Holden (Venom Riders MC #3)

Chapter 1

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— Holden —

On the corner of the table, under my coffee cup, was the Louisville folder.

Updated scope documents for the second and third facilities, follow-up questions from the site managers, notes on what had changed since Colt’s last visit.

Ongoing work — the kind that kept coming back because we’d done it right the first time.

The Louisville contracts were the future, the legitimate side of things, what all of this was funding.

Colt would handle the assessments; I’d get everyone there and back again.

That was my part of it, what I was good at.

I’d get back to Louisville after the run. Right now, the run was all there was. But something felt off. A twitch in my gut that had nothing to do with the stale coffee I’d been living on for the past three days.

“You’re overthinking it again.”

I looked up to find Dutch leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Our president had the kind of presence that filled a room without trying.

He’d inherited the gavel from his father.

But what he’d built since — the way he’d reshaped the Venom Riders MC in his own image — that was different. That was his.

“I’m being thorough,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“You’ve been staring at that map for six hours.” He pushed off the doorframe and walked over, looking down at my carefully marked routes. “The run’s not for another week. Chill.”

“Enough time for things to change.” I tapped the section of road where 20 crossed into Idaho. “Sheriff rotation happens on the fifteenth. New guy could change patrol patterns. And there’s construction on the backup route through Grangeville. They just announced it yesterday.”

Dutch shook his head, but there was respect in his expression. “This is why you’re Road Captain, brother. You see problems before they exist.”

“My job is to make sure everyone comes home.” I straightened up, rolling the tension out of my shoulders. “Can’t do that if I’m not prepared for every scenario.”

The words came out automatic, practiced. The same thing I’d told myself a thousand times since I’d patched into the MC twelve years ago. The same mantra that had gotten me through every run, every close call, every moment when the variables started stacking up faster than I could plan for them.

My father hadn’t seen the semi drifting into his lane until it was too late.

Another long-haul driver, thirty-six hours behind the wheel because his dispatcher had promised a load could make Boise by morning when anyone who’d looked at a map and a clock would’ve known it couldn’t.

Bad planning. Somebody else’s bad planning, and my father had paid for it with his life.

I’d been sixteen when the highway patrol showed up at our door. My mother had collapsed right there in the entryway, and I’d stood frozen, watching her fall, watching our whole life shatter into pieces on the tile floor.

I’d sworn that day that I’d never let that happen to anyone else. Never let someone die because nobody bothered to run the numbers.

“The shipment’s worth three months of operating funds,” Dutch said, pulling me back to the present. “We can’t afford to lose it.”

“We won’t.” I turned back to the map, pointing to the series of markers I’d placed. “Primary route gets us there in four hours, minimal exposure. Secondary route adds ninety minutes but keeps us off the main highways entirely. Tertiary is emergency only—bad roads, but untraceable.”

“And backup?”

“Handful and three prospects in the follow van, fifteen minutes behind. If anything goes sideways, they’re close enough to help but far enough to stay clear if we’re compromised.” I met his eyes. “I’ve run the numbers, Dutch. This route is solid.”

“Then stop second-guessing yourself and go home.” Dutch clapped me on the shoulder. “Your woman’s probably wondering if you’ve forgotten what she looks like.”

Bea.

She was probably at her apartment right now, curled up on the couch with a book and a glass of wine, waiting for me to remember that there was more to life than maps and contingency plans.

“I’ll head out in an hour. Just want to—”

“Now, brother. That’s an order from your president. Go see your woman. The route will still be here tomorrow.”

I wanted to argue. The itch in my brain that demanded perfection, that whispered about all the things that could go wrong, didn’t quiet down just because someone told it to.

But Dutch was right. Bea was waiting. And after three days of living inside my own head, I needed her more than I needed another hour with the map. “Fine.” I started rolling up the papers. “But I’m coming in early tomorrow to run through the prospect assignments.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.” Dutch was already heading for the door. “Church at two. We’ll finalize everything then.”

I finished packing up my maps and headed out to the main room, where Handful was holding court at the pool table.

