My Enemy Biker (Bloomfield: Motorcycle Club #3)

Chapter 1 — Cain

The fence is new.

I pull my bike onto the shoulder and cut the engine. Chain-link, six feet high, professionally installed with an industrial padlock that would take bolt cutters to get through.

She put it up in the last three days, right across the access road Vigil's been using for eight years.

This should be straightforward. Woman alone on rural property needs to understand the situation. I'll explain, she'll accept terms, done.

I've handled this before.

Gravel crunches under my boots as I walk toward the house. Late August heat sits thick, the kind that's been here too long and isn't lifting. Cicadas screaming. Dust hanging still. Her property is three acres backing onto state forest, house small but well-maintained, flower beds recently weeded.

The door opens before I knock.

First problem.

She's standing in her doorway like she owns it, which she does, but most people don't act like it when I show up.

She’s five-six maybe, curves that aren't hidden or apologized for. Jeans fitted to her hips and thighs. Tank top showing the weight of her breasts, the line of her stomach. Tanned skin, dark eyes that track me the same way mine track her. Hair pulled back. Bare feet.

She's assessing me with the same precision I'm using on her.

My body responds before my brain catches up.

"Cain." It's the only thing I've got ready.

"I know who you are." Her voice is steady. She doesn't move from the doorway. "You're here about the fence."

"Yes."

"Then come in."

She turns and walks into her kitchen without waiting to see if I follow. No smile, no small talk, no performance. Just expectation that I'll do what I came here to do.

I follow because that was the plan, but my internal script is already wrong. I expected some version of fear or bravado. Not this controlled certainty.

Her kitchen table has a folder open on it. Documents spread out, organized.

She was ready.

She sits, gestures at the chair across from her with one hand while reaching for a pen with the other. "Sit."

I sit. Take the three seconds to adjust my approach.

She taps the first document with her pen.

Left-handed, the pen angled steep. "Property records.

Survey maps. County boundary documentation.

Easement law precedents." Her eyes come to mine and there's challenge in them, controlled and deliberate.

"That access road crosses my land for forty feet.

Based on the rut depth, you've been using it without permission for years. I have legal standing to block it."

I lean back. The background check said paralegal, Detroit, eighteen months in Bloomfield, clean record. Nothing mentioned she'd be sharp enough to draw blood before I opened my mouth.

"The club needs that road," I say. "Strategic access. Rerouting adds exposure."

"Not my problem."

"I know."

She pauses, pen stilling against the paper. The response surprised her, I can see her recalculating.

"You've got legal right to restrict access," I continue. "We've got operational need for it. Both true. Question is what makes it worth your time to grant an easement."

Her pen taps twice against the paper, a thinking rhythm. "You're serious."

"I don't waste time on things I don't mean."

Something crosses her face. Not softening exactly, more like she's filed away information that matters. She pulls another document forward and I catch myself watching how her hand moves, economical and precise, no wasted motion.

"Easement terms require compensation at fair market value," she says. "Advance notice of use. Maintenance agreements. Liability coverage."

"We can negotiate terms."

"Okay, then let's negotiate,," she says, pulling up a specific statute on her printed materials. "Easement rights require documented consideration and establish that compensation must reflect actual usage patterns."

"Operational need supersedes standard compensation frameworks when access predates formal agreements," I counter. "Eight years of established use creates a pattern that factors into negotiation."

She taps her pen against the page. "You're citing adverse possession principles, but they don't apply to voluntary negotiations. Miller v. State set precedent that—"

"Private access roads fall outside that precedent. Miller involved public easements."

She stops. Frowns. Reads the case citation again.

I can see her working through it, checking her own argument for holes. It takes her about ten seconds.

"You're right," she says finally. "That precedent doesn't apply here."

She doesn't look pleased about conceding, but she does it cleanly. Then immediately shifts.

"If Vigil's using my road, Vigil maintains it," she says. "Grading, drainage, surface repair. That's non-negotiable."

"Club can handle maintenance."

"In writing."

"Agreed."

Her pen moves across her notepad. I'm supposed to be tracking what she's writing but instead I'm noticing how the afternoon light hits the side of her face, how her jaw sets when she's building to a point, the small scar through her left eyebrow.

She looks up and catches me watching. Holds my gaze for two seconds before continuing like nothing happened.

"Advance notice," she says. "Minimum twelve hours before road use. Text or call, doesn't matter which, but I need to know when vehicles will be on my property."

"That limits operational flexibility."

"That's the point." She leans forward slightly and the movement brings her closer, changes the air between us into something denser. "You want access, I want transparency. That's the deal."

"What if it's urgent?"

