Claimed By Lock (Sons of Ruin: Tucson Chapter #3)

1. Lock

LOCK

Too many people. Too much noise. Too many faces I don't know.

I've never been good at rallies. There's too much happening, too many variables, and my brain won't stop cataloging all of it — the clusters of patches, who's talking to who, which guys are drinking too much and might start something stupid later.

Can't turn it off. Never could. Probably why I ended up as Sergeant-at-Arms — the club needed someone who notices shit, and I can't stop noticing shit. It worked out for everyone.

Rogue calls it my superpower. I call it exhausting.

Tonight's supposed to be easy. Neutral ground, all the clubs playing nice, pretending we don't have history with half the patches here.

My brothers are scattered around drinking and bullshitting and having a good time, and I'm sitting here watching the crowd like I'm expecting something to go wrong.

It's an old habit. I can't quite shake it.

The Ironwood Rally sprawls out around us — bikes gleaming under string lights, music too loud from the stage, the smell of smoke and grilled meat and spilled beer hanging thick in the air.

Must be three hundred people here tonight.

Maybe more. Lost Angels near the beer tent, Iron Hands by the food trucks, a cluster of Diablos keeping to themselves near the tree line.

Patches everywhere I look, colors that would mean war on any other night.

But not tonight. Tonight we're all friends.

What a fucking joke.

"You're doing that thing again." Rogue drops onto the bench across from me, two beers in hand. Slides one over without asking if I want it.

I take it anyway. "What thing?"

"That thing where you look like you're calculating how to kill everyone here and get away with it."

"Not everyone." I scan the crowd again. Old habit. "Just the ones who'd cause problems."

"And how many is that?"

"Fourteen." I take a drink. "Fifteen if you count the prospect with the Diablos who keeps touching his waistband like he's got something to prove."

Rogue laughs, shaking his head. "You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"

"I've been told."

"Seriously, brother. You ever think about relaxing? Just for one night?" He stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankle, the picture of casual ease. "We're at a rally. Cold beer. Good music. This is supposed to be fun."

"Fun."

"Yeah. You know — that thing normal people have when they're not sizing up everyone in sight."

I don't answer. Just take another drink and let my gaze sweep the crowd.

Rogue sighs. "You're impossible."

"Yeah."

He's not wrong, though. About any of it.

I don't know how to turn it off — the watchfulness, the constant assessment.

Even here, surrounded by my brothers, I can't stop scanning for threats.

It's wired into me now. Years of being the one who handles the shit nobody else wants to handle will do that to a man.

Speaking of brothers — King's over by the fire pit with Demi tucked against his side, her head on his shoulder, both of them lit gold by the flames.

He's laughing at something she said, and the sound carries across the noise.

I've known King for eight years now. Seen him in every situation you can imagine — bar fights, standoffs, deals gone wrong.

I've never seen him look like that. Like something that was wound tight for years finally loosened.

Marriage suits him. Softened some of those hard edges, even if he'd never admit it.

Rogue catches me looking and grins. "Nauseating, isn't it?"

"What?"

"The two of them. All that domestic bliss." He takes a long pull of his beer. "Makes me sick."

"You've got Bella."

"Yeah, and she makes me just as disgusting. That's my point." The grin widens. "You're next, brother. I'm calling it. When's it gonna be your turn?"

"It's not."

"Famous last words."

I don't bother arguing. Rogue likes to talk — can't leave a silence alone to save his life.

VP of the Sons of Ruin, and half the time he sounds like he's hosting a goddamn talk show.

But he's also the smartest man I know, and the only one besides King who can give me shit without catching a look for it.

I've learned to let it wash over me. He means well. They all do.

But they don't understand that what they've got with Demi and Bella — that's not in the cards for everyone. Some people are better off alone.

I take a drink and let my gaze drift across the crowd.

That's when I see her.

She's standing near the edge of the firelight, half in shadow, talking to a woman I vaguely recognize — Maria, old lady to one of the Desert Reapers.

Maria's wearing a property cut, the patches marking her as claimed.

This one doesn't have any leather on her at all.

No insignia, no colors. Just jeans that hug her hips and a tank top that leaves her shoulders bare and dark hair loose around her shoulders.

