Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
The bridge smells like rust and river rot, damp concrete holding onto the stink of piss and diesel. Saints engines idle low, headlights cutting through the fog that rolls up from the water.
Iowa plates gleam where they don’t belong: two pickups parked side by side, tailgates dropped like they own the stretch.
Wrong move.
North doesn’t need to signal. He just kills his engine, boots hitting asphalt like thunder, and the rest of us follow. The silence we bring is louder than our pipes.
“Evenin’,” Colt drawls, toothpick bobbing between his teeth as he steps forward. Road Captain posture: loose, but lethal.
One of the Iowa boys straightens, a skinny fuck with patchwork ink. “Ain’t your bridge.”
Colt chuckles, low. “Funny. Thought the river said otherwise.”
Shard shifts beside me, restless energy coiled in his fists. “I can smell the corn still stuck in your teeth, motherfucker. Wrong state.”
Soul doesn’t waste words, just cracks his knuckles, big and deliberate.
North finally speaks, voice even and flat. “We don’t share pavement. This bridge is Saint ground. You wanna fish on it, fuck on it, or breathe near it, you ask first. You didn’t. So now you pay.”
The Iowa skinny kid sneers, but his buddy tenses, like maybe he knows the stories. Too late.
Tornado moves before anyone blinks, grabs Skinny by the collar, and drives him face-first into the hood of his own truck. Metal screams under the hit.
“Lesson one,” Tornado growls. “Don’t mouth off.”
Shard steps in, kicks the guy’s ribs once, sharp. He folds with a wet sound.
Colt leans down to the other one, the smart-eyed one. “Cash. Now. Or we tow your asses across the river and see if you can swim with broken legs.”
The guy fumbles, hands shaking, and produces a roll of bills.
North takes it, counts neat, then pockets it. “You’re done here. Next time, you don’t leave.”
We mount back up, engines roaring alive, leaving Iowa’s wannabes coughing exhaust and blood on the asphalt. Lesson delivered. Bridge still ours.
Blacktrope Blood is alive when we roll in, neon buzzing against the wet streets, the kind of glow that warns off civilians even as it lures them in.
We claim our seats like kings. Frost slides drinks down the bar without asking, eyes sharp, grin sharper.
“Nothing like a clean run,” Soul mutters, tucking his piece under the counter.
“Clean?” Shard grins. “I still got Iowa on my boots.”
Colt chuckles, then cuts his eyes at me. “Speaking of boots, you looked twitchy tonight, Rook. What’s eatin’ you? Princess still stuck in your teeth?”
The laughter that follows is vicious.
I flip him off, but the dig lands. Because yeah. Her. Always her.
North doesn’t laugh. Just tips his beer back, gaze flicking my way. He knows. Doesn’t press. That’s worse.
Frost leans on the bar, smirk set deep. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
I scowl. “The fuck’s that mean?”
“Girl came in here lookin’ lost. Asked about you. I gave her your number.”
My pulse spikes. “You what?”
“You heard me.” Frost shrugs, smug as ever. “Seemed like she needed it.”
Before I can rip him a new one, Eva slumps into the booth beside me, eyeliner smeared, grin sleepy.
“Ohhh, we’re talking about the princess.”
I narrow my eyes. “Spit it out.”
She rolls hers. “The Candies have been giggling for days. They sent a picture—you know, you buried in Jules while Beatrice rode your face.”
The blood in my skull goes nuclear. My jaw locks.
I’m up before I know it, stalking across the bar. The Candies see me coming—their laughter dies, sharp.
I plant both palms on their table and lean down, voice low, dangerous.
“You think you’re funny? Sending my shit around like it’s yours to play with?”
Lola blinks, tries to smile it off. “We were just—”
“Shut it.” My voice cracks like a whip. “Listen close. Lola? You’re done. Don’t come near me again. You’re blacklisted.”
Jules gasps. Beatrice goes pale.
“Same for you. Don’t call me. Don’t breathe my fucking air. You don’t want the Saints to kick you out. Clear?”
The silence is thick. Then three quick nods. Fear in their eyes.
“Say it,” I snarl.
“Clear,” Lola whispers.
I shove off the table, blood still boiling. Behind me, North raises his beer, slow and deliberate. Approval, or maybe warning. Hard to tell with him.
Back in my booth, I drain the beer, slam the bottle down. The taste doesn’t even register. My thoughts are already spiraling.
She texted me. Her. And instead of answering, she got that shit.
Frost arches a brow but stays quiet.
Eva whistles low. “Guess she matters more than you’re saying,” she teases.
I ignore her.
“Colt,” I bark.
He glances up from the corner. “What?”
“You still got that address you teased me with?”
He smirks like the bastard he is. “Boutique Royale downtown. Didn’t think you wanted it.”
“Give it.”
He rattles it off without hesitation.
Later, I’m on the bike again, chewing the night air like it owes me something.
From the shadows across the street but far away, I see her.
Lights click off, door locks, that little red car pulling away from the curb.
My heart does a stupid kick just watching her move—chin up, shoulders squared like she isn’t scared of the world she’s walking into.
I don’t follow. I let the engine idle, smoke curling from the cigarette between my teeth as I track her taillights.
Still, I can’t stop. I ride slow, far enough back to not be seen, until she pulls up at her apartment building.
And I see it, the way her head turns sharp, scanning shadows. The way she grips her purse tighter. The pause at the door, like she’s waiting for something to lunge out.
My jaw grinds. My fists tighten on the grips.
She rushes inside. A beat later, her window lights up.
I lean back in the saddle, light another cigarette, and drag smoke into my lungs, staring at that window like it holds answers. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. And that’s when I gun the throttle and tear away, the engine screaming louder than the storm in my chest.
I don’t know if I’m more pissed at her giving up on reaching out, the Candies for running their mouths, or myself for wanting a woman who ain’t mine and never should be.
All I know is I want to punch something. Anything.
Because one thing’s clear.
She’s already under my skin, and I’m fucked.