Grit's Gamble (Steel Sentinels MC #38)

Chapter One

The lunch rush hit like a freight train, and Bethany Cross rode it the way she always did—feet planted, hands moving, mouth running orders to herself because there was no one else to talk to.

"Two brisket, one pulled pork, extra slaw on the side—"

She slapped the sandwiches together with the efficiency of a thousand lunch services, muscle memory taking over while her brain tracked the line snaking from her window.

Construction workers in hard hats and safety vests, concrete dust on their boots, hungry as wolves and twice as impatient.

Her people. The ones who appreciated real smoke and actual seasoning, who came back day after day because Beth's BBQ wasn't just food—it was fuel that tasted like somebody gave a damn.

"Number forty-seven!"

A big guy with a sunburned neck grabbed his order with a grunt that passed for thanks in this world. Good enough. She was already assembling forty-eight and forty-nine, her knife cutting through brisket with the precision of ten thousand repetitions.

The Hartwell Construction site had been good to her this month.

Steady crowd, decent tips, foreman who didn't hassle her about her parking spot.

She'd mapped these routes with her father's atlas and her own stubborn refusal to fail—factory lots on Mondays, construction sites Tuesday through Thursday, weekend festivals when she could book them.

Every dollar back into the business. Every customer a brick in the future she was building one sandwich at a time.

"Damn, girl, that smells like heaven."

She flashed a smile at the next guy in line without really seeing him. "Brisket's been smoking since three a.m. Better smell like heaven."

Her father had taught her that—you smoke it right or you don't smoke it at all.

No shortcuts. No cheating the process. Earl Cross had been a lot of things, not all of them good, but he'd known his way around a smoker.

And when he'd handed her that check with shaking hands, knowing what was coming for him, he'd said the words she'd tattooed on her heart: Do something for yourself, Bethie.

Stop working for other people who don't deserve you.

So she had.

The truck was everything. Her savings, her inheritance, her sixteen-hour days and perpetually smoke-scented hair. It was proof that Earl Cross's daughter could make something from nothing, could build a life on her own terms.

She was so deep in the rhythm—slice, stack, wrap, call the number—that she almost missed the shift in the air.

Two men approached her window, and they weren't here for brisket.

She knew it the way you know a storm's coming before the first cloud appears. Something in how they moved, how the lunch crowd parted around them without being asked. They wore work boots and jeans, hard hats tucked under their arms, but their hands were too soft and their eyes were too hard.

"Beth's BBQ?" The one in front had a voice like gravel in a blender, a thick neck, and a smile that didn't reach anywhere near his eyes.

"That's what the sign says." She kept her hands moving, kept assembling the next order. Never show fear. Never stop working. "You boys want lunch? Line starts back there."

"We're not here for food." He leaned against her window frame like he owned it, and something cold slithered down her spine. "We're here about your licensing situation."

"My permits are current. County inspector was here last month."

"Not county permits." The second guy flanked to the side, cutting off her view of the line. Shorter, meaner looking, with knuckles that had clearly met faces before. "Operating permits. Site access fees. You want to park at Hartwell sites, you gotta pay your dues."

Bethany set down her knife. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Funny thing," she said, and her voice came out steady even though her heart had started hammering. "I've been working construction sites for two years. Never heard of any site access fees."

"New policy." Gravel Voice shrugged. "Mr. Hoyt's looking out for the workers, making sure only quality vendors get access. It's a service, really. Keeps out the riffraff."

"And how much does this service cost?"

"Twenty percent of daily take. Cash. Weekly."

Twenty percent. She did the math instantly—years of running her own books had made her fast. Twenty percent would gut her. Would turn barely-making-it into slowly-drowning. Would mean her father's faith in her was misplaced after all.

"Go to hell."

The words were out before she could stop them, hot and sharp as the anger flooding her chest.

Gravel Voice's fake smile vanished. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She squared her shoulders, gripped the edge of her counter. "I've got a county permit. I pay my taxes. I follow every health code in the book. You want money from me, you come back with a badge and a warrant. Otherwise, you and your site access fees can go straight to hell."

The shorter one laughed—an ugly sound. "Lady, you don't understand how this works—"

"I understand exactly how this works." Bethany's voice rose, drawing looks from the construction workers still waiting for their food.

Good. Let them watch. Let there be witnesses.

"You're running a shakedown on a food truck.

A food truck. What's next, you gonna lean on the coffee cart?

