was by her side in a heartbeat. “Star, talk to me. Are you okay?” My voice was all over the place. Relief and worry tangled up as I checked her for injuries.
Seeing her alive, just shaken, was a weight off. But helping her up, feeling her lean on me, it hit home hard. She could’ve been gone. We could’ve lost it all right there. This whole mess, this war brewing between our clubs and whatever personal hell we were in, it was real and deadly.
There in that ditch, with her leaning on me, something shifted between us. The night’s madness, the close call, it peeled back the bullshit, leaving something raw and real. Losing her wasn’t an option. Not now, not ever.
Chapter 8
Brat
Lying there in the ditch, my bike a twisted wreck beside me, an odd calm washed over me. I was in one piece, somehow, despite the mayhem that had just unfolded.
Riptide’s voice broke through my daze, pulling me back to the urgency of the moment. “We have to get off the side of the road,” he insisted, his tone leaving no room to argue. “There was another car, more men than we thought. We could be in danger.”
His insistence that I come with him, coupled with his observation that I was still in shock, left little room for protest. Before I knew it, I was climbing onto the back of his Harley, wrapping my arms around him. The sensation of the solid, unyielding muscle beneath my hands was disconcerting as it made me feel too vulnerable. But in my state, that was the least of my worries.
The ride was a blur, my mind struggling to process the night’s events. The chill slapping my face, the rumble of the Harley beneath us, the gunshots, the chase. Even the wreck was nothing new. But Riptide, his appearance in my life, all felt like a dream, a dangerously vivid dream from which I couldn’t wake. A dream that could at any point morph into a nightmare.
We arrived at his clubhouse, the Lair, they called it, and he scooped me up honeymoon style to carry me to his apartment above it. A man, another biker, was waiting, his hands sure and steady as he checked me over.
“No concussion,” he declared after a thorough examination. “Just let her get some rest.”
Rest was a distant concept, but my body had other ideas. The moment my head hit the pillow, exhaustion took over, pulling me down into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Waking up the next morning was like emerging from a cocoon. Every muscle ached, reminding me of my body being thrown from my Harley. It took me a moment, a long, disorienting moment, to realize I was completely naked, the sheets offering scant coverage. Panic fluttered deep within me as I took in my surroundings. Not my room, not my bed, but Riptide’s apartment.
As I propped myself up, my gaze wandered, taking in the details of his private world. The walls were a muted shade of gray, a backdrop to the black-and-white photographs of open roads, towering cliffs, and sprawling deserts, landscapes that spoke of freedom and solitude.
Near the bed, a sturdy, dark wood dresser stood, its surface clean except for a few personal items, a set of keys, and a weathered wallet. Off to the side was a small, framed photo of a younger man I knew so well, smiling beside a bike that looked like it had seen better days. It was a rare glimpse into his past that I’d missed, a moment captured before the burden of leadership had fully settled on his shoulders.
The room itself was larger than I expected, with high ceilings that made it feel open, yet the soft, thick rug underfoot and the heavy linens that draped the bed lent a cozy warmth to the space. On one side, a set of French doors opened to a small balcony, perhaps overlooking the back of the clubhouse.
His closet door was ajar, revealing rows of neatly hung leathers and denim, the colors dark, the fabrics worn. Draped on a nearby chair was his Seville Slayer’s MC cut, the club’s insignia embroidered boldly across the back. Lingering in the air was the faint scent of motor oil and cologne, which I decided was a uniquely Riptide blend that filled the space with a presence even in his absence. It was a reminder of the night before, the smell of his skin as he shielded me from the gunshots.
