Page 17 of Stitch & Steel
He smirked and tossed the rag. “You’re not subtle, man. Been riding late, drinking less, staring at your phone like it’s gonna grow legs.”
I ran a hand down my face and grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge. “Nothing’s happening.”
“Yet.”
“She’s not like them.”
“I gathered. She’s also not one of us.”
“That’s why I’m being careful.”
“Is that what you call walking around her kitchen half-naked in front of her grandmother? Showing off that biker bod hoping it’ll land you a calendar deal?”
I choked on the water and swore.
Bullet laughed. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m rooting for you. But you’re walking a tightrope, brother. Just don’t fall.”
“Not planning on it.”
But even as I said it, I knew I already thought about her way more than I should.
I thought about riding up the mountain right then and there—Club business be damned. I could’ve told them I needed a break, needed a solo patrol, needed to clear my head. They wouldn’t question it. They’d just nod and let me go.
But Wrench caught my eye across the yard, frowning.
Then Tar pulled in, dust flying behind his tires, looking like a storm cloud with fists.
“Got movement,” he said. “Rival tags spotted near the west ridge trail. Fresh.”
And just like that, I was grounded again. Pulled back into the life that never really let go.
Bella would have to wait.
The second Tar said “movement,” I felt it in my bones—like something old and mean had come slinking through the trees. Something feral.
We rolled out five deep, no lights, no noise.
I rode lead.
The pines swallowed us quick, canopy thick enough to block out even the setting sun. My tires crunched over gravel and pine needles, every sound sharper than usual. Birds had gone quiet. Crickets too. That meant something was out here.
Worse than us.
We reached the west ridge switchback, right above the overlook near the fire trail—and that’s when I saw the glint.
Steel. Chrome. A wheel turning where no bike should be.
I signaled a hard stop with two fingers.
Tar pulled up beside me, his mouth grim. “I count three choppers. Not ours.”
I scanned the ridge. They weren’t hiding. Just squatting there like they owned the place. Tires in the loam. Colors I didn’trecognize. But they had the same look—patched up, grimy, hungry.
New blood. Bad intentions.
“Could be the Red Irons. Or a startup crew from over the border,” Tar muttered.
My hand went to my Glock automatically.
