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Riley: Everything is fine. <3

Riley considered how loudly she could scream before the neighbours heard her over the crashing and yelling. She flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Her phone bounced out of her limp hand.

What would Saint do if she called him? This was a bit worse than the “hey, your dog escaped” call he’d be expecting. But maybe he was thinking about her as much as she thought about him.

She’d never know at this rate.

Riley groaned. The skunk smell was getting worse. She grabbed her phone and rolled over. Desperate times.

Riley: Are you around tonight?

Kristi: Wait really? Grandma Sinclair wants to go do something on a Friday night???? With little old me?

Riley: Haha. My apartment stinks like weed. I guess it’s nostalgic.

Kristi: I’m going to this warehouse party with Ki and Miranda. The DJ is from Germany. Invite only. Wanna come?

Riley: Fine.

Kristi: WOOOOOOOOO

Chapter 5

Saint

Saint was not a patient person, and watching some idiot kid try to swindle bikers was not as entertaining as he’d thought it’d be.

“Your new prospect isn’t going to make it to the end of the night.” Saint pitched his voice under the din as Ryan frowned at his cards.

“Sounds like a him problem. I didn’t invite him.” Ryan glanced over at the guys playing pool, oblivious to the fact that their prospect was approaching the end of his life quicker than he’d meant to. They looked older, likely loyal to the club president, Scott Cooper. Zero situational awareness.

Someone who didn’t know how to chew with their fucking mouth closed crunched corn nuts in Saint’s ear.

“Coop’s on a membership drive?” Saint leaned over to ask Ryan. The club was half empty—not uncommon for a Friday. A few members leaned on the bar, the rest in booths around the perimeter. One entire wall was covered by a black flag, and the light caught the black embroidered eight and six, only visible from the angle Saint had. He half expected there to be a “no girls allowed” sign. The club was old-school like that. Backwards.

“Got nothing to do with me,” Ryan said, matching Saint’s low volume. His shaved head and scowl made him look menacing, but when he wasn’t losing at cards, he was half-decent.

Probably should have something to do with you.

Saint was their mechanic. Nothing. No one. Not second in line to the throne of a motorcycle club that ran the entire West Coast like Ryan was.

Saint had the luxury of staying out of it.

He should go be bored somewhere else.

No new notifications on his phone. But at this point it’d been weeks. He was past patience. He could set Cookie loose in the park…

“I’m out, boys,” Ryan said and tossed his cards down. “Blaze must’ve stacked the deck.”

Slow nods and a few growled complaints circled the table, tense looks exchanged as they went. Agreeing with Ryan was something more dangerous than trying to con bikers like the kid was. Ryan’s dad had been a popular president, and since his death, more than a few had been expecting Ryan to follow in his footsteps. Some had expected it years ago. But Ryan had not stepped into that role and appeared to have no interest in it.

A door opened, and cool night air rushed in, cutting through the smoky haze. The bikers stilled, the tinny speakers loud with music decades older than they were.

“Not my problem if y’all can’t play.” Tattooed fingers flipped over the cards as the kid smirked. Saint eased his chair back and slid his phone into his pocket, both hands free.

The cards stopped twirling. “What?”

A meaty hand settled onto the back of Blaze’s neck, and the black spider webs on his temples stood out as his face drained of colour.