"Then you call me and explain why it's urgent. I'm reasonable. I'm not stupid." Her eyes stay locked on mine. "A club ran my neighborhood back home for fifteen years. No notice, no permission, no accountability. If Vigil's different, prove it."

There it is. The reason she's got documentation ready and a fence installed before anyone showed up.

She's seen this before, knows how it goes when men with patches show up making demands.

Can't blame her for that.

"Twelve hours' notice when possible," I say. "Emergency use with immediate notification after."

She tilts her head slightly, considering. "Define emergency."

"Active threat to club or Bloomfield."

"Not just 'club business we don't want to explain.'"

"No."

"You're the intelligence officer. You'd be the one calling?"

"Yes."

She's quiet for five seconds, pen tapping that rhythm again. Looking for the lie she thinks is coming.

She won't find one because I don't lie about terms, lying creates complications I don't have time for.

"Fine," she says finally. "Emergency use with immediate notification. Non-emergency requires twelve hours."

I nod.

She makes another note. When she leans forward to point at something on the survey map, her tank top shifts and I can see the curve of her breast, the weight of it. The softness of her stomach where her body folds slightly as she bends.

She glances up without warning. Catches me again. This time something flickers across her face before she looks back down.

Awareness, maybe. Or irritation that I'm distracted.

"Liability coverage," she says, and her voice has dropped slightly. "Club carries insurance?"

"Yes."

"I want documentation."

"You'll have it."

"Before the easement is finalized."

"Okay."

She shifts in her chair and I catch her scent, something clean and simple that makes me want to lean closer.

"This section here." She taps the survey map. "Where the road crosses, there's a drainage issue. Water pools after rain. If you're running heavy vehicles, that'll get worse."

I lean forward to see what she's indicating. Now we're close, three feet between us instead of the table width. I can see her pulse jumping at the base of her throat. Fast. She felt that same pull and is pretending she didn't.

"Drainage can be addressed," I say. "French drain, gravel bed. Fix it permanent."

She's still leaning forward. So am I. Her eyes drop to somewhere around my jaw, then back up. Quick enough she maybe thinks I didn't notice.

I noticed everything.

"Compensation," she says. "Fair market value for easement rights. I checked comparable rates. Two thousand annually."

"One thousand."

"Fifteen hundred."

"Done."

She writes it down but her hand isn't as steady as it was earlier. I can see the slight tremor in her fingers.

We're arguing over property law and both of us know that stopped being what this is about ten minutes ago.

She leans back deliberately, creating distance. "Is there anything else you need in the agreement?"

"No."

"Then we're done for today."

"Yes."

Neither of us stands.

Her jaw tightens like she's irritated with herself. "Tuesday. Seven o'clock. Bring the insurance documentation and a draft agreement."

I stand because staying means doing something neither of us is ready for. "Agreed."

She walks me to the door, steps out onto the porch with me. The heat is immediate but she doesn't retreat.

"You built that fence yourself?" I ask.

"Yes."

"It's solid work."

She doesn't smile or acknowledge the compliment, just watches me, waiting for whatever else I'm going to say.

"The club needs that road," I tell her. "We'll make this work."

"After we finalize terms." Emphasis on finalize. She's drawing a line, making sure I understand nothing happens without her agreement.

I respect that even as I want to press her against the door frame and find out if she'd push back or pull me closer.

I walk to my bike. Don't look back because I will if I let myself. Start the engine.

She's still on the porch when I pull out, standing exactly where I left her.

The first mile I'm processing the conversation. The points she made that I'll need to counter. The case law I'll have to review. The framework that might actually work.

The second mile I'm thinking about her hands on that pen. The curve of her breasts when she leaned back. How her attention felt when I conceded that easement point, like she saw something worth seeing and filed it away.

By the time I hit Route 9, I'm hard and irritated about it.

This doesn't happen to me. Not with someone who argued with me for ninety minutes and made me want to keep arguing just to stay in the room with her.

I grip the throttle. Speed doesn't fix it. I'm still seeing her pulse jumping at her throat. Still wondering what she'd have done if I'd crossed those last three feet.

The clubhouse comes into view through the trees. I pull into the lot, kill the engine.

Clint's on the porch. Looks at me. Doesn't ask. Knows I'll report if necessary.

It's necessary. I just can't articulate what yet.

"Fence coming down?" he asks.

"No."

"She going to be a problem?"

"We're negotiating terms."

His eyebrow lifts. Clint doesn't negotiate. Neither do I, usually. "She's got legal standing?"

"Yes. And documentation. She's prepared."

"Handle it."

"I am."

He studies me another few seconds, then nods. "Keep me updated."

Inside, I pull up property law files on my laptop. Easement precedents. Everything she cited. I'm supposed to be finding holes in her argument.

Instead I'm replaying the moment she looked at my jaw before catching herself.