2. Josie
JOSIE
My hands won't stop shaking.
I notice it while I'm standing there, staring at this stranger who just made Colt back down with nothing but a look and a few quiet words.
My fingers are trembling against my thighs, and I can't decide if it's adrenaline from the confrontation or something else entirely — something to do with the way he's looking at me.
Lock. Even his name sounds solid. Immovable. Like something you'd break yourself against if you tried to move it.
He's bigger up close than I realized. Taller.
Broader. Thick shoulders, strong arms, hands that look like they've done real work.
His face is all sharp angles and hard lines, dark eyes that don't give anything away.
Handsome, but not in the pretty-boy way Colt always tried to be.
Rougher. A face that's been lived in. It shouldn't appeal to me at all.
It does anyway.
Stop it.
"You need anything?" he asks. His voice is low and even, the same flat calm he used on Colt. "A ride out of here?"
"I'm fine." The words come out automatic. Defensive. "I'm here with my cousin. Maria."
"I know."
My eyebrows rise. "You know?"
"I notice things." A flicker crosses his expression — there and gone. "It's my job."
"Your job." I glance at his patches, reading them properly for the first time. Sergeant-at-Arms. Sons of Ruin. The skull and flames logo on his back. "So you're the one who handles trouble."
"Something like that."
The silence stretches between us. I should thank him again and walk away. Find Maria. Get out of here before Colt decides to come back with reinforcements.
But my feet won't move.
There's something about Lock — patient, unhurried, like he's got nowhere else to be. He's not crowding me. Not pushing into my space the way Colt always did, the way most men do when they think they've earned something. He's just... present. Solid. Waiting.
"He's going to cause more problems," I say instead of leaving. "Colt. He doesn't take no for an answer."
"Then he'll learn."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means if he comes near you again, he answers to me." Lock holds my gaze, certain, like he's stating a fact instead of making a threat. "You don't have to be alone in this."
The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere I've been protecting for three months, ever since I finally walked away from a man who made me feel like I was drowning in plain sight.
This stranger is offering me something I didn't ask for. Something I'm not sure I can accept. In my experience, things that feel too good always come with a price.
This stranger is offering me something I didn't ask for. Something I'm not sure I can accept. In my experience, things that feel too good always come with a price.
I should walk away. Right now, before this goes any further. This is exactly the kind of thing I swore I wouldn't do again — getting pulled in by a man in a leather cut who looks at me like I'm worth protecting. I know how that story ends. I lived it for a year with Colt.
But Lock isn't Colt. I can already tell, and I hate that I can tell, because it means I'm paying attention. Lock keeps space between us instead of crowding in. He asked what I needed instead of telling me what I should want. He's standing there patient instead of pushing.
Colt was all flash and pressure and demand. He wanted things from me before he even knew what they were, and he took them whether I offered or not.
Lock feels like the opposite. Still water instead of crashing waves.
That doesn't mean you can trust him.
No. It doesn't. I don't trust anyone anymore — least of all myself. I picked wrong once. Picked wrong badly. How am I supposed to know the difference now?
"I should find Maria," I say, but I still don't move.
"Okay."
He doesn't move either.
The rally churns around us — music and laughter and the rumble of bikes — but none of it touches this space we've carved out.
I'm hyperaware of him. The breadth of his shoulders under the leather.
His hands hanging loose at his sides, relaxed but ready.
The sharp line of his jaw, shadowed with stubble.
And the way my body keeps leaning toward him like he's gravity.
"Can I ask you something?" The words come out before I can stop them.
"Yeah."
"Why'd you step in? Really. Most guys would've walked past. None of their business."
He considers the question. Actually thinks about it instead of throwing out some bullshit designed to make me feel better or get into my pants.
"Because he had his hands on you," Lock says finally. "And you didn't want him to."
"That's it?"
"That's enough." He shrugs. "I don't like bullies."
Simple. Direct. No agenda underneath.
"I was with him for a year." I hear myself say the words and wonder what the hell I'm doing.
I don't talk about Colt. Not to anyone except Maria, and even then only in fragments.
But something about Lock — the way he's listening without pushing — makes me want to fill the silence.
"We dated for about a year before I ended it. Three months ago."
"He didn't take it well." Not a question.
"That's an understatement." I laugh, short and bitter. "He still shows up places where he knows I'll be. Still calls me his girl like the breakup never happened. Like my words don't mean anything."
"Your words mean something."
"Not to him."
"To me."
The quiet certainty makes my breath catch. I stare at him, searching for the crack in the armor, the place where the performance bleeds through. There's always a performance with men like this. Always some angle they're working.
I can't find it.
"You don't know me," I say again, but it sounds different this time. Less accusation, more confusion.
"I know enough." Almost a smile crosses his face — just a slight softening around the eyes. "I know you stood your ground when he grabbed you. Didn't scream, didn't cry, didn't freeze. You were handling it."
"I told you, I didn't need—"
"I know. That's my point." He cuts me off, but gently. "You didn't need rescuing. But you also didn't flinch when I showed up. Didn't treat me like another threat. You read the situation and decided I was an ally." He pauses. "That takes instincts. Good ones."
I blink at him. "You got all that from five minutes?"
"I notice things."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
The silence shifts. Charged now — tension, awareness, the kind of electricity that comes before a storm breaks.
I find myself studying his mouth. Full lower lip, firm upper, the kind of mouth that looks like it would know exactly what to do.
My eyes linger there too long.
When I drag my gaze back up, he's watching me. He saw where I was looking. Definitely saw.
"Josie." My name in his voice sounds different. Lower. Rougher.
