Chapter Two
Jackson Reed knelt beside his bike in the clubhouse garage, a wrench in his scarred hand as he tightened a bolt on the rear wheel.
The familiar scent of oil and metal filled his lungs, grounding him after the mess at Miller's.
His mind kept drifting to Larkin Jones and the way she had walked away from that alley without a backward glance.
The woman had nerve, that much was clear, but nerve could get a person killed in Silverlake.
A sharp beep cut through the quiet. The perimeter alarm had tripped.
Jackson set the wrench down and stood, his massive frame rising with controlled power.
He wiped his hands on a rag and moved toward the back of the property, boots echoing on the concrete floor.
The fence line ran along a narrow strip of trees that separated the clubhouse from an empty lot.
Most people knew better than to test the Kings' boundaries.
He spotted her before she saw him. Larkin stood at the base of the chain-link fence, one foot wedged into the wire as she tried to haul herself up.
Her auburn curls were pulled back in a loose knot, and a notebook stuck out from the waistband of her jeans.
Jackson's jaw tightened. She was persistent, he would give her that.
"Get down from there before you break your neck," he said, his voice low and edged with gravel.
Larkin froze, then glanced over her shoulder.
A flash of defiance crossed her face, but she lowered herself to the ground.
Jackson closed the distance in three long strides.
He reached for her without asking, his hands settling on her waist as he pulled her the rest of the way down.
The contact lasted longer than it needed to.
He could feel the warmth of her body through her shirt, the slight curve of her hip beneath his palm. She did not pull away immediately.
"You have a real problem with boundaries," Larkin said, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
Jackson kept one hand on her waist a moment longer, asserting the dominance he felt in every inch of his frame. "And you have a real problem with staying out of places you don't belong. Come on."
He guided her toward the clubhouse door, his hand firm but not rough at the small of her back.
Inside, the main room smelled of beer and leather.
Several brothers looked up from their drinks and cards.
Wolf whistles followed them across the floor.
Jackson ignored them, though a muscle ticked in his jaw.
He led Larkin down a short hallway and into his private office, closing the door behind them with a solid click.
The room felt smaller with her in it. A desk took up most of the space, covered in maps and ledgers.
A single lamp cast a warm glow over everything.
Jackson leaned against the door and crossed his arms, studying her.
She stood with her back straight, green eyes meeting his without flinching.
The notebook still sat tucked against her spine.
"Talk," he said. "Now."
Larkin pulled the notebook free and held it against her chest like a shield.
"I've been following Councilman Whitaker for weeks.
I think he's the one pulling strings with the Vipers.
The thefts line up with zoning meetings and city contracts.
Every time a business gets hit, Whitaker's office pushes through new development proposals that benefit his friends. "
Jackson pushed off the door and took a step closer. The space between them shrank. He could smell the vanilla on her skin again, mixed with the faint scent of ink from her notebook. "And you decided to climb our fence instead of knocking on the front door like a normal person."
"Would you have let me in?"
"Probably not."
She gave a small shrug, but her eyes never left his. "I needed to see if the Kings were involved. Turns out you're just as clueless as everyone else."
Jackson moved fast. He pinned her gently but firmly against the door, one arm braced beside her head.
His other hand rested on the wood near her shoulder, caging her in without touching.
The power imbalance was clear, and he made no effort to hide it.
"You don't get to decide what the Kings know.
This is our town. Our people. If Whitaker is dirty, we'll handle it. "
Larkin did not shrink back. Instead, she lifted her chin. "Your way involves broken bones and midnight runs. My way involves evidence and public records. We both want the same thing."
Jackson studied her face, the freckles across her nose, the stubborn set of her mouth.
She was trouble wrapped in leather and determination.
He could feel the heat radiating from her body, the quick rise and fall of her breath.
Part of him wanted to kiss that defiance right off her lips.
The rest of him wanted to shake some sense into her.
"Hand over the notes," he said quietly.
"Give me a seat at the table."
