Page 12 of Arch
“Depends,” I reply. “What’s it take to hang with you Wolves?”
Arch steps closer, his bulk blocking out the room, and I feel that same thrill from the garage—the sense that he could pin me down and make me like it.
“Commitment,” Arch says, voice low. “Discipline. You prove you can handle the small stuff, we’ll see about the rest. Start with this.” Arch nods toward a row of bikes parked inside, theirchrome dulled by dust and road grime. “Clean ‘em. All of ‘em.Now.”
I laugh, sharp and incredulous.
“Are you freakin’ serious?” I spit. “I’m not your fucking butler, Arch.”
I can see that Arch was probably expecting a reaction like this. So far, he’s been hard to out maneuver, and before I know it, Arch is telling me what I need to hear…
“You want to be more than a loudmouth drifter, you start where I tell you,” Arch answers, his tone hard enough to make me flinch. “Or you can walk out that door and keep screwing up your life. Your call, boy.”
The wordboyhits like a spark, igniting a mix of resentment and something hotter.
I want to tell him to fuck off, to shove his bikes and his rules.
But those eyes, gray and unyielding, hold me in place, daring me to step up or back down. And damn it, I want to prove Arch wrong. I want to show him I’m more than the screw-up he thinks I am.
“Fine,” I mutter, tossing my beer into a trash can. “But don’t expect me to kiss your ass while I’m at it.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile, but it’s gone fast.
“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time for ass kissing later,” arch replies, drawing a chuckle of appreciation from Clay as he walks by. “Now get to work. I’ll be watching.”
“You got it,” I say, more than a note of sarcasm in my voice—but not quite enough to draw out a response from Arch. He’s got the upper hand right now, and he knows it too.
I grab a rag and a bucket from a corner, my jaw tight as I start on the first bike.
It’s grunt work, the kind of shit they give pledges to break them, and every swipe of the rag feels like a test.
The clubhouse buzzes around me, but I keep my head down, ignoring the snickers from a few prospects who think I’m some chump.
Arch stays at the bar, flanked by Clay and Jace, his gaze a weight on my back, and I hate how much I want to impress him, how much his approval matters.
I’m halfway through the second bike when two guys approach, both younger than Arch, early twenties, similar to me. One’s blond, built like a surfer, with a grin that screams trouble. The other’s darker, leaner, with a quiet intensity that’s kind of cool.
Both guys are wearing Wolf Rider cuts, but there’s something different about them—less rough, more…settled.
“You’re Keegan, right?” the blond says, offering a hand. “I’m Dylan. This is Caleb. Heard you got Arch’s attention. That’s no small feat.”
I wipe my hands, shaking Dylan’s hand, then Caleb’s.
“Yeah, well, he’s got a funny way of showing it,” I say, nodding at the bikes. “What’s your deal? You guys riders?”
Dylan laughs, nudging Caleb.
“We’re Clay and Jace’s boys,” Dylan says. “Been with the club a while now. Trust me, Arch’s bark is bad, but he’s got a big heart under all that leather.”
“Boys?” I raise an eyebrow, catching the implication. The Daddy/boy vibe Arch keeps pushing makes more sense now, and I’m intrigued by how easy Dylan and Caleb seem with it.
They’re happy, comfortable, like they’ve found their place in this chaos.
“So, what, you just… do what Clay and Jace say?” I ask. “No questions?”
Caleb snorts, his voice soft but sharp.
“It’s not like that,” Caleb says. “It’s about trust. They’ve got our backs, we’ve got theirs. You’ll see… if you stick around.”
