Kash (Wolf Rider MC Daddies #6)

Chapter 1

Kash

“God damn, this is not how I was expecting to spend my weekend…” I growl, allowing myself the briefest of wry smiles.

Another day, another run in with the law.

But this time it’s different. And I might even be a little worried…

The salt in the air hits me like a slap as I roll into Cresthaven, the coastal town so small it barely registers on a map.

I’ve passed through here before, maybe two or three times with the other Wolf Riders.

But it’s not the kind of place that I’d ever be drawn to for any other reason than necessity.

Which might just make it the perfect place for right now. Or maybe not.

My Harley rumbles beneath me, a low growl that’s been my only companion for the last hundred and fifty miles.

The sun’s dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, and the ocean crashes against the rocky shore to my left.

It’s peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Makes my skin itch.

Places like this, quiet and tucked away, always have eyes—nosy locals who notice a stranger like me the second I cross their invisible line.

Maybe this place ain’t so perfect for this situation after all.

I ease off the throttle, letting the bike coast down the main drag. Cresthaven’s got one stoplight, a diner that looks like it hasn’t changed since the ’80s, and a general store with a faded sign promising “Fresh Bait.”

A few pickup trucks are parked along the street, and an old guy in a flannel shirt glares at me from the sidewalk, his eyes narrowing at the leather cut on my back.

The Wolf Rider patch is gone—ripped off before I hit the road—but the ghost of it lingers, like a brand I can’t shake.

I keep my head down, my mirrored shades hiding my eyes, and guide the bike toward the edge of town.

I’m here to disappear.

The corrupt cops back home have my name, my face, and a bullshit warrant that paints me as a cop-killer.

I’ve done many bad things over the years. But I ain’t killed a cop. Not then, not now, and hopefully never. And that’s the God’s honest truth too.

I didn’t pull the trigger, but that doesn’t matter when the rival MC, the Black Vipers, suddenly has half the precinct in their pocket.

They set me up, and now I’m a ghost, running until I can figure out how to clear my name. I know I’ve got the support of Clay and the other Wolf Riders, but right now this is on me to keep myself hidden.

In fact, the less contact I have with my brothers, the better. The cops are no doubt watching Clay, Raze, Jace and the rest like hawks. Any movement or suggestion that they’re in touch with me could give away my position, or at least give a clue to it.

So it’s just me. Kash. A Wolf Rider riding solo and undercover.

Cresthaven’s my hideout for now—far enough from home to buy me time, close enough to the state border if I need to bolt. But hiding doesn’t come natural to a man like me…

I’m built for confrontation, not sneaking around like some scared kid. I don’t walk away from fights. I never take a backward step when it’s time to kick ass. But this time…

Hell, I need to make an exception. There’s no way around that. Not if I value my life.

The cabin I rented is a mile past the town limits, a weathered shack perched on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. I found it online, paid in cash through a burner email, and told the landlord—a guy named Gus with a voice like gravel—to leave the key under the mat.

No questions asked.

Gus didn’t give a rat’s ass. All he cared about was getting his money up front. Truth is that he’s probably used to people using his place as a hideout or somewhere to run to when they need to stay out of sight.

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 board along 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.

I swing onto my bike, ready to get the hell out of here, but the skater boy rolls closer, stopping a few feet away. He kicks his board up into his hand, casual, like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Nice bike,” he says, his voice smooth, with a hint of a challenge. “You new around here?”

I don’t answer right away.

My first instinct is to shut him down, tell him to mind his own business, but there’s something about him that makes me pause.

Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me, like he knows I’m hiding something and doesn’t care. Or maybe it’s the way his lips curve, just enough to suggest he’s trouble in the best kind of way.

“Just passing through,” I say, my voice rough, keeping it neutral. “You take it easy.”

The boy nods, like he doesn’t believe me but isn’t gonna push it.

“The name’s Spike,” he says, leaning against a lamppost, his board tucked under his arm. “You got a name, biker guy?”

“Kash,” I say, before I can stop myself.

Fuck. That was stupid.

Giving my real name’s a risk, but something about Spike makes me want to play along, just for a second.

I start the bike, the engine’s growl cutting through the moment.

“Stay out of trouble, Spike,” I say, chuckling. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Spike grins, all teeth and attitude. “Trouble’s my middle name…”

I shake my head, fighting a smirk, and pull away.

Spike’s laughter follows me, light and reckless, and I feel that heat in my gut flare again.

Damn it.

I can’t afford this. Not now, not when every cop in a hundred-mile radius is looking for me.

But as I ride back to the cabin, the groceries strapped in saddlebags to my bike, I can’t shake the image of him—those green eyes, that defiant grin, the way Spike moved like he owned the world.

Back at the cabin, I unpack the supplies, my movements mechanical, a stiffness in my body that’s a sure sign that the stress of the situation is getting to me more than I might like to admit.

The ocean’s louder now, waves crashing against the bluff, and I step onto the porch to clear my head. The night’s dark, stars starting to poke through, and I light a cigarette, the glow a small rebellion against the shadows.

I’m used to being alone—have been for years, even before this mess—but something about Cresthaven feels different.

Maybe it’s the isolation, or maybe it’s him. Spike. The name fits him, sharp and unpredictable…

“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head.

I take a drag, letting the smoke curl into the night. I need to focus.

The Vipers framed me for a murder I didn’t commit, and the police have got their orders to shoot on sight. Maybe that’s not the official word, but I know for sure that’s what they’ll have been told off the record.

As far as the police are concerned, I’m a cop killer. And that’s going to make me a dead man walking as far as they’re concerned.

I can’t offer any genuine alibis to the police because where I was during the murder was on a serious bank job across state lines.

Jace is working on finding out who the killer actually was, but until then, I’m a ghost. No ties, no attachments.

If I admit to being on the bank job, I’m looking at least thirty years inside. Maybe more. And that’s just not happening. But unless I can prove I didn’t kill the cop, then I’m dead anyway.

It’s quite the motherfucking conundrum.

But as I stand there, the ocean roaring, I see Spike again in my mind.

The boy with his skateboard and that fearless stare.

Spike’s trouble, no doubt about it.

And I’ve got a feeling he’s gonna make hiding a hell of a lot harder than I planned…