Chapter 2 #2
That’s interesting.
I’ve seen those guys around town before, usually riding through in packs that make half the county nervous, but they’ve never caused trouble in here. Wayne always said they were the kind of men who mind their own business unless someone gives them a reason not to.
Looks like someone just did.
I lean my shoulder against the side of the building and cross my arms, staying in the shadows where nobody can see me. From here I can see everything, but the wind carries their voices the wrong direction and I can’t hear a damn word they’re saying.
The man in the cut stands perfectly still while the three idiots talk at him. One of them gestures angrily with his hands, clearly trying to throw his weight around, but the biker barely reacts. He just tilts his head slightly like he’s listening.
Something about the way he stands makes it obvious who’s actually in control of the conversation.
Even without hearing him speak, the tension in the air shifts.
Then the guy takes a slow step forward.
The three men immediately stop talking.
Interesting.
I can’t see his face from here, but I find myself staring anyway, my eyes drifting over the line of his shoulders and the way the leather vest stretches across his back.
The man is built like someone who spends his life doing physical work, every movement deliberate and controlled in a way that feels dangerous without trying too hard.
And yeah, maybe I ogle him a little. It’s hard not to.
The streetlight catches the edge of his jaw when he turns slightly, and I can see the faint outline of dark stubble along his cheek. His posture stays relaxed while the men in front of him start shifting their weight like they’re suddenly not quite as confident as they were inside the bar.
I bite back a grin.
Whatever he just said to them worked.
One of the guys steps closer to him like he’s trying to puff up his chest and prove something, but the biker doesn’t move. He just stands there, calm and solid, like a brick wall that doesn’t care how hard you hit it.
The idiot jabs a finger toward him.
That’s probably a mistake.
I push away from the wall slightly, curiosity getting the better of me as I watch the scene unfold. Something tells me this is about to get interesting, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying the view while I wait to see how it ends.
It happens so fast my brain almost misses the beginning of it. One second the biker is standing there listening, and the next he moves. Not wild or dramatic or anything like the bar fights I’ve seen inside these walls a hundred times. It’s quiet and precise, like someone flipping a switch.
His hand snaps out and catches the guy’s wrist before that finger ever makes contact with his chest. There’s a quick twist of his body and the man’s arm bends in a direction arms definitely aren’t meant to bend. The guy yelps and drops to one knee before he even seems to realize what happened.
The other two react a split second too late.
The biker releases the first man just long enough to pivot toward the second one.
His fist drives forward in a short, brutal motion that lands square in the guy’s ribs with a dull thud I can hear even from here.
The man folds like someone kicked the legs out from under him, gasping for air as he stumbles backward.
The third guy lunges forward, clearly thinking this is the moment where numbers finally start to matter.
It doesn’t.
The biker shifts his weight smoothly, stepping inside the man’s reach before the punch can land. One hand grabs the front of his jacket while the other drives upward, catching him hard under the jaw. The sound of teeth snapping together echoes in the quiet lot as the man’s head jerks back.
He hits the ground a second later.
The whole thing takes maybe ten seconds.
Maybe less.
I blink slowly, staring at the three men now scattered across the gravel like someone dropped them there.
Well.
That escalated efficiently.
The biker straightens up again like nothing particularly interesting just happened. He rolls one shoulder once, loosening the muscles there, before looking down at the guy still clutching his arm.
Even from this distance I can see the way the man freezes when the biker steps closer again.
He says something to them.
I still can’t hear the words.
But whatever he says makes the two men still capable of moving scramble awkwardly to their feet.
The third one groans and rolls onto his side before the others haul him upright between them.
They stumble toward their car with the kind of panicked urgency people get when they suddenly realize they’ve made a very bad decision.
The engine starts a moment later.
Gravel sprays as they peel out of the lot and disappear down the road.
Silence settles over the space again.
The biker stands there for a second watching the empty road, hands resting loosely at his sides. The streetlight above him throws half his body into shadow, outlining the broad shape of his shoulders and the Iron Reapers patch stretched across the back of his cut.
I push off the wall without really thinking about it.
Because that was…
Honestly, it's kind of impressive. Also extremely fucking hot.
I take a couple quiet steps forward before realizing I’ve just walked halfway across the lot like a curious raccoon that wandered too close to a campfire. Smooth, Rae, really subtle.
The gravel crunches under my boot. The biker’s head turns slightly and suddenly I realize he probably knew I was standing back there the whole time.