Page 2 of Kash
I’m not expecting some kind of bougie retreat. And that’s no problem. All I need is a couch, a cool box, and running water. Anything else is a bonus.
The place comes into view as I turn off the coastal highway, tires crunching on gravel.
It really is a dump—peeling paint, warped porch boards, windows cloudy with salt spray—but it’s got a clear view of the road and a back trail to the beach.
Perfect for a quick exit.
I kill the engine and swing my leg over the bike, my boots sinking into the sandy dirt. The ocean’s roar fills the silence, and for a second, I let myself breathe.
Thirty-eight years old, half my life spent with the Wolf Riders, and now I’m here, alone, with nothing but a duffel bag and a price on my head.
My hand brushes the knife strapped to my belt, a habit from years of watching my back. The weight of it steadies me. I grab the key from under the mat and step inside.
The cabin smells like mildew and old wood. A sagging couch, a kitchenette with a rusty sink, and a single bedroom with a mattress that looks like it’s seen better days.
“Okaaaay…” I sigh, my eyes scanning for anything unusual.
I drop my duffel on the floor and check the windows, making sure the blinds are tight.
No one followed me—I made sure of that, doubling back twice on the highway—but paranoia’s a hard habit to break. I pull out my burner phone, check for messages. Nothing.
My contact in the Wolf Riders, Jace, said he’d dig into the Viper’s setup, but radio silence means he’s got nothing yet. And with him playing extra safe, I’m not even sure he’ll contact me via my phone. It might be that we need to meet in person, at night, probably in some bar.
Whatever.
Right now, I’m on my own.
I need supplies—food, water, maybe a bottle of whiskey to take the edge off. The general store in town will have to do, but I can’t risk drawing attention.
I swap my leather cut for a plain black jacket, hiding the tattoos on my arms. The ink tells a story—Wolf Rider emblem on my shoulder, a howling wolf across my chest—that I can’t afford to let anyone read.
I run a hand through my salt and pepper hair, letting it fall loose to cover the scar above my left eyebrow. It’s a souvenir from a bar fight years ago, one I won, but it’s too distinctive now.
Back on the bike, I head into town, keeping my speed low.
The main street’s busier now, with a few locals milling around, their eyes flicking toward me as I pass. I park outside the general store and step inside, the bell above the door jangling.
The clerk, a middle-aged woman with a perm and a suspicious squint, watches me like I’m about to rob the place. I grab a basket and move fast—canned soup, bread, peanut butter, a case of water.
At the counter, I keep my voice low, pay in cash, and avoid eye contact. She doesn’t ask questions, but I feel her stare burning into my back as I leave.
Outside, the air’s cooler, the sun nearly gone. I’m loading the groceries into my saddlebags when I hear the sharp scrape of wheels on pavement.
“What the…”
My head snaps up, instincts kicking in. Across the street, at the edge of the pier, a kid—no, not a kid, a young guy, maybe mid-twenties—is riding a skateboard, pulling tricks with a kind of reckless grace that demands attention.
He’s lean, all sharp angles and wiry muscle, his tank top showing off tanned arms covered in tattoos—nothing like mine, more like street art, colorful and chaotic.
His dark hair’s a mess, falling into his eyes as he lands a kickflip, the board smacking the ground with a crack.
The boy glances my way, and our eyes lock. His are green, sharp, like he’s sizing me up, and there’s a spark in them—curiosity, defiance, maybe something else.
My gut tightens, a low heat stirring that I haven’t felt in months.
The skater boy is trouble. I can tell by the way he holds himself, all cocky swagger and zero fear. He grinds the boardalong a bench, never breaking eye contact, and I force myself to look away.
I’m not here for distractions, no matter how good they look.
