Chapter 4
MASON
This was bullshit.
Not regular bullshit either. Not club-meeting bullshit, not prospect-screwed-up-the-run bullshit, not Bullet-promised-he-had-the-map-and-now-we-were-lost bullshit.
This was pure, domesticated, scented-candle, spa-weekend bullshit.
Five hours outside Santa Fe in some overpriced desert rental with a soaking tub, meditation cushions, and little bottles of eucalyptus oil in every bathroom because apparently wedding planning shoved women to the edge of sanity.
Goat yoga. Mud wraps. Facials. Guided breathing.
All words that made my teeth hurt.
And somehow I’d gotten stuck babysitting.
Not River. Not Tank. Not even one of the younger idiots who still believed standing guard near a house full of women meant he might get thanked with cleavage and a margarita.
Me. Tank was back in Santa Fe getting his bachelor party thrown by the brothers, probably drunk already and pretending he didn’t love every second of being fussed over, while I stood outside an Airbnb listening to women scream-laugh around a firepit like trauma bonding was an Olympic sport.
Hell of a trade.
Gunner leaned against the porch rail beside me, smoking in that quiet, irritating way of his.
Man could stand still for an hour and make it look intentional.
He didn’t talk unless he had something worth saying, which was the only reason I tolerated him better than most. Tonight, that silence worked for me.
I didn’t feel like explaining why my patience was already thin enough to see through.
Beyond the fence, coyotes yipped somewhere in the dark, their cries thin and sharp over the desert.
The sky had gone black-blue above us, stars scattered hard and bright.
Out here, away from town, the quiet got too big when the engines stopped.
It pressed in around a man. Made room for thoughts.
I’d spent most of my life outrunning that exact kind of quiet on two wheels.
Didn’t like standing still inside it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and found a snap from Tank, because yeah, the Royal Bastards had Snapchat.
Every patched man in the club would rather take a punch to the throat than admit it out loud, but they all had it.
Claimed it was for “security,” “the kids,” “quick updates,” or whatever lie made them feel less ridiculous using filters designed for teenage girls and influencers with lip filler.
The first snap showed Tank wearing a cheap plastic crown while Bullet held up a bottle of whiskey like he’d discovered fire. Someone had drawn devil horns on Tank’s head. The caption read: GROOM STILL ALIVE.
The next one was worse. Tank, shirt half-unbuttoned, sitting in a chair while one of the brothers waved a wad of cash at a mechanical bull parked in the middle of the clubhouse yard. Regan would kill them if she saw it. Actually, no. Regan would laugh first, then kill them.
Another snap came through. Bullet wearing a veil. River flipping off the camera. Edge in the background looking like a man who had already decided where to hide the bodies if this got out of hand.
I stared at the screen.
Gunner glanced over. “Bachelor party?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Tank dead yet?”
“Not according to the evidence.”
He huffed smoke through his nose, almost a laugh. “Give it time.”
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and looked toward the fire again.
Women’s laughter spilled across the patio, warm and loud.
Regan’s voice carried above the rest, bossy as hell.
Amber said something that made the table erupt.
Skye had that softer laugh, the kind that hit late but meant it.
Savannah’s was sharper, like a blade catching light.
Then there was the new one.
Sienna.
Regan had dragged her in like she’d found a stray dog limping beside the highway.
Except Sienna came with a damn cat.
At first glance, she looked harmless enough.
Dusty truck. Beat-up boots. Road grit on her skin.
Exhaustion sitting under her eyes like bruises she hadn’t earned with sleep.
She had that look people got when they’d been holding themselves together too long out of pure spite.
Not broken. Not weak. Just stretched thin over something stubborn.
Then her cat nearly took my hand off.
I looked down at the scratches across my knuckles. Little bastard had claws like fishhooks and a personality built for prison. Tried helping. Got rewarded.
Story of my life.
Gunner looked at my hand. “Cat got you.”
“Shut up.”
He smirked around his cigarette.
The women were loud around the fire now, passing drinks, wrapped in blankets, leaning into each other like the world wasn’t full of teeth. They were safe here. Relaxed. Laughing with their guards outside and their men close enough to come if called. That should’ve settled something in me.
It didn’t.
Something sat wrong.
Random woman. Middle of nowhere. No backup. Dead phone. Bad truck. Feral cat. Pretty face. Smart mouth. Regan saw a wounded thing and brought it home every damn time, but the world had taught me what happened when good people mistook bait for a rescue.
