Chapter Four
Riot
Seven the following morning, I stood in the lot with a whopping headache and a coffee that tasted like burnt ass.
The morning air still had some coolness in it but felt good breathing it in.
Already the bay doors were cracked open, music playing low enough I caught only bass and muffled vocals.
I took another sip off the coffee before heading in.
Maybe tonight calls for an alpha with a soft spot—or a heroine who refuses to back down.
See what fits the mood at Lokepub.
Mayhem stood at the workbench with a cup of coffee in one hand and a look on his face that said he’d been awake too long already. Merk leaned against the tool chest, reading something on his phone.
“Tell me we’re not taking your truck,” I said to Merk as I cleared the bay door.
Without looking up, he slid the phone into his pocket. “Morning to you too, princess.”
From near the mini fridge, I tossed the first cup and grabbed another, hoping the second tasted better. “You keep driving like an asshole, and I’m filing a complaint.”
From the corner, Mayhem snorted. He set his cup down and pushed off the bench. “You’d have to know how to write first.”
“You wound me,” I said. “Deeply.”
Merk’s mouth twitched. “Good. Get your shit. We’re rolling. Guns aren’t going to restock themselves.” He tilted his head, rubbing his chin. “Though that would be fucking amazing if they could. Stock instantly replenished.”
“Could still be sleeping,” Mayhem said. “Shit. Forgot to get that ten from Reaper.” He grinned. “Never doubted your boy would show. Just doubted his judgment. Look who he’s crushing on.”
“Consider yourself lucky I’m not awake enough for that to be an insult.” I took another drink and looked between them. “We doing this before breakfast because Preacher hates a well-fed wolf?”
“Pretty much.” Mayhem picked up the Pookie sign and dusted it off.
I grinned. Crowbar had been gone for Spencer, a small human who’d called Crowbar Pookie in front of the entire pack.
Done deal. Not a chance they’d let that slide.
Deadeye had the sign made to fuck with Crowbar.
Worked until Spencer said he loved it. Now Crowbar’s love-sick ass grinned anytime he glanced at it.
Made me think of Calvin. I had his number stored in my phone. Couldn’t remember having a better time. My wolf had tracked Calvin’s every step, and it had me wondering if-—
“Fuck!” My cup hit the floor, coffee splashing my pant leg as pain erupted in my chest. It felt like someone had punched my sternum with a concrete fist.
Mayhem and Merk stood there frowning at me.
Then Mayhem’s brow shot up, and his mouth twisted into a grin. “Your wolf just chose Calvin, didn’t it?”
I rubbed my sternum like massaging would help. It didn’t. Not yet. The throbbing sensation expanded. It didn’t hurt anymore. I just felt it wrapping around my upper torso. The pulsing was gradually fading until it settled under my ribs. My wolf felt it too.
It wanted our mate. My beast would have to wait. You’ve got lousy timing. I couldn’t bail on this run. It was too important.
“I like the guy,” Merk said.
My wolf snarled so deeply even my bones felt the vibration.
“Just said he was cool.” Merk’s left shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Fits right in without even trying. I mean only a blind person couldn’t have seen the inevitable.”
Mayhem and Merk laughed.
“Now Reaper owes me fifty.” Mayhem made a ka-ching sound. “Knew you’d go down fast.”
Merk wiggled his fingers in front of his own face, his mouth curled into a shit-eating grin. “Y'all had this googly-eyed expression every time either of you stole a glance.” He picked up the keys to his bike. “Calvin won the number of glances by a landslide.”
And I’d felt every single time he’d looked my way.
“You two hecklers done being assholes so we can roll out?” I asked.
I grabbed the coffee cup off the floor and tossed it then followed them out back.
Merk was taking the van. Bigger cargo space.
Tinted windows. Less attention than three bikes rolling out together with business to handle.
He popped the rear doors while I checked the sidearm at my back and made sure everything sat right. Mayhem did the same without comment.
The cash was already packed in a locked case. Clean and simple.
“Glad I’m riding my bike and not with you,” I said. “Your driving gives me anxiety. Want a better chance at surviving.”
“Keep talking shit and I’ll crash into you on purpose,” Merk said with a bite that hadn’t been in his voice a moment before.
“You in a mood?” I asked.
He slammed the doors closed. “Just trying to hear if your bullshit changes pitch.”
“The hell?” I narrowed my eyes, taking a step toward him. My canines threatened to punch through my gums. “Talk to me like that again, motherfucker. I dare you.”
Mayhem stepped between us. “Both of you kill the bullshit before we leave town.” Mayhem glanced at me. “He woke up looking like that. Don’t push him.”
