Chapter Fourteen
Asher
The second Juliet settled against my back; everything clicked into place.
Her hands slid around my waist, tentative at first, then sure as her fingers curled into my jacket like she belonged there.
“You good?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” she said, voice close to my ear. “I’m good.”
I rolled the bike forward slowly as Moore lifted his hand at the front of the line. Engines rumbled all around us, a deep, collective sound that vibrated through my bones. The flowers Juliet had designed sat proudly on the handlebars, red and white bright against black metal.
I felt fucking fantastic.
Not hyped. Not reckless.
Fantastic.
Moore took the lead, steady as ever, and I fell in just off his right shoulder. Blaze, Cookie, and the rest of the guys filled in behind us, the rest of the riders stretching out in a long, gleaming line.
We rolled out clean.
No hesitation. No snags.
The first stretch of road opened up ahead of us, and the ride settled into a rhythm. Wind cut past my helmet, cool and sharp, carrying the smell of asphalt and exhaust and early spring air. Juliet leaned with me instinctively, her body moving with the bike like she trusted it and me.
That trust sat heavy and good in my chest.
I checked my mirrors constantly; habit drilled in deep. The formation held. No one drifting. No bikes lagging. The flowers held up secure, steady, and added color without throwing balance.
Halfway through the route, I felt my shoulders finally relax.
We passed through stretches of open road and small pockets of spectators. Families waving, people pulling phones out to record, kids pointing at the flowers with wide eyes. The police escort stayed tight, visible but unobtrusive, doing their job without making it feel like a barricade.
Juliet’s helmet bumped lightly against my back as she laughed at something someone yelled from the sidewalk. I didn’t hear the words, but the sound of her laugh carried through me anyway.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed that.
We turned back toward town just before two. Moore signaled the shift, and the group tightened up, preparing to roll through the final stretch together.
Everything still looked good.
Then it went to hell.
We were approaching the intersection that the cops had blocked off to keep the ride together. I saw the cruiser first. Lights flashing, and angled just enough to block cross traffic. I eased off the throttle, keeping pace with Moore.
That’s when I heard the crash.
Metal on metal. Loud. Violent.
I snapped my head to the right just in time to see a large SUV slam into the police car, the impact sending the cruiser skidding sideways toward our path. Sirens wailed, sharp and immediate, and behind the SUV I spotted three motorcycles coming in hot.
Chrome Warriors.
“Hold,” Moore barked over the radio.
I felt Juliet tense against me. My grip tightened automatically, one hand bracing her leg, the other ready on the handlebars.
The SUV swerved, tires screeching, trying to angle toward us. Toward Moore. Toward the front of the formation.
Police moved fast.
Another cruiser surged in, blocking the SUV’s path, and an officer jumped out, weapon drawn, shouting commands that cut through the chaos. The motorcycles split with one veering left, and two trying to push through the gap.
Bad move.
The SUV skidded to a stop, boxed in, smoke curling from the hood. Doors flew open. The driver bolted.
So did the bikers.
I killed my engine and swung off the bike in one smooth motion, keeping Juliet behind me.
“Stay here,” I said, voice low and sharp.
She nodded, eyes wide but steady.
One of the Chrome riders broke away from the others, sprinting toward the sidewalk. I recognized him instantly. The guy from the shop. Same sneer. Same dead-eyed rage.
I ran.
He glanced back once, panic flashing, and that hesitation was all I needed. I tackled him hard, driving him into the pavement and pinning him before he could roll. He fought like a cornered animal, spitting and cursing, trying to throw elbows.
“You fuckers think you own this town,” he snarled.
I tightened my grip. “You came after civilians.”
He laughed, wild and ugly. “You started it!”
Moore’s boots hit the pavement beside us. “No,” he said calmly. “You did.”
The guy thrashed again, then went still as the weight of inevitability settled in. Sirens surrounded us now. Officers moved in, cuffing him fast, hauling him to his feet.
“Have fun in prison,” Cookie called out cheerfully from nearby.
The guy twisted, spitting toward us as they dragged him away. “Fuck the Vultures!”
“Original,” Blaze muttered.
The cops finished rounding up the rest of them. The SUV driver, the remaining bikers, all in cuffs. The intersection buzzed with controlled chaos, radios crackling, officers moving with practiced efficiency.
I turned back to Juliet.
She stood where I’d left her, hands clasped tight, eyes locked on me. The second our gazes met, something eased in her expression.
I crossed back to her, cupping her helmet gently, checking her over. “You okay?”
She let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in her chest for a while. “You said you weren’t drama.”
I huffed. “Chrome Warriors are drama. Not me.”
She snorted, the sound shaky but real. “That was absolutely the definition of drama.”
“Fair,” I admitted.
I pulled her into my arms right there in the middle of the street. The sirens faded, riders watching, cops working, and kissed her.
Not hard. Not rushed.
Certain.
She kissed me back, hands gripping my jacket like she wasn’t letting go.
When we broke apart, her forehead rested against mine. “Still glad I rode with you.”
“So am I,” I said.
And I meant it, with every fiber of who I was.