He was in the middle of some story that had Glitch groaning and the prospects laughing nervously — Reyes loudest among them, leaning in like he was already patched.

Probably something inappropriate. A couple of the club girls had claimed the nearest couch, drinks in hand, half-watching the show.

One of them laughed at something Reyes said. Normal Tuesday.

“Holden!” Handful spotted me and grinned. “Tell Glitch that what happened in Portland counts as a real bet.”

“I’m not getting involved in whatever degenerate gambling situation you’ve created.” I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door. “Some of us have somewhere to be.”

“Going to see Dr. Feelgood?” Handful’s grin widened. “Tell her I said hi. And that I’m available if she ever wants to upgrade.”

“Touch my woman and I’ll break every bone in your hand.” The words came out casual, almost friendly, but we both knew I meant them.

“See, that’s why you’re Road Captain.” Handful raised his beer in a mock toast. “Always thinking ahead.”

Glitch caught my eye as I headed for the door. “Hey, you finalize the route yet? I want to make sure comms are set up for the dead zones.”

“It’s done. I want to sit with it one more night — I’ll send you the full breakdown in the morning.”

He nodded, already turning back to his laptop — the thing went everywhere with him. Glitch was the one brother I never had to worry about. His preparation matched mine, just in a different arena. Between my routes and his tech, we’d never lost a shipment.

The evening was cool as I walked to my bike.

My Softail was parked in its usual spot in the officers’ row, between Colt’s bike and an empty space.

Colt had been distracted all week, which wasn’t like him.

Our VP didn’t lose focus. When he went quiet like this, it usually meant he was working something through on his own.

Whatever it was, he’d share it when he was ready.

I swung a leg over and let the engine rumble to life, feeling some of the tension drain out of my shoulders. This was the other thing that kept me sane—the road itself, the wind against my face, the way the noise in my head went quiet when it was just me, the engine, and the next mile of road.

Bea’s apartment was twenty minutes from the clubhouse, a second-floor unit in a quiet complex that she’d chosen for its proximity to her practice.

I’d offered to help her find something closer to the club—closer to me—but she’d just smiled and said something about maintaining professional boundaries.

That was Bea. She still kept those clean lines between her work and her life, between her clients and her boyfriend. We’d only been dating for six months — six months since she’d finally said yes, after years of no, after a night in a parking lot when I’d held her without making it into anything.

The lights were on when I pulled into the parking lot. I could see her silhouette through the window, moving around the kitchen. Cooking, probably. She always cooked when she was waiting for me.

I took the stairs two at a time and knocked twice before using my key. The smell of garlic and rosemary hit me the moment I stepped inside.

“You’re earlier than I expected.” Bea appeared in the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand, her chestnut hair pulled up in a messy bun.

She was still in her work clothes—a soft cream blouse and fitted slacks—but she’d kicked off her heels at the door.

Her hazel eyes did that thing they always did when she saw me — the guard came down, and it was just her.

“Dutch kicked me out.” I crossed to her and pulled her into my arms, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with whatever she was cooking. “Said I was being obsessive.”

“Were you?”

“Probably.”

She laughed, the sound vibrating against my chest. “At least you’re honest about it.” She pulled back enough to look up at me. “Have you eaten anything today that wasn’t coffee?”

“I had a protein bar around noon.”

“That’s not food, Holden.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the kitchen. “Sit. Dinner’s almost ready.”

I let her push me into a chair at her small breakfast table, watching as she moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. Chicken was sizzling in a pan, vegetables roasting in the oven. Two wine glasses already sat on the counter.

“How was your day?” I asked.

“Long.” She stirred something on the stove without looking back. “Three new clients, all referred from the trauma center. Two of them are going to need extensive work.”

“Can you talk about it?”

“Not specifics. But…” She paused, and I saw her shoulders tense slightly. “One of them reminded me of a client I had straight after grad school. Similar presentation. It’s bringing up some old feelings.”

“The bad kind of old feelings?”

“The complicated kind.” She turned then, leaning against the counter to face me. “I spent an hour after she left processing. I’ll be fine. I just need to be careful about boundaries.”