I cornered Regan by the side patio while the others were busy with drinks. Kept my voice low because the last thing I needed was half the women at that fire turning on me as a group. I’d faced down armed men with less fear than I had of Regan and Amber pissed at the same time.
“Tell me you ran her.”
Regan’s face tightened. “Leave it.”
“You don’t know her.”
“She’s tired.”
“She’s a stranger.”
“She’s harmless.”
I looked toward the truck sitting crooked under the mesquite, steam still faint around the hood. “That cat isn’t.”
“Mason.”
“She walks into a bar alone, follows a table full of women to an Airbnb, has a truck full of her life, and nobody thinks to ask more questions?”
Regan crossed her arms. “I asked questions.”
“You asked feelings. I’m talking facts.”
Her jaw flexed. “Don’t start with me tonight.”
“I mean it. People use pretty faces to get close.”
That was not paranoia. That was history.
Clubs, cartels, law enforcement, rivals with more patience than brains—everybody used what worked.
A woman alone could get through doors a man couldn’t.
A woman looking scared could make good people stupid.
A woman with the right story could put a whole room at ease before anyone noticed the blade.
Regan stared at me like I’d disappointed her. “You think she’s cartel?”
“I think I don’t know what she is.”
“She’s broke, scared, scratched up by a cat she still fed, and driving a truck that sounds like it’s coughing up bolts.”
“Or playing broke.”
“You hear yourself?”
“I do.”
“And?”
“And I trust my gut.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Your gut or your damage?”
That landed. I didn’t let it show. “Both kept me alive.”
Regan’s face softened for half a second, which pissed me off more than if she’d thrown something. “Not everything is a trap, Mase.”
“No. Just enough.”
Before she could answer, my phone buzzed again. I pulled it out expecting another cursed snap from Tank and his idiot parade.
It was River.
Not a snap. Text.
Thought you’d want to see this.
Below it was a screenshot from Instagram.
Santa Fe Country Club.
My thumb stopped over the screen.
Rylee.
For a second, my brain didn’t take her in right.
The woman in the photograph sat on a shaded patio at a white-linen table, head turned slightly toward whoever held the camera.
She smiled with more polish than she’d ever had with me.
Everything about her looked curated now.
Tan skin too smooth to be accidental. Diamond studs catching sunlight at her ears. Teeth so white and even I squinted.
Veneers?
I actually zoomed in like an idiot.
Yeah. Maybe.
Her hair was lighter than before, blown out in soft waves that probably cost more than a week of groceries.
Her dress was cream, sleeveless, expensive in that quiet way rich people liked because logos were for the almost-rich.
One hand wrapped around a champagne flute.
The six-carat solitaire sat on her finger like a small planet.
Behind her, green grass rolled away in perfect lines, and there were women in tennis whites laughing at the next table.
Rylee belonged there now.
Or she wanted people to think she did, which might’ve been the same thing.
For a split second, memory opened sharp and mean.
Rylee barefoot in my old kitchen, wearing one of my black shirts, hair messy, stealing bacon from a pan while telling me yellow curtains would make the place warmer.
Rylee on the back of my bike, arms locked around me, laughing into the wind.
Rylee lying under me in a room with no curtains at all, her skin flushed and real, no diamond armor, no country club smile, just my girl looking at me like I’d hung the moon with grease under my nails.
My gaze caught on the photograph again.
There.
The freckle on her collarbone.
Tiny. Dark. Just left of center.
I swallowed hard before I could stop myself.
I remembered that freckle. Remembered finding it with my mouth, tracing the spot with my tongue because she used to shiver when I took my time there. Remembered the path lower. The sound she made when she forgot to be difficult. The way she’d say Mason like it was both a warning and a prayer.
Those days were gone.
So was that girl.
Nothing in the photograph belonged to the woman I had loved except that freckle. Everything else had been sanded, whitened, polished, upgraded, and posed for approval from people who probably called motorcycles “dangerous” and thought leather meant a designer handbag.
River sent another text.
Sorry, brother. Saw it and figured better me than somebody else.
I stared at the screen until the photo started making me feel stupid.
Then I locked the phone.
Regan was still watching me.
“What?” I asked.
Her voice went careful. “You okay?”
“Fine.”