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Her threat lingered in the air, a stark reminder she wasn’t bluffing. “Call them here, now,” I demanded, trying to keep my ground.
Rage stood her ground. “They’ll meet on their terms, not at your beck and call.”
A smirk crept on my face, a silent acknowledgment of the power play. “I let your Brat walk away last night, Rage. Take it as a peace offering from us.”
Rage let out a derisive laugh. “Peace offering? Cut the crap, Riptide. We both know the score.”
Bringing up her ol’ man, a heavy hitter with the Asphalt Gods MC, was my next move. “Your crew broke free from the Gods,” I threw out, trying to hit a nerve. “You and I, we’re cut from the same cloth.”
Her laugh was sharp, laced with disdain. “Back then, the Seville Slayers were just a weekend warrior gang. The Heelz had you figured out. Looks like old habits die hard, eh?”
That jab stung, reminding me of our club’s modest start, a fact I wasn’t keen on remembering.
“And Brat?” I switched gears. “I need to talk to her.”
Rage leaned back, her expression mocking. “Try again tomorrow. Maybe you’ll catch her.”
We were at a deadlock. Yet, Rage’s veiled threat rang clear – cross her girls, and I’d be signing up for trouble.
Leaving the Roost, the confrontation left me swimming in doubts. But one thing was crystal: Rage and her Hell on Heelz were a force to reckon with. And Brat, with her flame-red hair and complicated history with me, stood at the center of this brewing storm.
The next evening found me back at the Roost, its glaring neon signs casting long shadows on the gravel as I parked my bike. Stepping inside, the charged atmosphere of the bar wrapped around me, thick with the anticipation of conflict and the undercurrent of danger that followed men like me everywhere.
There she was, Star, in the flesh. The center of attention among her sisters, her laughter ringing out clear and defiant. She was a sight, that much was undeniable. The bright red hair spilled over her shoulders, highlighting the leather and tattoos that adorned her. But it wasn’t just her looks that grabbed me by the balls.
She had this way about her, like she ruled the joint, a bona fide queen among her loyal subjects. My gaze lingered on her, tracing her lines, stirring up a storm of memories where she was right there in my grasp. It was a potent cocktail, her image fusing with the gritty reason I’d rolled up here. I was on the edge, prepped to grill her.
Rolling up to her crew, the jabs flew my way instantly. “Check out who’s crawled back,” one sneered, looking me over like I was roadkill stuck to their boot.
“Thought you’d try your luck again, pretty boy?” another jeered, her voice oozing disdain.
I brushed off their taunts, eyes locked on Brat. “We gotta talk,” I cut through the noise, laying down the law in a voice that brooked no argument. It wasn’t a friendly chat I was after. It was straight-up business.
“What, got a soft spot for me now?” Brat fired back, her eyes blazing, daring me to step closer.
Their snark was just part of the dance. The banter, the defiance, it was all window dressing. My stare drilled into her, seeing past the tough exterior to the girl who once got under my skin, the one who could still throw me off balance if I let her.
“Alone,” I pressed, holding her gaze, throwing down the gauntlet.
Her face flickered with suspicion. “Scared I’ll embarrass you in front of your boys?” she retorted, her bravado as thick as the ink on her skin.
“Scared of being alone with a real biker?” I countered, the corner of my mouth ticking up in a smirk. It was a low blow, but I couldn’t resist the jab. It was in my nature to push, to provoke.
Her laughter was sharp, more a challenge than amusement. “Scared of you? Please, I eat guys like you for breakfast.”
Leaning in close, I caught her scent, a dangerous mix of leather and something far too enticing for the situation at hand. “If I wanted to hurt you, sweetheart, we wouldn’t be having this chat,” I whispered, a dark promise laced with our tangled history.
She rolled her eyes, but the gesture lacked its usual defiance. Without another word, she signaled me to follow her outside, away from the prying eyes and ears of her club sisters. I signaled for my men to stay behind. They wouldn’t let her sisters bother us.
The night air hit us, zapping the heat that seemed to follow us out. We slipped into the shadows, where the bar’s neon lights couldn’t reach, our own secluded spot where past and present were about to clash. I wanted to grab ahold of her but thought better of it.
Memories of our past encounters flooded back, each one reminding me of what we’d been to each other, however briefly. The cocky alpha male in me wanted to reduce her to just another conquest, another notch on the belt. But the reality was far more complex, much deeper. History that wasn’t easily dismissed.
As we faced each other in the dim light, the anticipation of the conversation threatened to break me. Brat, Star, the woman in front of me, exuded a formidable presence, a reminder of a past I couldn’t erase and a present I was still trying to understand. The conversation that was about to unfold would be a turning point, one way or another, and I found myself uncertain, for the first time in a long time, of what the outcome would be.
This wasn’t just about the club, about Viper or the Hell on Heelz. It was about the raw, messy stuff between us that had been simmering for too long. Despite my instinct to shut it down, to focus on the club and the chaos, the undeniable truth was that we had unfinished business.
“What are you doing here, Star?”
