Page 2 of Arch
Tank nods, but Jinx—our youngest full-patch member, all tattoos and nervous energy—fidgets.
“What if they’re waiting for us, Arch?” Jinx says, a hint of worry in his voice. “Heard they got new blood, some ex-military types.”
“Then you don’t get seen,” I snap, pinning him with a look that makes him shrink. “You’re a Wolf Rider, not a fucking high school kid. Act like it.”
The room falls quiet, the weight of my authority settling like dust.
They trust me because I’ve never led them wrong. I’ve outsmarted feds, dodged raids, and kept this club whole when lesser men would’ve let it burn.
But tonight, that trust feels like a chain.
I’m restless, hungry for something I can’t name.
Not blood, not power. Something rawer, something that burns hotter…
“Okay, that’s all,” I grumble, nodding as I raise my glass and take a gulp of beer to signify that it’s a wrap for now.
Meeting adjourned, the boys scatter—some to the bar, some to their bikes. I stay put, rubbing my temples, the faint throb of a headache creeping in.
Too many nights like this, planning moves, cleaning up messes.
I’m good at it—hell, I’m the best—but it’s a grind, and at forty-three, I’m starting to feel the weight of every year I’ve ridden hard and lived harder.
“All good?” Clay asks, a note of concern in his voice.
“Yeah, you know,” I reply, not in the mood for talking. “No need to worry about me, Clay.”
I grab my jacket, the leather creaking as I shrug it on, and head for The Ring, a dive bar a few blocks over where the whiskey’s cheap and the locals know better than to stare too long at a Wolf Rider.
I need a drink, maybe a fight, something to shake this itch loose…
The night air’s cool, the growl of my Harley vibrating through my bones as I ride. Willow Creek’s quiet tonight, the streets lined with sagging storefronts and neon signs that flicker like they’re on their last legs.
I pull into the Ring’s parking lot, the gravel crunching under my boots as I dismount. Inside, the jukebox wails some old country tune, and the air’s thick with booze, greasy fries, and musty cologne.
I’m halfway to the bar when I hear it—a sharp crack, glass shattering, followed by a string of curses that’d make a sailor blush. My head snaps toward the commotion…
“What the…” I mutter.
A young dude, maybe early twenties—is squared up against three locals, his fists balled, eyes blazing like he’s ready to burn the place down.
The boy’s lean, all sharp angles and coiled energy, with dark hair falling into his face and a smirk that says he’s looking for trouble and doesn’t care who knows it.
“Well what do we have here…” I say, a wry grin on my face.
One of the locals, a burly guy with a bad tattoo, swings a bottle. The boy ducks, fast, and lands a punch that sends the guy staggering.
The other two lunge, but the young guy’s already moving, grabbing a chair and smashing it across one’s back. It’s chaos, and he’s at the center, a wildfire in human form.
“Well, I’ll be damned…” I chuckle. “Things just got a whole lot more interesting around here.”
I should walk away.
This ain’t my fight, and I’ve got enough on my plate.
But something abouthimstops me cold. It’s not just the way he moves, all raw instinct and no fear. It’s the spark in his eyes, like he’s daring the world to break him. I’ve seen that look before, in the mirror, back when I was young and stupid and thought I could outrun everything.
“Enough!” My voice cuts through the din, low and hard, the kind that makes men freeze.
