Century (Redline Kings MC #12)

Chapter 1

CENTURY

The neon sign over The Burnout glowed red through the humid Crossbend night.

I parked my bike near the front, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment while the familiar noise of the place spilled through the door.

Music thumped low from the jukebox inside, with enough bass to rattle the bottles behind the bar if Fury had the system cranked the way he usually did.

The place belonged to the Redline Kings MC and my club brother. Fury ran it like an extension of himself, which meant it was public enough for locals and racers to drink there, but everyone who walked through the door knew whose turf they were stepping onto.

I’d come by to drop off the keys to Fury’s motorcycle. He’d brought it to me earlier in the week after complaining that the throttle response felt off, which was Fury-speak for “I’m trusting you with my baby. Don’t make me say that out loud.”

The bike hadn’t needed much, just some fine adjustment, a little custom work on the intake, and a few tweaks because Fury liked his machines the same way as his bar—loud and not friendly to idiots.

I worked on custom bikes at The Pit, the garage owned by the club. I built the shit people remembered—especially my custom paint jobs. Customers who wanted something no one else had usually ended up in my bay sooner or later.

Inside, a scarred bar stretched along the right wall.

Chrome stools lined the counter, pool tables sat beneath hanging lamps toward the back, and racing memorabilia, club photos, busted helmets, bent rims, and parts of wrecked cars mounted like trophies covered the walls.

It was the kind of place where races were celebrated, grudges were buried if everyone was feeling generous, and new ones started if someone had more mouth than sense.

Fury was behind the bar when I walked in, wiping down the counter with a towel.

When he saw the keys dangling from my hand, his mouth curved up.

He looked like the kind of man people crossed the street to avoid, which was convenient since he usually preferred it that way.

The regulars knew better than to make trouble in his bar and outsiders learned quick.

Anybody short-sighted enough to disrespect a brother, an old lady, or our colors either apologized fast or found out how hard pavement felt when Fury helped them leave.

I tossed the keys onto the bar in front of him. “She’s done.”

He caught them before they slid too far and turned them over in his hand, his thumb brushing the worn leather keychain. “You fix the hesitation?”

“Yeah. Cleaned up the throttle response, adjusted the intake, and corrected the timing issue you kept pretending wasn’t there.”

His brows lifted slightly, but his mouth twitched because we both knew he hadn’t fooled me for a second. “Bike was fine.”

“Bike was annoyed you were neglecting her.”

He huffed a laugh and tucked the keys into his pocket. “You spend too much time sweet-talking machines.”

I shrugged. “Machines listen better than people.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Fury jerked his chin toward the taps behind him. “You staying for one?”

I should’ve headed back to the garage. I had a custom build waiting, three customer calls to return, and a parts order that Gauge wanted me to double-check before some supplier tried to charge us for imported bullshit that wouldn’t hold up under real speed. But a beer sounded damn good.

“Yeah.” I slid onto a stool near the end of the bar. “One.”

Fury poured a pint and set it in front of me. “Famous last words.”

“I’m not an overeager prospect trying to prove I’m not a lightweight. One means one.”

“Half the people sitting at my bar say that before they start making bad choices.”

“Half those assholes have poor impulse control.”

Fury barked a laugh. “And the other half lies.”

I shook my head, my lips tipped up in amusement before I took a drink.

The beer was cold and felt good going down my throat after being out in the humidity that was always around in late August in Florida.

A couple of brothers were playing pool near the back while a group of young, local racers argued over a replay on one of the big screens mounted over the far wall.

I was halfway through the beer when trouble walked up wearing too much perfume and stumbling slightly in high heels that didn’t belong in a place like this.

Her body was poured into a short, tight dress that was low enough not to even pretend to be subtle.

She probably would’ve attracted plenty of men but did absolutely nothing for me except make me wary of the fact that she was drunk, swaying, and headed straight into my space.

“Hi.” She drew the word out as she slid onto the stool beside mine without waiting for an invitation. “You’re hard to miss.”

I glanced at her hand when it landed on my forearm and frowned as I lifted my eyes to her face. Her pupils were too wide, and the smell of alcohol rolled off her under the perfume. She wasn’t tipsy in a cute way.

I pulled my arm free and angled my body away enough to make the message clear.

“Not interested.”

Her smile faltered for half a second before snapping back into place, brighter and more brittle. “You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

“Don’t need to.”

She laughed like I’d said something clever instead of dismissive, then leaned in again, her shoulder brushing mine while her fingers traced the edge of my cut near my chest. “I’m Sutton.”

My expression icy, I didn’t respond verbally as I picked up her hand and dropped it in her lap.

Fury glanced over from the other side of the bar.

He didn’t move yet, but nothing in The Burnout happened without him clocking it, especially not a drunk stranger pawing at one of his brothers.

I gave a faint shake of my head because I had it handled for now, though my patience was already thinning.

“Come on.” Her voice dropped into a tone I assumed she thought was seductive. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I have one.”

“Then let me buy you the next one.”

“No.”