Hit up the taco guy? Real big men, threatening a woman selling sandwiches. "

Something dangerous flickered in Gravel Voice's eyes. He straightened from her window, and his hand shot toward the ledge like he was going to climb through, going to grab her—

A blur of motion from her left. Someone's hand clamped around Gravel Voice's wrist hard enough to make him grunt in pain, wrenching his arm back from her window.

"Problem here?"

The voice was quiet. Almost lazy. But it carried the kind of authority that made both men freeze.

Bethany's gaze snapped to her unexpected defender, and her brain stuttered on the details.

Tall—six-two, maybe more—with the rangy build of someone who'd done real work his whole life.

Brown hair sun-bleached at the ends, a weathered face that made him look older than he probably was.

Leather cut over a plain gray t-shirt, patches she didn't have time to read.

A biker. One of those Steel Sentinel types she'd seen around town, with their chrome and their rumble and their reputation for being exactly the kind of men you didn't cross.

A prospect, she realized, catching sight of the bottom rocker on his cut. Not a full member yet. But his grip on Gravel Voice's wrist didn't waver, and his eyes—pale blue and cold as a January morning—promised violence if the answer to his question was wrong.

"This ain't your business," the shorter thug said, but his voice had lost its edge.

"Made it my business." The prospect released Gravel Voice's wrist with a small shove, positioning himself between the two men and her window. "Lady asked you to leave. I heard her. Pretty sure half the job site heard her. So either you're deaf, or you're stupid, or you're both. Which is it?"

Gravel Voice rubbed his wrist, his face flushing red. "You know who we work for?"

"Don't care."

"You will." The threat hung in the air, ugly and sharp. "This isn't over, bitch," he spat toward Bethany. "Mr. Hoyt's gonna hear about this. All of it. And when he does, you're gonna wish you'd just paid the fee."

They retreated, but it didn't feel like victory. It felt like the opening move in a game she hadn't agreed to play.

The prospect watched them go, his body still angled protectively in front of her window, and didn't relax until their truck pulled out of the lot. Then he turned, and she got her first good look at his face.

Hard. Tired. The kind of face that had seen things and didn't talk about them. But his eyes, when they met hers, held something that might have been concern.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." The adrenaline was crashing through her now, making her hands shake. She gripped her counter harder to hide it. "I didn't need your help."

"Looked like you were handling it." No argument, no condescension. Just a statement of fact. "But that guy was about to come through your window."

She couldn't argue with that. Didn't want to think about what would have happened if he had.

"Who are they?" she asked instead.

"Hoyt's boys. Darren Hoyt—runs a protection racket across construction sites in three counties. Crews pay him tribute, suppliers kick back a percentage, vendors like you either get in line or get run out." He paused. "Usually run out hard."

Great. A full-blown shakedown operation, and she'd just told them to go to hell in front of witnesses.

"And you?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "What, you just happened to be in the neighborhood?"

Something flickered across his face—too quick to read. "I like brisket."

He was lying. Or at least not telling the whole truth. But before she could push, he was already stepping back from her window, giving her space.

"They'll be back," he said. It wasn't a warning. It was a fact. "You might want to think about whether that truck's worth dying for."

Then he was walking away, leather cut stretching across shoulders that had clearly carried heavy things, boots crunching on gravel.

"Hey!" she called after him. He paused but didn't turn. "You didn't tell me your name."

A beat of silence. Then, over his shoulder: "Grit."

She watched him disappear into the crowd of hard hats and safety vests, her mind racing. Grit. The kind of name you earned, not the kind you were born with. A prospect for a club that everyone in Blackridge knew not to cross.

And now, apparently, she was on the radar of a man named Hoyt who controlled construction sites in three counties and didn't like the word no.

The lunch line had scattered during the confrontation. Of course it had—nobody wanted to be too close when things went sideways. But they were drifting back now, hungry and curious, pretending they hadn't just watched her life get a lot more complicated.

Bethany took a breath. Then another.

Then she picked up her knife and got back to work, because brisket didn't slice itself and giving up wasn't in her DNA.

She was still shaking when she ran out of customers an hour later. Still replaying Gravel Voice's words— this isn't over —while she scraped down her grill and packed away leftover slaw. Still seeing that hand reaching for her window, the casual violence of a man who expected her to cower.

Do something for yourself, Bethie.

She would. She was. This truck was her something, her proof, her future—and some thug in work boots wasn't going to take it from her.

But as she pulled out of the Hartwell lot and headed toward her next stop, her eyes kept drifting to the mirrors.

Checking for followers.

Checking for threats.

Checking, against all logic, for a rangy man on a motorcycle who ate brisket and called himself Grit.