The demand hung between them. Jackson leaned in closer, his broad chest nearly brushing hers. He breathed in her scent again, letting it settle in his lungs. Vanilla and ink. Trouble and temptation. "If you play with the Kings, you're going to get burned, darlin'. We don't do things halfway."
Larkin swallowed, but she held his gaze. "Then maybe you should stop underestimating me."
Jackson stepped back first. He opened the door and gestured for her to leave. She brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his arm. The contact sent a spark through him that he refused to acknowledge. Outside, he found a prospect lingering near the bar.
"Tail her," Jackson said, keeping his voice low. "Don't let her see you. She's a liability, and I want to know where she goes."
The prospect nodded and slipped out the side door.
Jackson watched Larkin cross the parking lot and climb into her car.
A dark sedan pulled out behind her a moment later, keeping a careful distance.
He rubbed a hand over his beard, the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders.
She was smart. She was brave. She was also walking straight into a storm that could swallow her whole.
He returned to his bike and finished the repair work, though his mind stayed on the journalist. The tracker he had considered placing on her car would have to wait.
For now, the prospect's eyes would have to be enough.
Jackson tightened the last bolt and stood, wiping his hands clean.
Silverlake was shifting beneath his feet, and Larkin Jones was right in the middle of it.
Hours later, the clubhouse had quieted. Jackson sat at his desk again, staring at the map of the city spread across the wood.
Red pins marked every theft location. Blue pins showed Whitaker's known properties.
The pattern was starting to form, but the picture remained incomplete.
Larkin's words about zoning laws echoed in his head.
If the councilman was using the Vipers to clear the way for new developments, the Kings stood to lose more than just reputation.
They could lose their hold on the town entirely.
A knock sounded at the door. Sinner stepped inside, his commanding presence instantly filling the small office. The club President carried the heavy, dangerous calm of someone who had survived too many turf wars and held the gavel with iron-fisted authority.
"Heard you caught a climber on the fence," Sinner said, settling his large frame into the chair across from Jackson, his sharp eyes assessing.
"Journalist. She's got a lead on Whitaker."
Sinner nodded slowly, his expression hard. "She's got guts. Also got a death wish if she keeps digging alone."
Jackson traced a finger along the edge of the map. "I put a tail on her. For now."
"Smart. Keep her close enough to watch, far enough to stay out of the crossfire. You sure that's all this is?"
Jackson met Sinner's steady, piercing gaze. The question held weight. He could lie, but the President had known him too long. "She's a problem. A beautiful, stubborn problem. And I don't need another one right now."
Sinner chuckled, a low, dry rumble in his chest. "Problems like that don't go away easy, Jackson. You might want to figure out what you're going to do with her before she decides for you."
After Sinner left, Jackson stood and walked to the window.
The night outside was dark and quiet, the kind of quiet that usually preceded trouble.
He thought about Larkin's green eyes, the way she had refused to back down even with his body caging hers against the door.
She had fire. She also had no idea how deep the corruption ran.
The Vipers would not hesitate to silence her if they caught wind of her investigation.
Jackson turned away from the window and grabbed his keys. He needed air and distance. The roar of his bike would clear his head better than any conversation. As he walked through the main room, several brothers raised their beers in silent salute. He nodded once and stepped into the cool night air.
The engine came to life beneath him, vibrating through his bones.
He pulled out of the lot and onto the empty road, the wind whipping against his face.
Silverlake stretched ahead, a mix of old brick buildings and new construction that hinted at the battles yet to come.
Somewhere out there, Larkin Jones was chasing the same shadows.
Jackson tightened his grip on the handlebars and pushed the bike faster, letting the speed wash away the tension coiled in his chest.
He would protect the Kings. He would find the truth.
And whether she liked it or not, he would keep Larkin Jones from getting herself killed.
Even if it meant dragging her back to the clubhouse and locking her in his office until she listened.
The thought tightened his chest, a heavy heat pooling in his gut that made his knuckles white on the grips, a sudden physical ache to throw his weight over her and shield her from the world while forcing her to submit to his rules.
He swallowed it down and focused on the road.
Tomorrow would bring new problems. Tonight, the wind and the engine were enough.