Page 29 of Calypso's Shield
I cock a brow. “That so?”
He steps in, close enough that his breath brushes my cheek. “Yeah. But I think I’d like watching you ride something else even more.”
Cocky bastard.
I smirk, shoving him back just enough to remind him I don’t fall easily. “Keep dreaming, Law Dog.”
His grin widens. “Oh, I will.”
I roll my eyes and turn away, but the bastard’s laughter follows me. This ride may have been for the fallen, but right now, I feel more alive than ever.
The sun dips low, bleeding into the ocean, casting the beach in gold and fire. The ocean breeze carries the scent of salt, sweat, and grilled meat, mixing with the lingering aroma of motor oil and exhaust from the ride. The thunder of engines is replaced by the pulse of music, deep bass rattling through the sand, rolling over the voices of hundreds of bikers, veterans, and partygoers celebrating under the fading sunset.
The bonfires burn high, licking at the darkening sky, their glow casting long shadows over the beach. Someone cranked up the speakers near the main fire, and the gritty rasp of a classicrock song pours out, blending with the crackle of flames and the distant crash of waves.
The Royal Harlots and Royal Bastards move through the crowd like we own it because, in a way, we do. This is our night. Our ride. Our cause.
Allura and Capone are deep in conversation near the bonfire, their presidents' minds likely already scheming the next move. Laughter spills from a group near the drink coolers where Tiny and Blayze are arm-wrestling over a makeshift barrel table, muscles straining, veins bulging, sweat dripping from their foreheads as the crowd cheers them on. Nearby, Iris and French are doing tequila shots with Dagger and Trigger, laughing like they don’t have a single worry in the world.
Sloane and Rebel are talking shit with Derange and Aftermath, their voices rising over the music, something about who could handle themselves better in a bar brawl. Bones and Pretty Boy are surrounded by a group of girls, flashing their charming, cocky grins while Daisy and Jezebelle roll their eyes.
Closer to the fire, someone’s strumming a guitar, singing along to the music playing through the speakers. A few people are dancing in the sand, moving to the rhythm, their bodies pressed close, sweat slick and shameless. Beer bottles clink, voices murmur, and the night hums with the kind of energy that only comes after a ride that meant something.
I take a pull from my beer, the cold bite of it washing down the heat still lingering in my veins. That ride? It meant something.
For the ones who didn’t make it home. For the ones who did but never really came back.
For the ones still fighting battles no one sees. I let the music, the laughter, and the fire seep into me. Tonight isn’t about clubs, rivalries, or grudges. Tonight, it’s about respect. It’s about remembering and living at the same damn time.
I just lean against my bike, beer in hand, taking it all in.
And then, there he is. Law Dog. Farris.
He moves through the crowd like he belongs, but at the same time, like he’s watching everything. Taking it all in, reading between the lines. The fire casts sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the cut of his jaw, the smirk that never quite leaves his lips. He’s wearing his prospect cut. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms tense, fingers wrapped around a half-empty beer bottle, and his aviators hang from the neckline of his shirt. I hate that I look. Hate that I noticed him first. Hate that it does something to me.
Farris walks toward me, slow and steady, like he’s got all the time in the world. “Enjoying yourself, baby?” he drawls, sipping from his beer.
I scoff. “You keep calling me ‘baby’ like you think it’s gonna make me weak in the knees.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Nah. I call you ‘baby’ ‘cause I like how mad it makes you.”
I roll my eyes and scoff, but I can’t stop my mouth from twitching just a little. The bastard sees it, too, because his smirk deepens. Before I can bite back, a hand brushes my lower back, too familiar, too uninvited.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” a voice slurs in my ear.
I turn, already knowing what I’ll see. Some drunk, too confident, too close, thinking he’s got a shot. He reeks of cologne and tequila, his shirt missing, board shorts hanging too low, and the kind of cocky grin that makes my fists twitch.
“Not interested,” I say flatly, shifting my stance..
But he doesn’t move.
“Come on now,” he presses, leaning closer, his fingers trailing lower, bold as hell. “You look like you could use a real man tonight.”
The guy’s fingers drift lower, his touch skimming the edge of my jeans. I tense, already gearing up to break his fingers. My muscles coil, my patience thinning to a razor’s edge. Before I can knock his ass out myself, Farris is there.He stands between me and the asshole.
The next second happens fast. Crack. The guy stumbles back, clutching his nose as blood pours between his fingers. Farris doesn’t stop.
He grabs the guy by his neck, yanking him forward before landing a hard, punishing right hook straight to his jaw. The asshole drops like a fucking sack of bricks, groaning in the sand.