She pouted, shifting closer until her knee pressed against my thigh. “You always this rude?”

“Only when polite doesn’t work.”

Any halfway sober woman with an ounce of self-preservation would’ve backed off, saved her pride, and found someone else to bother.

But Sutton doubled down instead of retreating.

Her hand landed on my chest this time, her palm spreading over my shirt, causing irritation and disgust to roll through me.

I caught her wrist and removed her hand again, squeezing hard but not enough to hurt. “Don’t.”

I thought I’d finally gotten through to her. But then she gave me a sultry smile that probably worked on men who liked chaos wrapped in easy access packaging.

“Playing hard to get?” she cooed, her lashes fluttering.

“No.”

“Liar.” She leaned closer, her breath hot with liquor as her gaze dropped to my mouth. “You look like you need someone to help you loosen up and have some fun.”

“Blink the alcohol out of your eyes and look again.”

Her expression turned annoyed for the first time, as if my refusal had finally pushed through the fog and landed somewhere her ego could feel it.

Then she slid off the stool and stepped between my knees before I could move, crowding into my space with a hand braced on the bar beside me.

The move was so fucking unwelcome that my jaw tightened.

I turned my head before she could get close enough to kiss me, then planted a hand on her shoulder and moved her back with enough firmness to end the game. “That’s enough. If a man treated you like this, you’d be expecting a guy like me to land him on his ass.”

The words cut through her haze enough to make her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Then anger sparked there, the kind that came from people who hated being denied more than they liked whoever they were chasing.

She pulled herself upright, trying for dignity and missing by a mile because her heel slid slightly on the floor.

I didn’t reach to steady her this time because she’d caught the bar to keep from face-planting. Besides, she’d mistaken basic decency for interest once already, and I wasn’t giving her another excuse.

Her mouth twisted. “Wow. You really are an asshole.”

“Tonight? Absolutely.” I set my beer down and met her glare without blinking.

Fury moved before Sutton could decide whether she wanted to slap me, cry, or try putting her hands on me again. He came around the bar, and the few patrons close enough to overhear suddenly found their drinks, phones, or pool cues fascinating as hell.

I didn’t need him to save me from her—he was taking action so that she couldn’t cry foul if I tried to remove her from the bar. Instead, it was the proprietor tossing her out on her ass.

He stepped between us, not touching her at first, just putting his body in the space she kept trying to invade. His expression wasn’t angry, but there was nothing soft in it either.

Sutton blinked up at him, swaying on one heel, her glossy mouth parting as though she’d already shifted targets and decided he might be more cooperative.

Fury looked past Sutton and lifted his voice toward the far end of the bar. “Rea, call her a cab. Make sure the driver knows she’s not getting dropped anywhere except the address she gives you.”

Sutton’s head jerked toward him, her brows drawing together as if being handled like an intoxicated adult was a personal insult. “I don’t need a cab.”

“Sure you do,” Fury replied. “What you don’t need is another drink, bad decision, or chance to put your hands where they weren’t invited.”

Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes narrowed with outrage, but she still tried to smooth it over by leaning toward him. “You’re cute too, you know.”

“I know,” he quipped without missing a beat, taking her elbow in a firm grip that left no room for argument but didn’t hurt her. “Cuddly too.”

A laugh tried to slip out, but I swallowed it so Sutton didn’t misinterpret it as an invitation. From either of us.

She made a weak sound of protest when Fury started leading her toward the door, her steps uneven as she tried to keep up without looking like she was being escorted out.

She threw one last look over her shoulder at me, glossy eyes filled with wounded pride and something else that I couldn’t decipher.

But I had no interest in figuring it out.

Fury kept moving her toward the exit with the kind of patience that looked easy only because of how long he’d been running the bar.

Sutton tried to touch his chest once, but he caught her wrist before she made contact.

He said something low enough that I couldn’t hear it over the music, but her mouth snapped shut for three whole seconds, which felt like a minor miracle.

The door opened, and Fury guided her outside.

Once they were gone, conversation picked up again, pool balls cracked against each other, and the jukebox rolled into a guitar riff. I took another pull from my beer, but it tasted flatter now, the whole encounter leaving a sour edge in my mouth.

Fury came back inside a few minutes later and grabbed the towel he’d abandoned earlier and sent me a look that was pure dry amusement. “Cute girl, but a fucking handful.”

“Not my problem.”

Fury barked a laugh as he tossed the towel over one shoulder. “Thank fuck for that.”

I grunted and set my beer down. She was exactly the kind of chaos I avoided because men who invited that into their lives usually ended up bleeding time, money, or both.

I slid off the stool and reached into my pocket for my keys, already thinking about the clean stretch of road between The Burnout and the compound. One drunk woman with grabby hands wasn’t enough to wreck my night, but the encounter made me want wind, speed, and distance.

Behind me, Fury muttered something to Rea about cutting off anyone who tried to match Sutton’s energy, and I almost smiled.

By the time I stepped outside, Sutton’s cab was pulling away from the curb. I watched it go with the certainty that I’d never have to deal with her again. That suited me just fine.