5. Lock
LOCK
Ifind King in his office.
He's behind the desk, going through paperwork. He looks up when I knock on the doorframe, reads something in my face, and sets his pen down.
"Close the door."
I do. Then I stand there, figuring out how to say what I came to say.
"Colt broke into Josie's apartment last night." The words come out flat. Controlled. "He was waiting for her when she got home. Grabbed her arm. Threatened her. Told her there'd be consequences for being with me."
King doesn't react. Just watches me with those cold eyes that miss nothing.
"She's the one from the rally," he says.
"Yeah."
King leans back in his chair. Studies me for a long moment. "And now you're here. Which means you've already decided what you're going to do about it."
"I'm going to the Road Kings bar. Find Colt. Make sure he understands that coming near her again isn't an option."
"On their territory."
"Yes."
"By yourself."
"Yes."
King's jaw tightens. He doesn't like it — I can see that. Walking into a rival club's bar alone is stupid on paper. The kind of move that starts wars.
But he knows me. Knows I wouldn't be standing here if there was another way, and knows I've thought it through.
"This could go sideways fast," he says.
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know Colt." I meet his eyes. "He's loud. He's got an ego the size of Phoenix. But he's not leadership. He's not even well-liked by his own brothers. Rocky's SAA over there — you think he wants a war because some mid-level asshole can't let go of a woman who left him?"
King is quiet. Turning it over.
"She means something to you," he says finally. "This woman."
It's not really a question, but I answer anyway. "Yeah. She does."
He holds my gaze for another beat. Then he nods, just once.
"Handle it. But Lock—" He waits until I'm looking at him. "Be smart. I don't want to have to come clean up a mess."
"You won't."
I turn and walk out.
The ride to Phoenix takes just over an hour.
Plenty of time to think. Too much time, maybe. The highway unspools in front of me, straight and endless, and my mind keeps circling back to Josie. The way she looked when she told me what happened. The fear she was trying to hide underneath all that fire.
Colt was in her apartment. Her space. The one place she's supposed to feel safe.
He took that from her.
My hands tighten on the handlebars. I force them to relax. I can't ride into this angry. Angry makes you sloppy. Angry gets people killed.
I need to be cold. Controlled. The version of me that makes men reconsider their life choices without a single punch thrown.
The desert blurs past. Saguaros standing like sentinels against the darkening sky. The temperature dropping as the sun sinks lower. By the time I hit the Phoenix city limits, the sky is bleeding orange and red, and I've got my head where it needs to be.
Quiet. Focused. Ready.
The Road Kings bar is a dive on the east side — low-slung building, neon sign buzzing in the fading light, a row of bikes parked out front. I count them as I pull into the lot. Six. Plus two trucks that probably belong to hangarounds or girlfriends.
Enough to cause problems if this goes wrong.
I pull into a spot at the edge of the lot, far enough from the entrance that I'm not blocking anyone's exit. Kill the engine. Swing off the bike.
And wait.
I lean against my Harley, arms crossed, facing the door. Not hiding. Not trying to be subtle. If anyone looks out a window, they'll see exactly what I am — a Sons of Ruin patch, standing alone in their territory, making no move to leave.
The message is clear. I'm here for a reason. And I'm not going anywhere until that reason walks out to meet me.
The sun drops lower. Shadows stretch across the parking lot. The neon sign flickers on, buzzing and popping, casting everything in shades of red and blue. Music thumps from inside — Skynyrd, cranked too loud, bass rattling the windows. Laughter.
They're having a good time in there. They don't know yet that the night's about to change.
I wait.
Five minutes. Ten.
A guy pushes out the door — thick beard, Road Kings prospect cut. Probably coming out for a smoke. He's got a lighter in his hand and a cigarette between his lips, and he's three steps into the parking lot before he sees me.
He freezes.
I don't move. Don't speak. Just hold his gaze and let him take in the patches on my chest. Sergeant-at-Arms. Sons of Ruin.
The cigarette stays unlit. He backs up slowly, one hand raised like I'm a wild animal he doesn't want to spook, and disappears back through the door.
Smart kid.
I wait.
The door bangs open.
Colt walks out like he owns the world. Shoulders back, chin up, that swagger I've seen on a hundred men who mistook ego for power.
A couple of prospects hover near the door behind him, not quite committing to following him into the lot. Smart. They want to see how this plays out before they get involved.
