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“She’s history,” I tried to smooth things over, but the words were just empty noise.
Star was pulling on her clothes, her eyes stormy. “This is a mess,” she said. “There’s no good ending here.”
I tried to set things straight, but we were just revving higher into a fight. “Ain’t letting some old flame screw up what we got,” I snapped.
Her comeback hit like a gut punch. “Old flame? How ‘old’ are we talking? When did you two even call it quits?”
“Shit, that’s ancient history. Fuck, it’s been weeks and a long time coming. You can’t go believing the words coming out of that bitch’s mouth.”
She kinda muttered to herself, “Thought you were riding solo.”
“I am,” I said, dead serious.
“But this, it’s just gonna end with me getting burned. You’ve done it before, Riptide.”
Her words felt like a dick punch, pushing me to slam my fist into the wall, a worthless try to vent all that building rage and shit inside me. The wall cracked, a quick sting in my hand, but it was nothing next to the twist in my gut hearing her say that.
She was getting set to bolt, her mind made up. “I can’t do this again,” she said, each word hitting me like a damn sledgehammer.
As she walked out, the full hit of what I was losing crashed over me. Star was one of a kind, a light in my fucked-up life, and now she was walking out, leaving a hole nothing could patch up. The thought that some past fling, a screw-up on my part, could wreck the chance at something solid with Star, knocked the wind right out of me.
With the morning gone to hell, I pulled on my cut, the leather’s weight kinda grounding me. A storm was brewing inside. Star’s exit carving a deep echo in me with every step I took back to the club’s buzz.
The day rolled out in club shit, the usual grind I’ve done a million times, but today, everything felt off-kilter. The brothers tossed nods and fist bumps my way as I moved through the clubhouse, trying to wear the boss look. But Blade, being AWOL, was eating at me. Had to sort that mess out, fast.
Spent the morning locked in meetings I’d skipped out on for days. Talked about runs, turf beefs, and side deals, all standard fare. It should’ve felt normal, but my mind was a mess, half-stuck on Star. I played my part, calling the shots like always, but every word, every decision, was shadowed by thoughts of her.
Lunchtime was quick, the club’s kitchen buzzing as the brothers shuffled in and out. I found myself glued to my phone, scanning for a message from Star that never popped up.
As the day dragged on, we were chasing down leads on Blade, hitting walls at every turn. That grind of coming up empty was nothing new, but today it bit deeper, Star’s absence gnawing at me. My thoughts kept drifting back to her, to the fire in her eyes, the heat of her skin.
Come evening, I was bellied up to the bar, not really thirsty, just moving on autopilot. The Lair was our turf, a far cry from the Roost’s open doors. It was our inner sanctum, not for the Seville masses. The surrounding chatter was a steady drone, usually soothing, but tonight it grated.
Then she sidled up, Shadow’s cousin, always hanging off some club guy’s arm. She leaned in close, her perfume cloying, making her play clear. Once upon a time, I might’ve gone along. Let her distraction ease my mind. But not tonight.
The idea of taking her up to my room flicked through my mind, a quick fix for the night’s unrest. But that notion died fast, squashed by a gut-deep pull towards Star, to hash things out, to just… be with her again.
Politely brushing off what’s-her-name, I hit the lot and fired up my bike, the engine’s growl cutting through the night’s chill. I gunned it towards the Roost, the wind against my face sharpening my resolve.
The ride was a blur, my head a mess of what-ifs and maybes. Facing Star, what the hell was I gonna say? How could I lay bare this crazy tie binding us, stronger and more real than anything else? How could I make her see that losing her again wasn’t an option, no matter the cost?
Roaring into the Roost’s lot, I paused to sort my head out as my Harley’s growl died down. This was crunch time, a real deal moment in a day that’d been all shades of crazy. Here I was, a biker boss, used to tough shit and leading the pack, but squaring up to possibly getting the cold shoulder from Star? That felt like the biggest damn mountain to climb.
Deep down, I felt the stir of my old lone wolf’s instincts telling me chasing after a woman was off track. In a snap, I switched gears, deciding to face Rage instead of running after Star. Couldn’t shake the feeling that the Heelz might be cooking up something against my crew, that blend of suspicion and sense of betrayal nudging me to hash it out with the one chick who’d know the score.
Standing in front of Rage, both of us all braced up, was like staring down a mirror of our clubs’ rocky past. Rage, tough as nails, met my gaze, sharp as glass shards as I threw down my hunch. “Got a gut feeling the Heelz are plotting against us.” I laid it out, keeping my face straight.
Rage heaved a sigh, looking skyward. “Cowgirl’s off the grid, Riptide. I’ve already got Brat on it, digging up the dirt,” she revealed, cooling my jets on the spot.
I tossed in how Blade’s vanishing act was twisting the plot even tighter. We both eased off a bit, chewing over the shaky truce our clubs had been balancing on, now teetering thanks to some inside job stoking the old fires.
“Looks like some of our own are itching for a scrap,” Rage owned up, her fingers drumming thoughtfully. “And there’s some shadowy figure pulling strings, I hear.”
We were riding the same track then. “Been hearing whispers about some ghost player, too. You got any known enemies making moves?” I pressed, looking for some common ground in the chaos.
Rage laughed, deep and hardy. “I have plenty, as I am sure you’ve heard.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking that I heard she bit off a guy’s dick once.
