Chapter 2
Viper
I wake up thinking about coffee.
That’s the problem.
Because I don’t drink it for the caffeine anymore.
I sit up in the room I keep at the clubhouse and stare at my boots on the floor, letting the day settle into my bones.
Road Captain.
Rules.
Routes.
Security.
The list never ends.
Neither does the image of a curvy girl in an oversized hoodie, freckles dusting her nose, pretending she doesn’t notice me while watching me like it’s instinct.
I don’t deserve her. That doesn’t stop me.
Voices carry through the clubhouse before I’m even dressed. Low. Familiar. The kind of sound that means the day’s already rolling, ready or not.
I pull on jeans. Boots. Shirt. Grab my cut off the hook and shrug it on as I head down the hall.
The smell hits halfway to the bar.
Coffee.
Burnt. Bitter. Stale.
I step into the main room. The noise sharpens.
A prospect’s standing over the pot, glaring at it like it insulted his mother. He’s got that cautious posture all the new ones wear, like the walls might explode if they breathe wrong.
Havoc’s at the table, looking relaxed in that I-own-the-room way. President of the Damned Saints. Nothing touches him unless he lets it.
Ghost is leaned back in a chair, arms crossed, watching the kid like he’s calculating whether to break a finger or let it slide.
And Saint’s here.
Back early.
Vice President patch. Calm eyes. That kind of stillness that says he’s already solved the next ten problems in his head. He doesn’t look road-worn. Saint never looks worn. He looks ready to bury whatever gets in his way.
Havoc taps the table. “You done poisoning it?”
The prospect stiffens. “It’s fresh, Prez.”
Ghost’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite. “Fresh trash.”
Havoc takes a sip. Grimaces. “Jesus.”
Saint lifts his mug, stares into it like it might confess. “You drink this by choice?”
Havoc shrugs. “I drink it because I’m awake and it’s here.”
Ghost glances up as I walk in. His eyes narrow, just a hair. Already amused. He always is when he sees me pre-coffee.
Havoc follows the look. “Morning, Viper.”
Saint gives me a nod. Simple. Weighted. We served together. That nod covers years of blood and dirt neither of us talks about.
I stop at the table, look down at the pot, and my nose wrinkles. “Prospect.”
“Road Captain,” the kid replies fast, too formal.
“Stop making this,” I tell him. “It’s disrespectful.”
He blinks, panicked. Havoc laughs.
Ghost finally speaks. “He means it. Hasn’t touched clubhouse coffee in weeks.”
Saint’s head turns. “He hasn’t?”
Havoc’s eyes light up. “That’s right. You were out. You missed it.”
Saint looks at Ghost. “Explain.”
Ghost doesn’t flinch. “He drinks from the coffee truck on Main.”
Saint’s brow lifts. “Every day?”
Ghost nods. “Every day.”
Havoc leans forward, grin creeping in. “Sometimes twice.”
Saint shifts his gaze to me. “Twice?”
“It’s better coffee.”
Havoc snorts. “That is not about coffee.”
“It’s about coffee.”
Ghost makes a low sound. “Sure.”
Saint studies me. Quiet. He reads before he speaks.
Havoc can’t help himself when he smells blood.
“So,” he says, “you go to a coffee truck. Every morning. Same girl. Same time. Same routine.”
I say nothing.
Havoc grins. “That’s courtship.”
“It’s caffeine.”
He points his mug at me. “And you had the balls to ride my ass when Sage happened.”
Then he nods toward Ghost. “Same way you rode his when he caught feelings.”
Ghost doesn’t even blink. “You didn’t shut up for a fucking month.”
Havoc cackles. “Now look at you. Road Captain out here structuring his schedule around a barista.”
Ghost’s eyes flick to Havoc’s phone lighting up on the table.
Sage.
Havoc locks the screen like it’s instinct. His jaw tightens, defensive for no reason at all. The man runs an outlaw club and still acts like one woman’s name is a vulnerability.
Saint takes a sip, winces. “You’re all soft.”
Havoc barks a laugh. “Says the man who walked back in here and made the whole room quieter.”
Saint glances at him. “I didn’t make it quieter. You just never shut up.”
I look at Saint. “You should’ve stayed gone.”
Havoc grins. “He missed you.”
“I missed the silence,” I say. “Place ran smoother.”
Saint’s mouth twitches. “Liar.”
I don’t deny it. Don’t confirm it. Doesn’t matter.
What matters is the itch under my skin that won’t stop.
Her.
Ava.
