Page 6 of Arch
Back in the bar, he stopped that fight without lifting a finger.
Just his voice, his presence, and those locals backed off like whipped dogs.
I should’ve walked away too, but I couldn’t.
There was no walking away, not when he looked at me like he saw something worth noticing. Not when he stepped so close I could smell the whiskey and leather on him, his growl—“Keep pushing, boy, and you’ll find out what I’m capable of”—sending heat curling through me. I threw thatDaddyline to mess withhim, but the way his eyes darkened, like he was two seconds from pinning me to the wall… fuck, Iwantedhim to.
I shake my head, the wind whipping my hair as I lean into a curve.
This isstupid.
He’s a Wolf Rider, probably runs half this town with that crew of his. I heard the whispers in the bar:They don’t mess around. Cross them, you’re done.
I don’t need that kind of trouble.
I’ve got enough trouble of my own.
But even as I tell myself to steer clear, my mind’s back on him, on that moment when I leaned in, my breath grazing his jaw, and said,“Maybe I want to find out.”His eyes flared, and for a second, I thought he’d do it—grab me, shove me against something solid, show me what happens when you poke a real wolf.
The road climbs toward the bluffs, the town shrinking behind me.
I ease off the throttle, pulling over at a lookout where the valley sprawls dark and endless. My bike idles, a low rumble under me, and I light a cigarette, the flame flaring briefly before the night swallows it.
I exhale, watching the smoke curl upward, and let my thoughts drift back to Arch.
He’s not just some biker thug.
There’s something sharp about him, like he’s playing chess while everyone else is throwing punches.
The way he sized me up, like he could see right through my bullshit.
I don’t know what he saw. I’m just a screw-up with a bad temper and a worse record. But the way he looked at me… it wasn’t pity, wasn’t just lust. It was like he saw potential, something worth taming.
And that scares me more than his size or his Wolf Rider patch.
I’ve never been good at following orders, at fitting into someone else’s mold. But with Arch, part of me wants to try—just to see what it’d feel like to let someone else take the wheel.
I flick the cigarette away, the ember arcing into the dark, and rev my bike.
Enough of this.
I need to move, to ride so hard and fast I leave Arch and his steel-gray eyes in the dust. I tear back onto the road, the engine’s roar drowning out my thoughts. The speed’s a rush, the world blurring into streaks of black and silver, but it’s not enough.
But Arch is still there, in the back of my mind, that growl, that smirk, that promise of something I’m not sure I’m ready for.
The road loops back toward town, and I slow as I hit the main drag.
The Ring’s still lit up, a few bikes parked out front, but I don’t stop. I can’t. If I go back in there, I’ll look for him, and I’m not ready to face what that means.
Instead, I head for the motel where I’m crashing, a dive with peeling paint and a bed that sags like my prospects.
I park, cut the engine, and sit there, the silence heavy after the bike’s roar.
My phone buzzes—a text from some guy I met at a gas station, asking if I’m up for a drink.
Screw that.
I ignore the message.
