Chapter 12
TWELVE
My grip tightens around Alder’s waist as he leans into a curve on the winding, tree-lined road, and the hum of his Harley deepens into a growl beneath us.
We're at least two hours outside of Fredericton now, swallowed by thick forest in every direction—just trees, shadows, and the stretch of pavement ahead. I have no idea where we are or where we’re going.
The single headlight cuts through the darkness ahead, illuminating flashes of bark and brush before they vanish again into black.
It must be getting close to midnight, and I should probably be worried.
I should be asking questions, like where’s taking me, and why.
But I just hold on tighter as he leans into the next turn, the force of it tilting my body with his as the rumble of the engine vibrates up through my thighs and into my chest like a second heartbeat.
He rides exactly how I thought he would. Reckless and unhinged… and somehow completely in control. Like he owns the road and everything it leads to. And it only makes me want more.
We round a corner, and just up ahead, an RCMP cruiser is parked on the shoulder. My body stiffens behind Alder as some of that worry starts creeping in. While Alder didn’t say what his work is tonight, I can take an educated guess and assume it’s not legal.
Alder slows as we approach the car, and eases to a stop beside the rolled-down window where a Mountie sits in the driver’s seat.
“’Bout time,” the Mountie says lazily.
“Fuck off, Donnie,” Alder replies, barely raising his voice over the rumbling of the bike. “We good?”
The Mountie—Donnie—nods and gestures up the dark stretch of road ahead.
“Henry’s on patrol near Plaster Rock, covering the east entrance as planned.
I’ve got units sweeping the 130 and 105 near the border, where the sergeant assumes something’s going down.
Guess that anonymous tip paid off.” He pauses and shakes his head.
“He’s going to be insufferable when he comes up empty again.
” Then his eyes flick towards me, sitting behind Alder. “Giving buyers rides now?”
Alder revs his engine sharply. “He’s along for a different kind of ride later.”
Before Donnie can say anything else, Alder takes off. The sudden speed forces me to grab at him, pressing tight against his back as a jolt sparks low in my stomach. Whether it’s from the sudden takeoff or from his words… I can’t tell.
Both, maybe.
But that interaction has left me with some questions. Or maybe it’s exactly what it seems. With how much the Basin Kings allegedly get away with, it makes sense they have some RCMP and local police in their pocket.
Alder eventually slows and turns onto a dirt road hidden between thick rows of pines.
The canopy here is even denser, swallowing the last of the moonlight and casting everything in near-total black.
As he drives us deeper into the forest, I catch glimpses of lakes through breaks in the trees, their surfaces so still they look like oil slicks stretched across the land. Almost too still.
Eventually, the trees thin and we roll into a wide clearing. A large, weathered warehouse-like building sits at the centre of it, like it’s been forgotten about out here for decades.
But it’s not abandoned tonight.
A long row of motorcycles lines one edge of the clearing, and cars are lined up beside them. Expensive cars. A Ferrari, a Porsche, an Aston Martin, and a few others I don’t recognize, but scream money. The licence plates on them are from New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Quebec, Maine, and other states.
Alder parks alongside the row of bikes and cuts the engine, and the sudden silence fills with the low hum of generators and the snarl of engines echoing from inside the warehouse.
Subtle light bleeds through gaps in the steel walls and open doorway, casting soft flickers across the clearing and illuminating the line of people at the entrance, where a tall man in a Basin Kings cut is patting them down and collecting their phones.
I swing a leg off the seat and remove my helmet as I take it all in. Something about this scene feels almost impossible. Bikers, high-end cars, a crumbling warehouse in the middle of nowhere… it doesn’t add up.
“So,” I say, handing Alder my helmet, “this is work?”
He hangs it on the handlebars with a nod. “The best kind.” Then he turns and heads for the entrance.
And automatically, my feet are following. This all looks like something I should be cautious of and question. But instead, intrigue is bubbling under the surface. And with each step closer, the need to know, see, and experience whatever this is grows.
As we reach the door, Alder holds a hand out to the man standing guard, and they clasp hands in a bro hug.
“How’s it going, man?” the guy asks.
Alder nods, then glances inside. “Looks good.”