“Then he shouldn’t have called me princess. Fuck him.” I headed toward my bike, blowing out a breath. We talked shit to each other all the time. Part of pack life. No one took offense. If Merk had woken up foul, he should’ve kept his mouth shut.
* * * *
Route 9 stretched empty ahead of us, long strips of asphalt washed gold by the rising sun.
I rode easy at the front left, Mayhem a few yards over on the right, the two bikes cutting through the quiet while Merk’s van stayed steady behind us without falling back once.
Engines rolled low and constant beneath the morning air.
No traffic or people, just miles of open road and the hum of another routine run.
The supply pickup itself wasn’t shit to worry about. Same contact we’d used for years. Cash exchanged, crates loaded, everybody gone before most people had taken their first sip of coffee.
Calvin kept sliding back into my head every couple miles, taking over my thoughts but not distracting enough to pull my eyes from the road.
My thoughts changed with each quarter-mile.
Calvin standing beside me near the picnic tables with that lemonade cup in his hand, condensation running over his fingers.
Drifting back toward me all afternoon without making it obvious.
The brush of his arm when he leaned closer to hear me over the music.
That small smile he kept trying to hide every time I said something that landed.
The morning wind pushed against my cut while the bike ate up another long stretch of highway. Sunlight flashed across chrome and mirrors. Somewhere behind me the van hit a rough patch in the road for half a second before smoothing back out.
I thought about the way Calvin had looked down at his crushed cup after I’d asked him out. Like he needed a second to get himself together before answering.
“I’d like that.”
My fingers flexed once around the throttle.
Tomorrow night.
Well, tonight now.
That thought settled warm in my chest while we kept moving through the sunrise, engines rumbling loud enough to shake the empty morning around us.
Somewhere behind me Merk tapped the horn once at Mayhem for drifting too close to the center line. Mayhem flipped him off without even looking back.
I rolled the throttle a little more.
The warehouse sat in an industrial strip a few towns over. Corrugated metal. Faded paint. Chain-link fence with a gate already rolled open. Nothing flashy. That was how Bulldog liked it.
I pulled in after Mayhem and swung my bike into place while Merk eased the van up near the loading bay. The motor ticked under me as it cooled. Morning air still carried some bite, but the sun was climbing fast. Diesel fumes hung around the place, laying on hunks of old metal.
Bulldog came out before we killed all the engines. He was a big bastard, thick through the middle now, beard gone more salt than dark over the time I’d known him. But he had the same steady eyes, the same heavy walk that said he wasn’t worried about a damn thing on his own property.
I got off the bike and pulled my gloves free. Mayhem shut off his engine and did the same. Behind us, Merk climbed out of the van and stretched like the drive had personally offended him.
“Morning,” Bulldog said.
We clasped forearms. Firm. Familiar. No bullshit in it. I liked that about him.
“Morning,” I said. “You look ugly as ever.”
Bulldog snorted. He shifted his jaw like he was working out a knot and looked me over. Then he glanced at Mayhem and Merk and nodded once at each of them.
“Still breathing, so I’m ahead,” he said. “Preacher good?”
“He’s good.”
At the loading area, two men stood near the dock. Both were armed and watching.
Merk walked to the back of the van and opened the doors. He hauled the case out and set it on a dented rolling cart near the bay, metal clacking under the weight. Mayhem stayed near my right, relaxed but ready. I stayed where I was and watched Bulldog.
“Same order?” Bulldog asked.
“Yep,” I said.
He jerked his chin toward the inside. “Come look.”
The air inside was cooler and smelled like machine oil, dust, and old wood. Bulldog led us to three long crates already opened. They were packed clean, wrapped right, and no loose shit tossed in to make up space. That was another reason we used him. Bulldog didn’t do sloppy.
I crouched by the nearest crate and checked what was on top. Then I checked the foam beneath it. Serials were gone, and the weight felt right in my hands. I set it down and moved to the next.
Behind me, Mayhem lifted one of the wrapped pieces and checked it with his usual silent focus. Merk stayed near the case and watched the doorway.
Bulldog folded his arms. “Everything’s there.”
I stood and looked at him. “I know.”
His mouth twitched.
While I nodded to Merk, he knelt by the case and popped it open, revealing neatly stacked bundles of cash. Bulldog crouched and lifted two bundles at random. He thumbed through enough to satisfy himself. He hadn’t counted every bill. We’d been doing business too long.
“Pleasure as always,” Bulldog said.
I grabbed the side of the first crate. “For one of us.”
He barked a laugh, the sound bounced off the metal walls and died quickly. Then he stepped aside and let his men move in to help load.