I learned her name the first time I saw her. Didn’t ask her. Called in favors until someone gave it to me.
Asking her would’ve been normal. I don’t do normal.
Ava Holland.
Suits her.
Curves she hides under soft layers. Freckles. Hazel eyes. A mouth that goes shy before it smiles.
And that careful edge.
It’s the careful that sticks.
Havoc’s voice pulls me back. “You going now?”
“Yeah.”
Saint watches me for a second. “Don’t do anything you can’t undo.”
I grab my gloves. “I’m getting coffee.”
Ghost snorts. “Sure you are.”
I glance at him. “Worry about your ride. I’ll handle mine.”
His gaze holds. Then he nods once. Respect. Warning. Both.
As I turn, Havoc calls after me. “Tell your coffee girl I said hi.”
I don’t look back. “If you talk to her, I’ll break your jaw.”
Havoc laughs, delighted. “He’s serious. He’s fucking serious!”
I leave before I decide to make the threat a fact.
The cold hits the second I step outside.
Good.
It clears my head.
I swing onto my bike and fire it up. The engine rumble settles into my bones.
Main Street’s a short ride. Too short.
Her truck’s there.
But the window’s shut.
No steam.
No scent.
No movement.
My hands tighten on the grips.
I roll closer, scanning the street on instinct. Road Captain doesn’t do surprises.
Nothing.
Just closed.
My gut drops.
I kill the engine, swing off, and stare at the lifeless window. Something’s wrong.
Then I look at the waffle truck next door.
Of course she’s open. That woman could serve breakfast during a damn nuclear winter.
She clocks me coming and her face shifts. First concern. Then a look that says she already knows what I’m about to ask.
“Morning,” she says. “It’s Doris, in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget.”
I did.
“Where is she?”
Doris wipes her hands on a towel. “Didn’t open.”
“I see that.”
“She shut down early yesterday. No warning. No goodbye. Looked fine one second, then looked sick. Closed up and left.”
Left.
My jaw locks.
“Ava doesn’t leave without a word.”
Doris’s eyes sharpen. “So you do know her name.”
“I know enough.”
She studies me for a beat, then leans in a little. “She looked scared.”
That word lands wrong in my chest.
“Do you know where she lives?”
Doris shakes her head. “Rented room. Cheap building. She didn’t say more.”
Not enough.
I pull my phone and call Ghost.
Ghost keeps records. Names. Numbers. Dirt.
If anyone can find her, it’s him.
He answers on the second ring. “What?”
“I need an address.”
A pause. “Whose?”
“Ava Holland.”
Another pause. “The coffee truck girl?”
“Yes.”
Ghost exhales slow. “You sure you wanna go there?”
“Not your business.”
“Fine.” Click.
That’s Ghost. No lecture. Just action.
My phone buzzes less than a minute later.
Address. Unit number.
My blood ices over.
That building’s not where you live when life is good. It’s where you go when you’re broke. Or hiding. Or both.
I’m moving before I can think too hard.
Ride’s short. Too much room for my brain to spiral.
I park. Kill the engine. Take the stairs two at a time.
Her door’s at the end of the hall.
I knock. Hard. Once.
Nothing.
Again. “Ava.”
Silence.
Then I hear it. A breath. A scrape.
She’s there.
And I scared her.
I close my eyes for a beat. Fuck.
I lower my voice. “Ava. It’s me. I come by the coffee truck every day.”
Nothing.
I lean in. Calm. Quiet. “You don’t have to open the door. Just crack it. Let me see you.”
Silence stretches.
Then the lock clicks.
The chain holds, but the door shifts open.
Her face appears in the gap—pale, tense, eyes wide and searching. She scans the patch. The cut. The size of me.
Fear flickers, but not of me. More like her guard’s trying to stay up and losing.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers.
“You didn’t open,” I say. “You didn’t tell anyone why.”
She swallows hard. “I’m fine.”
That word means nothing.
Then the chain slides free.
The door opens wider.
She’s not wearing the hoodie.
No sleeves. Bare arms.
And I see them.
Burns. Old. Faded. Some not faded enough. Lines that don’t belong on skin like hers.
My vision narrows. Pulse slows into something heavy and mean.
She tries to cover up. Jerks her arms back fast.
Too late.
My hands curl into fists. Not to touch her.
To track down whoever put those marks on her.
And make them regret breathing.
Her voice breaks. Soft. Raw. “Please don’t.”
She thinks I’m disgusted.
That lands like a punch to the ribs.
I look her in the eye. Steady. Rough. Honest.
“Who did that to you?”