She laughs at something Maria says.

The sound hits me square in the chest. Knocks the air right out of me.

What the hell?

I've noticed women before. I'm not dead. Pretty faces, nice bodies — I can appreciate them same as anyone. But this is different. This isn't appreciation.

This is a fucking earthquake.

She turns slightly, and I get a better look at her face. Full mouth. Eyes that even from here look like they're holding back a storm. There's something about the way she holds herself — shoulders straight, chin up, but with a tension underneath. Like she's learned to expect trouble.

She's beautiful. But that's not what's got me frozen on this bench like an idiot.

It's something else. Something deeper. Like looking at her just rearranged something fundamental inside me. Something I didn't know could move.

My chest feels tight. My pulse is doing something it hasn't done in years — maybe ever. And I can't stop staring, even though I know I should, even though watching a stranger across a crowded rally is creepy as hell.

Get it together.

"Lock?" Rogue's voice, somewhere far away. "You still with me?"

"Yeah."

"You sure? Because you just went somewhere else entirely."

I drag my eyes away from her. Find Rogue watching me with that sharp look he gets when he's seeing too much.

I keep my expression flat. "I'm fine."

"Uh huh." He follows my gaze, scanning the crowd, but she's shifted behind a group of Reapers and he can't spot what I was looking at. "If you say so."

I don't say anything else. Just drink my beer and pretend my pulse isn't still hammering. Pretend I'm not already looking for her again.

This is stupid.

I don't know her. Don't know anything about her except she has a laugh that cuts right through me. That's not enough to build anything on. That's barely enough to justify a second glance.

But I can't stop looking.

I track her through the crowd without meaning to.

She moves from the fire pit to the food trucks, grabs a plate, finds a spot at one of the picnic tables near the edge of the rally grounds.

Maria's with her for a while, the two of them talking and laughing, and then Maria spots her old man across the way and drifts off to find him.

And she's alone.

Eating by herself. Watching the crowd with an expression I recognize — that careful distance, that subtle tension. She's scanning the crowd the same way I do. Looking for something. Or someone.

She knows this world — I can tell by the way she reads patches without staring, the way she doesn't tense up when bikers walk past. But she's not part of it. I can tell that much.

Stop staring. You're being a creep.

I force myself to look away. Check on my brothers instead — Ghost across the way, Diesel by the food trucks. Everyone's accounted for.

The Road Kings showed up an hour ago — a cluster of Phoenix patches I've been keeping an eye on.

No sign of their SAA, Rocky, which is probably for the best. There's history there.

Tension from the shit that went down with King and Demi a few months back.

Nothing active right now, but the kind of grudge that doesn't die easy.

The kind that simmers until someone makes a wrong move.

That's when I spot him.

Colt.

Road Kings patch. Mid-level nobody with a chip on his shoulder and a reputation for running his mouth.

I've seen him at a few rallies over the years, always causing low-grade trouble — starting fights, hassling women, getting too drunk and too loud.

The kind of asshole who gives clubs a bad name.

His own people barely tolerate him, from what I've seen. He's more liability than asset.

Right now, he's cutting across the rally with a few brothers at his back. Moving with purpose. Heading straight for the picnic tables.

Straight for her.

My whole body goes tight.

I watch him approach. Watch her look up from her plate, see him, go completely still. The easy posture she had a moment ago vanishes. Her shoulders tighten. Her jaw sets. Her eyes go flat and hard in a way that tells me everything I need to know.

She knows him. And she's not happy to see him.

"Hey, Josie." His voice carries across the noise, loud and confident. Playing to an audience. "Thought that was you."

"Colt." Flat. Guarded. "What do you want?"

"What, I can't say hi to my girl?"

"I'm not your girl. We broke up three months ago."

"Nah, see, that's where you're wrong." He steps closer, moving into her space, and I see her whole body stiffen. "You don't get to just walk away from me. That's not how this works."

"That's exactly how this works." She stands up from the table, putting the bench between them. "We're done. I told you that. Multiple times. Now leave me alone."

"Or what?" He laughs, and there's an ugly edge to it.

Mocking. "You gonna run to your cousin? Hide behind Maria's old man?

" He moves around the table, cutting off the space she tried to put between them.