“Your hard work paid off. They all showed.” The guy’s eyes shift to me and darken as he steps forward. “Empty your pockets. Arms up.”
Before I can say or do anything, Alder quickly moves, pinning him against the wall with his forearm braced across his throat. “You don’t fucking touch him.”
The guy’s eyes cut to me, looking me over again. Then he huffs a low laugh and shoves Alder off him. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”
Alder steps closer again, the air between them crackling with something ready to ignite. “You questioning me, Boot?”
I glance at the name patch on his cut. R. Boutilier. Enforcer.
Boot glares at Alder, then backs down with a curt shake of his head. “Nope.”
I’m not sure what to make of this exchange as I watch them stare at each other for another moment.
It’s tense and confusing, with layers of familiarity, challenge, and power.
Just a moment ago, it was two members of the same club hugging, and now it looks like some kind of stand-off that could end badly for one of them.
But then Alder looks at me and jerks his head towards the door. “Let’s go.”
As I move past him to head inside, Boot pats Alder on the shoulder, and everything seems to be forgotten. What the fuck?
I step inside, and immediately I’m hit with the smell of smoke, gasoline, and a sight I wasn’t expecting.
Floodlights are rigged across the ceiling, casting beams of bright white onto a row of gleaming cars.
And these cars are even flashier than the ones outside.
Some of the hoods are popped, headlights on, and chrome glitters like treasure among the shadows.
People move in pockets around the large space, some laughing and talking in groups, others standing in the shadows on their own, and some inspecting engines with fingers tracing along steel like they’re touching forbidden skin.
This is an underground car auction.
“This way,” Alder says, brushing past me with a nod.
And I follow without hesitation.
We weave through the crowd, which is an odd collision of two worlds.
Men in ripped jeans and faded cuts with scabbed knuckles move shoulder to shoulder with others in tailored suits and polished shoes, flashing Rolexes and murmuring into Bluetooth headsets.
It’s grit and luxury smashed together under the harsh glare of floodlights.
Alder stops when we reach two older men in Basin Kings cuts, who look like typical members of a biker gang.
They both have ink winding up their arms, and one is bald with tattoos on either side of his head.
The other has the same dark glare and sharp jaw as Alder, and when I glance at the patch over his chest, I see the name: K. Roy, President.
They greet each other with the same hug Alder gave the man at the door—a rough slap of palms, a half-embrace, and forearms gripping like they’re sizing each other up even in affection. Alder does the same with the bald one, the Sergeant-at-Arms according to the patch on his cut.
It’s strange, watching them move like this, with a familiar, rough-edged affection and a show of loyalty and blood that comes easy between them.
The Basin Kings are feared throughout New Brunswick, seen as dangerous and violent.
And I know that’s not wrong. But standing in the middle of it now, I’m seeing a different side of it.
Control, respect, and family. Even when it’s wrapped in threat and warning.
And I’m not sure how I fit into all of this.
“So all the fuckers showed, huh?” Alder says, scanning the crowd with a tilt of his chin.
The King’s President nods, gesturing towards a guy across the room, standing stiffly beside a Basin King who looks like he’d snap his neck if he so much as breathed wrong.
“Got Trip on our scaredy-cat,” he says. “Turns out that ‘no’ he gave you didn’t hold much weight.
All the others are here and appear eager. ”
Then he shifts his gaze towards another man standing off to the side, looking to be in his mid-thirties, fussing with the sleeves of a suit jacket that costs more than my car.
He’s surrounded by slick-suited men who look right at home here, but everything about this guy says he’d rather be anywhere else.
“I suspect our friend Danny might need a little… support.”
Alder just nods. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Then K. Roy’s eyes land on me.
It’s brief, but something in the shift of his jaw and the way his gaze cuts back to Alder makes my chest tighten. Something passes between them, but it’s too quick to catch.
Alder doesn’t so much as flinch as he pulls out a cigarette, settles it between his lips, and lights it with a flick of his lighter. “Anything else?” he asks through a drag.
His president just shakes his head. “No.”
Alder doesn’t say another word as he turns, places a firm hand on my shoulder, and steers me away.