Colt spots me immediately. His whole body changes. That coiled aggression I've seen a dozen times in men like him. All ego, no control. He wants to hit something. Wants to prove he's the biggest dog in the yard.
He's about to learn he's not.
"The fuck are you doing here?"
I don't move from my bike. Don't stand up straighter. Don't shift my weight. Just look at him.
"We need to talk."
"We don't need to do shit." He's crossing the parking lot now. "You're on our turf, asshole. You know what that means?"
"It means I wanted to make sure you heard me clearly." I keep my voice low. Calm. Almost conversational. "No misunderstandings."
"Misunderstandings?" He laughs — ugly, mocking. Playing to his audience. "You think I misunderstand something? You're fucking my girl. That's pretty clear."
"She's not your girl. She left you three months ago."
"She doesn't get to just—"
"She does."
The words cut through his bluster like a blade. Something in my tone makes him stop mid-sentence. The prospects shift by the door, exchanging glances.
"She gets to leave," I continue. Same flat calm. "She gets to move on. She gets to be with whoever she wants. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked. The fact that you can't accept it doesn't change reality. It just makes you pathetic."
His face twists. There it is — the anger underneath all that bravado. The wounded pride that's been festering since she walked away.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?"
"I'm the guy who's going to make sure you never touch her again.
" I push off the bike. Stand at my full height.
Let him see exactly how much bigger I am.
"You had a year with her and you blew it.
Got jealous. Controlling. Turned ugly. She left, and instead of accepting it, you've been stalking her ever since.
Showing up where she'll be. Acting like she's still yours. "
I take a step forward. Just one. Slow and deliberate.
"And I know that last night, you broke into her apartment. Waited in the dark for her to come home. Grabbed her. Threatened her."
"That's between me and her," Colt says. But his voice is less certain now.
"No." Another step. We're ten feet apart now. Close enough for this to go bad fast. "It stopped being between you and her the second you put your hands on her. Now it's between you and me."
"Or what?" He's trying to rally, get that swagger back. "You're on my turf. Alone. You think you can take me?"
"I think we both know how that would end.
" I hold his gaze. Let him see what's underneath the calm — the violence I'm perfectly capable of, held in check by nothing but my own choice.
"But it doesn't have to go there. You're going to be smart.
You're going to realize that this isn't worth dying over.
That she was done with you long before I came along.
That the only thing keeping this from becoming a real problem is your next decision. "
Colt's jaw works. His hands are clenched at his sides. I can see the war happening behind his eyes — pride versus survival, ego versus common sense.
"You think because you've got a Sergeant patch, that means something to me?" His voice rises. "You think I'm scared of you?"
"I think you should be."
"I've got brothers. I've got my whole club behind me. You're one guy."
"One guy who walked onto your turf alone and told you to your face that you're done." I don't blink. Don't look away. "What does that tell you about me?"
The question hangs in the air. I see it land. See the calculation happening — if I'm crazy enough to do this alone, what else am I crazy enough to do?
"You don't want to find out. Trust me on that."
He's working himself up. I can see it happening — the ego overriding whatever survival instinct he has. His hands drift toward his waistband. This is about to tip.
Then the bar door opens.
Rocky steps out. Road Kings Sergeant-at-Arms. My counterpart.
I was there when his daughter Demi chose King over her own club. Watched her walk away from everything she knew — including him. That was six months ago. The set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders say he's still carrying it.
He takes in the scene with a glance. Colt wound up and ready to swing. Me standing alone in the middle of the parking lot, perfectly still.
"The hell is going on out here?"
"This Sons asshole came to—"
"I wasn't asking you." Rocky's voice cuts through Colt's like a blade. His eyes stay on me. "Lock, right? Sons SAA."
"That's right."
"You're a long way from Tucson."
"Had something that needed saying."
Rocky moves into the parking lot. Slow, deliberate. Putting himself between me and Colt without making it obvious that's what he's doing. The old SAA move — de-escalation through positioning.
"This about the woman?" he asks.
"It's about your boy here not understanding the word no."
"He's not my boy." Rocky's voice is flat. "He's a patched member who apparently can't keep his personal shit from becoming club business."
"Rocky—" Colt starts.
"Shut up." The words are quiet, but they land like a hammer. Colt's mouth snaps shut. Rocky turns back to me. "What'd he do?"