Page 11 of Arch
But there’s something about Arch’s control, his certainty, that makes me want to try—just to see what it feels like to let someone else call the shots.
I sit up, raking a hand through my hair.
I can’t sit here all night, stewing like some lovesick kid.
Arch said to think about it, but I know what I’m doing. I grab my jacket, the leather worn soft from years of riding solo, and head out.
The Wolf Riders are having a hangout tonight, some low-key thing at their clubhouse on the edge of Willow Creek. I heard it from a guy at the garage, a youngster who wouldn’t shut up about the club’s legendary parties.
I’m not signing up yet, but I need to see what I’m getting into.
I need to seehimagain, even if I won’t admit it out loud…
The clubhouse is a fortress of cinderblock and steel, tucked behind a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
Bikes line the lot, Harleys mostly, their chrome glinting under floodlights.
Music—hard rock, maybe Metallica—thumps from inside, mixed with laughter and the clink of bottles.
I park my bike at the edge, feeling eyes on me before I even dismount. A couple of junior looking members by the gate size me up, their Wolf Rider jackets unmarked, too clean, their stares saying I don’t belong when really it’s them who should consider themselves lucky to be here.
I flash a grin, sharp and reckless, and saunter past.
They don’t stop me, but I know they’re watching.
Inside, the air’s thick with smoke, beer, and the kind of raw energy that comes from men who live on the edge.
The place is packed—bikers in leather, boys in tight jeans, a few guys who look like they’re here for more than the booze.
The Wolf Rider emblem, that snarling wolf with crossed pistons, looms on the wall above a bar littered with empty bottles.
I did a little digging back at the garage, got some intel on the hierarchy. It doesn’t take me long to piece that information together in the flesh…
I spot Clay, the chief, holding court near a pool table, his arm around a guy who’s laughing like he owns the room.
Jace is nearby, quieter, his eyes scanning the crowd like he’s always ready for trouble.
And then there’s Arch, leaning against the bar, a whiskey in hand, his gaze cutting through the haze to land on me the second I step inside.
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my face neutral, grabbing a beer from a cooler and leaning against a wall to scope things out.
The bikers are rough, loud, loyal to a fault—you can feel it in the way they clap each other’s backs, the way they talk like they’d die for this club.
It’s a world I don’t fit into, not yet, and the weight of that makes me feel like a kid playing dress-up. I sip my beer, bitter and cold, and try to ignore the pull of Arch’s stare.
“Keegan.”
Arch’s voice cuts through the noise, low and commanding, and I turn to find him right there, close enough to make the air feel charged. He’s in his element here, all leather and muscle, his silver-streaked hair catching the light.
“Didn’t expect you to show,” Arch continues.
“Figured I’d see what the fuss is about,” I say, keeping my tone light, though my heart’s hammering. “Nice place. Bit loud for an old man like you, though.”
Arch’s eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of amusement in them.
“You’re here to talk shit, or you serious about what we discussed?” Arch asks, his eyes focused on me, despite all the chaos going on around us.
I shrug, taking a swig of beer to buy time.