"Yeah?"
"Tell me to walk away."
I should. The smart thing, the safe thing, would be to thank him for his help and go find Maria and forget this ever happened. I just got out of something bad. I don't trust my own judgment anymore. I have no business wanting things from a man I just met.
"And if I don't?" I hear myself ask.
"Then I'm going to kiss you."
Not a question. Not quite a statement either. An offering and a warning, wrapped into one. Giving me the choice.
I should say no.
"Okay," I whisper instead.
He moves slowly. Deliberately. Giving me time to change my mind, to pull away. Every step is a chance for me to back out, and he's making sure I know it.
I don't take any of them.
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, rough calluses against my skin, and the touch sends electricity down my spine. He tilts my face up, his eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation.
He won't find any. God help me, he won't find any.
Then his mouth is on mine, and I stop thinking entirely.
The kiss is not gentle. It's hungry and demanding, all heat and want, like something that's been building for years instead of minutes. His hand slides into my hair, gripping just hard enough to make me gasp, and he uses the moment to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine.
I grab fistfuls of his cut and pull him closer. A low rumble comes from deep in his chest, and the sound vibrates through me.
This is insane. You just met him.
But my body doesn't care about logic. My body is pressed against his, feeling the hard planes of his chest through the leather, the strength in the arms that wrap around me.
His hand splays across my lower back, pulling me tighter, and I feel exactly how much this is affecting him. Hard and undeniable against my stomach.
He wants me. This quiet, dangerous man wants me.
And I want him back. More than I should. More than makes any kind of sense.
But none of this makes sense. I've known him for twenty minutes and I'm kissing him like my life depends on it, in the middle of a rally where anyone could see, where Colt could see—
Reality crashes back in.
I pull away, breathless, my hands still fisted in his cut.
"I can't," I manage. "I'm not— I just got out of something, and I don't—"
"I know."
"This is too fast. I don't even know you."
His thumb traces along my jaw, unbearably gentle after the ferocity of that kiss.
"You will," he says quietly. "If you want to."
The certainty in his voice should scare me. It does scare me. But underneath the fear, there's warmth spreading through my chest.
I step back. Put space between us. Try to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
"I should go."
"Okay." He doesn't try to stop me. Just stands there, watching me with those dark eyes.
"This doesn't mean—" I stop, not sure how to finish.
"I know what it doesn't mean." He pulls out his phone, taps something, and holds it out to me. "My number. Because Colt's going to try again. And when he does, I want you to have someone to call. That's all. Just... someone in your corner."
He's giving me an out. Making it about safety instead of whatever this actually is. We both know it's more than that. But he's letting me pretend, if I need to.
I take the phone. Save the number to mine. Hand it back.
Our fingers brush, and I feel that contact like a spark. His eyes hold mine as he pockets the phone.
"Goodnight, Josie."
"Goodnight, Lock."
I turn and walk away. Make myself not look back, even though every instinct screams at me to turn around. My lips are tingling. My whole body is still humming from that kiss.
I find Maria near the beer tent, laughing with a group of old ladies from other clubs. She spots me and her eyebrows shoot up.
"Where the hell have you been?" She pulls me aside. "You look like— wait. Why do you look like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like someone just rearranged your whole damn world."
I open my mouth. Close it.
"Colt showed up," I finally manage.
Maria's expression darkens. "That piece of shit. What'd he do?"
"Grabbed me. But someone intervened. A guy called Lock, from the Sons of Ruin."
Her eyes go wide. "Lock? Their Sergeant-at-Arms?"
"You know him?"
"I know of him. Big guy, doesn't talk much, looks like he could murder you six different ways." She shakes her head. "And he just... stepped in?"
"Stepped in. Made Colt back down. Made sure I was okay." I pause, my cheeks flushing. "We may have kissed."
Maria stares at me for a solid five seconds. Then she bursts out laughing.
"Oh honey. You're so fucked."
She's probably right.
Later, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling and replay the whole night.
The confrontation with Colt. The stranger who stepped in. The kiss that short-circuited every logical thought I've ever had.
I should be worried. I should be reminding myself of all the reasons this is a terrible idea — the leather cut, the club life, the fact that I just escaped one biker and have no business getting tangled up with another.
Instead, I keep thinking about his hands. The rough calluses against my jaw. The way his fingers tightened in my hair. The way his palm spread across my lower back and pulled me against him like I weighed nothing.
I keep thinking about what those hands would feel like elsewhere.
Sliding under my shirt. Rough palms against bare skin. Those thick fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans, tugging me closer, then lower—
Jesus.
I press my thighs together, but it doesn't help. My whole body is wound tight, pulsing with a want I haven't felt in longer than I can remember. Maybe ever. Colt never made me feel like this — desperate and aching from a single kiss.
I think about Lock's mouth. The way he kissed me like he already knew exactly what I needed. I think about that mouth on my neck. My collarbone. Lower.
I think about his voice, low and rough: Tell me to walk away.
My hand slides down my stomach before I can stop myself. Under the waistband of my underwear. I'm already wet — embarrassingly so, just from thinking about him. My fingers find my clit and I gasp at how sensitive I am, how ready.
I don't tease myself. I circle tight and fast, chasing it, picturing his dark eyes watching me. Picturing him here, in my bed, those rough hands replacing mine. His weight pressing me into the mattress. His voice in my ear telling me to come for him.
It doesn't take long. The orgasm crashes through me, sharp and sudden, and I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.
When I come down, I'm breathing hard, staring at the ceiling, my hand still between my thighs.
I just got myself off to a man I met three hours ago.
Shit.