The brothers with him look like they'd rather be anywhere else.

"You're not with anyone, Josie. You're not protected. Which means you're still mine."

His hand shoots out and grabs her arm.

I'm moving before I've even consciously decided to. Walking fast, steady, eyes locked on the back of Colt's head.

People get out of my way without being asked. Something about how I'm moving, how I'm carrying myself, tells them not to be in my path. A cluster of Diablos parts like water. A group of women near the food trucks steps aside.

Josie's trying to pull her arm free, her jaw tight, fire blazing in her eyes even though she has to be scared. "Let go of me."

"Come on, baby, don't be like that—"

"She said let go."

My voice cuts through the noise. Flat. Quiet. Not loud, but it carries.

Colt freezes. His hand stays on her arm, but his whole body goes still. Slowly, he turns to look at me.

I stop three feet away. Close enough to reach him. Close enough to make my point.

"Walk away."

He takes in the cut. The patches. The Sergeant-at-Arms flash on my chest. His eyes narrow, calculating, but he doesn't release her arm.

"This doesn't concern you, Sons."

"You've got your hand on a woman who doesn't want it there." I hold his gaze. Don't blink. "That concerns me."

"She's my—"

"She's nothing to you." Calm. Calm is scarier than loud. I learned that a long time ago. Loud is bluster. Loud is performance. Calm is a promise. "You've got three seconds to let go and walk away. After that, we have a different conversation."

"You threatening me?"

"I'm telling you how this goes." I don't move. Don't shift my weight. Just stand there, steady as stone, and let him see exactly what I am. What I'm capable of. "One way, you leave with your dignity. The other way, you leave with less."

The rally's gone quiet around us. I can feel the eyes — Sons, Road Kings, everyone else. Neutral ground means no violence, technically. But everyone here knows that's more suggestion than rule. And everyone can see that I'm not the one who started this.

Colt's brothers are shifting behind him. Uncertain. They know who I am. Know my reputation. I don't talk much and I don't threaten unless I mean it. And when I mean it, people tend to regret pushing.

The silence stretches. Two seconds. Three.

"This isn't over," Colt says finally.

"Yeah. It is."

He holds my stare for another beat. I watch the calculation happen behind his eyes — the odds, the consequences, the audience watching every move. His pride wants to push. His survival instincts know better.

Survival wins.

He lets go of her arm.

"You want her so bad, she's yours." He spits on the ground near my boots. "Good luck with that. Bitch ain't worth the trouble."

He turns and walks away, brothers falling in behind him. I watch them go, tracking their path across the rally until they disappear into the crowd near the Road Kings camp.

Then I turn to her.

She's rubbing her arm where he grabbed her. Jaw tight. Cheeks flushed. But she's not crying, not trembling, not falling apart. There's fire in her eyes when she looks up at me — anger and embarrassment and something else I can't quite read.

"I had it handled."

"I know."

"I didn't need rescuing."

"Didn't say you did."

That throws her. She blinks, studying me like she's trying to figure out my angle. Searching for the catch, the expectation, the thing I'm going to want in return.

I don't blame her. Most men who step in like that expect something. Gratitude. Attention. A chance to play hero.

I don't want any of that.

I just wanted him to stop touching her.

"Thank you," she says finally. Grudging, like she had to drag them out. "For stepping in."

"Don't mention it."

She's still looking at me. I'm still looking at her. The noise of the rally fades to a dull roar around us, and the rest of the world goes soft at the edges.

Up close, she's even more striking than she was from across the fire pit. Those eyes — dark brown, almost black in this light — still blazing with the fire she threw at Colt. She's beautiful and she's pissed off. It's a hell of a combination.

Something passes between us. I feel it land in my chest and take root, spreading through me like heat, like recognition, like something I don't have words for.

Well, shit.

"I'm Lock," I say.

"Josie."

She doesn't offer her hand. Neither do I. We just stand there, two people caught in a moment neither of us expected, the rally pulsing around us like a heartbeat.

Music and laughter and the rumble of bikes. The crackle of fire pits and the smell of smoke. None of it touches us. We're in our own pocket of stillness, our own bubble of quiet.

And I'm not ready to leave it.

Not yet.