Chapter Nine
Jackson stood in the back office of the Iron Sight Bar, his knuckles still raw from the night before.
The burner phone sat on the desk between him and Larkin, the last message from one of his brothers glowing on the screen.
Whitaker's men had taken the beaten Vipers straight to the front lawn of the police station.
Three bodies. All breathing. All marked with Bastard Kings ink in ways no one would mistake.
"That should send the message," Jackson said.
His voice came out low, rough from hours of giving orders.
He watched Larkin's face as she read the update again.
She had that same sharp look she wore when chasing a lead, but there was something steadier in her eyes now.
Something that had settled after her mother was safe.
Larkin set the phone down and leaned her hips against the desk.
"My contact at the paper is ready to run the teaser.
Whitaker's name, a few hints about the theft ring, enough to make him sweat without giving away our full hand.
" She crossed her arms, the leather of her jacket creaking softly.
"Once that hits the morning edition, his campaign office is going to feel the heat. "
Jackson nodded once. He reached for the bottle of bourbon on the shelf and poured two fingers into a pair of glasses. He handed one to her and kept the other for himself. The burn felt good when it hit his throat. "Do it. I want that bastard looking over his shoulder every time he opens his door."
She took a sip and set the glass aside. Her fingers brushed his when she moved past him to grab her notebook from the chair.
That single touch sent heat straight through his chest. They had been circling each other for days now, the tension building every time their eyes met across a room.
Tonight it felt different. The stakes were higher. The pull was stronger.
Across town, Whitaker's campaign office sat quiet under the streetlights.
The lights inside had gone out hours ago, but the damage was already done.
Larkin's story would land like a grenade.
Jackson had made sure the Vipers delivery happened first, a one-two punch that would leave the councilman scrambling.
He checked his watch and glanced at Larkin.
She was already on her phone, texting her contact at the paper with the final details.
"It's live," she said after a moment. "Front page tomorrow. Whitaker will know by morning that his little operation isn't as quiet as he thought."
Jackson set his glass down. He stepped closer, his body crowding hers against the desk without quite touching. "Good. Now we wait for him to make his move."
The call came two hours later. A bakery on the south side, one of the businesses the club protected, had been firebombed.
Jackson's phone rang while he and Larkin were still at the bar.
The prospect on the other end sounded out of breath.
"Jackson, it's bad. They hit Glenda’s Goodies.
The whole front is gone. Glenda was inside closing up.
She's alive, but she's in bad shape—the ambulance is taking her to the hospital now. "
Jackson's jaw locked tight. Glenda had been a fixture in the club and Silverlake for years.
She had been married to Rivet, the late VP of the Bastard Kings.
She also fed the club information, kept an eye on things when no one else would.
Now she was fighting for her life in an ICU because Whitaker decided to send a message back.
"I'm on my way," he said, then ended the call.
Larkin was already grabbing her keys. "I'm coming with you."
"No," Jackson said. The word came out harder than he meant. He softened it with a hand on her arm. "Stay here. Keep your head down until I know what we're walking into."
She shook her head. "I'm not staying behind while you charge into another fire. We do this together now."
He looked at her for a long second. The fear was gone from her eyes. What remained was the same fire that had drawn him to her from the start. Jackson gave a short nod. "Then stay behind me. And if I tell you to run, you run."
They rode to the bakery on his bike. The streets of Silverlake were quiet at this hour, but the glow of flames was visible from two blocks away.
When they arrived, the fire department was already there.
Water sprayed across the ruined storefront while smoke curled into the night sky.
Jackson killed the engine and helped Larkin off the bike.
His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for threats, looking for anything out of place.
The bakery's night baker stood near the curb, wrapped in a blanket and talking to a firefighter.
His face was streaked with soot. When he saw Jackson, he walked over.
"They came in masks. Threw something through the window and ran.
Glenda was still inside counting the till.
She managed to crawl out the back door, but she was burning, Jackson.
She was burning when the medics got to her. "
Jackson's hands curled into fists at his sides.
The rage burned hotter than the flames. "We'll handle this," he said.
The words were a promise. He turned to Larkin.
She was already pulling out her notebook, jotting down details with that focused intensity she brought to every story.
The sight of her there, standing in the middle of the chaos with him, did something to his chest he couldn't name.
They stayed until the fire was out. Jackson helped the owner load what little could be saved into a truck.
The town was beginning to turn. People who had once looked the other way at MC business were now whispering Whitaker's name in the same breath as the violence.
The councilman had gone too far. Jackson could feel the shift in the air.
Back at the Iron Sight Bar, the tension between them had only grown.
Jackson led Larkin through the main room and into the storage area at the back.
The door clicked shut behind them. He turned the lock.
The space was small, lined with shelves of liquor and spare glasses.
It smelled like cedar and old beer. Larkin stood in the center of the room, her breathing quick, her eyes locked on his.
"You need this," she said. It wasn't a question.
Jackson crossed the space in two strides. His hands found her waist and lifted her onto the edge of an old wooden table. "I need you to stop thinking about the story for five minutes," he said against her mouth. "I need you focused on me."
She reached for his belt, her fingers working fast. "Then take what you need."
The encounter was quick, rough, exactly what they both required.
Jackson kept one hand at the back of her neck, holding her steady while he drove into her.
Larkin's legs wrapped around his hips, her nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
Every thrust pushed the noise of the outside world further away.
There was only the sound of their breathing, the creak of the table, the slap of skin.
When she came, she bit down on his shoulder to stay quiet.
Jackson followed seconds later, his face buried in her hair as the release rolled through him.
They stayed locked together for a minute after. His forehead rested against hers. Sweat cooled on their skin. Jackson pulled back enough to look at her. The words came out before he could stop them. "I'm falling for you, Larkin. Hard. And it scares the shit out of me."
She touched his face, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Good. Because I'm already there."
They straightened their clothes in silence.
Jackson unlocked the door and led her back into the main bar.
The weight of the night still pressed on them, but something had shifted.
The firebombing had raised the stakes to attempted murder.
Whitaker had crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
Larkin's teaser would hit the streets in hours.
The councilman's secretary had already reached out through a mutual contact, offering a tip in exchange for protection. The pieces were moving faster now.
Jackson poured them both fresh drinks and handed one to Larkin.
They stood at the bar, shoulders touching, the quiet intensity between them unbroken.
Outside, Silverlake waited for the next blow.
Inside, the two of them prepared for whatever came next.
The fight was no longer just about territory or reputation.
It was about survival. And it was about the woman standing beside him who had become more important than any club rule Jackson had ever followed.
The bartender glanced their way once, then went back to wiping glasses.
Jackson finished his drink and set the glass down.
Larkin did the same. They didn't need to speak the plan out loud.
Whitaker's move had forced their hand. The only path forward led straight through the councilman's door.
Jackson reached for Larkin's hand and squeezed once.
She squeezed back. The ache between them had eased for now, but the storm was still coming.
And when it hit, they would face it together.