Chapter 4 - Luna
The moment I wrap my arms around King's waist, I know I've crossed a line I can never uncross.
I've never ridden a motorcycle before. Never felt the rumble of an engine between my thighs or the heart-stopping acceleration that pushes you back against the seat.
Never experienced the particular intimacy of pressing myself against a virtual stranger, my body molded to his back like we're two pieces of the same puzzle.
And what a back it is. King is massive. Solid muscle wrapped in leather, and my arms barely meet around his torso.
I can feel the strength in him, the coiled power that I just witnessed unleashed against those men.
The same hands that crushed bones and broke faces are now guiding the motorcycle, protecting me even as we weave through Blackwater Falls at speeds that make my heart race.
The adrenaline makes everything move in disconnected flashes.
The wind tearing at my hair. The blur of buildings as we pass.
The rumble of other motorcycles flanking us.
Torch, Beast, Rage, forming a protective perimeter around their leader.
The smell of leather and cologne and something darker that might be King's blood.
His blood. Because he was fighting. Because those men came to hurt him and I was standing right there when it happened.
What have I gotten myself into?
Three days ago I was in Seattle, living my normal, quiet life as an ER nurse. My biggest problems were student loans and a mother who wouldn't return my calls. Now I'm on the back of a motorcycle with a man who just put seven people in the hospital, fleeing the police, heading God knows where.
"Hold on tighter!" King shouts over the wind and engine noise.
I obey without thinking, pressing myself more firmly against his back as we take a sharp turn onto what appears to be an industrial road. Warehouses and auto shops line both sides, most of them with boarded-up windows and faded signs.
We're heading toward the edge of town, to an area that looks like it was once a bustling industrial park but is now mostly abandoned. The buildings become more spread out, separated by empty lots and chain-link fences topped with razor wire.
Our little convoy finally slows as we approach what looks like an old auto repair shop.
The faded sign above the garage doors reads "Pete's Auto Body," but the massive iron gates surrounding the property tell a different story.
This is a fortress disguised as a business, complete with security cameras mounted at strategic points and what I strongly suspect is razor wire hidden among the decorative ironwork.
The gates swing open as we approach, and King leads us into a large courtyard where several other motorcycles are already parked in neat rows. He pulls to a stop in what appears to be a reserved spot near the entrance to the main building.
When the engine cuts off, the sudden silence is jarring.
I can hear my own heartbeat, my breathing, the muffled sounds of activity from inside the building.
But mostly I'm aware of King's presence.
His back still pressed against my front, my arms still wrapped around his waist, our bodies connected in a way that feels dangerously close to intimate.
"You okay?" he asks without turning around.
"Define 'okay,'" I reply, loosening my grip but not quite ready to break contact.
I feel rather than hear his chuckle, a low rumble that vibrates through his back and into my chest. "Still breathing, no broken bones, not actively panicking."
"Then I guess I'm okay. For now."
I finally release him and slide off the bike, legs wobbling slightly from the unfamiliar experience. King dismounts with the grace of someone who's done this thousands of times, then turns to face me.
In the harsh sunlight of the courtyard, the damage from the fight is more visible. The cut above his eye has stopped bleeding but looks angry and swollen. His split lip is crusted with dried blood, and there's a bruise forming along his jawline that will be spectacular by tomorrow.
"I need to clean those cuts," I say, nurse mode kicking in despite everything. "And that eye needs stitches."
King gives me a look that's equal parts amused and impressed.
"Most people would be freaking out right about now.
You just witnessed a street fight, fled from the cops, and arrived at the headquarters of a motorcycle club that most folks in this town cross the street to avoid. And you're worried about my cuts?"
Put like that, it does sound a little ridiculous. But focusing on his injuries gives me something concrete to do, a problem I know how to solve in the middle of a situation that's spinning wildly out of control.
"I'm a nurse," I remind him. "Worrying about cuts is literally my job."
"Fair enough." He gestures toward the main building. "Welcome to the Savage Riders MC clubhouse. First aid kit's inside."
I follow him across the courtyard. Torch, Beast, and Rage are watching us with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion. They flank us like bodyguards as we approach the entrance, a heavy metal door with no visible handle or lock.
King places his palm on what looks like a scanner embedded in the wall, and the door slides open with a pneumatic hiss that belongs in a sci-fi movie, not an auto body shop in the middle of nowhere.
"That's... not standard equipment for a repair shop," I observe.
"We like our privacy," King says mildly, ushering me inside.
The interior is nothing like I expected.
Instead of a grimy garage filled with tools and motor oil, we step into what looks like an upscale lounge.
Dark hardwood floors gleam beneath strategically placed lighting.
A massive bar runs along one wall, stocked with more top-shelf liquor than most nightclubs.
Comfortable leather furniture is arranged in conversation groups around the spacious room, and a pool table dominates one corner.
But it's the wall of monitors that catches my attention.
At least a dozen screens display camera feeds from various locations.
The gates we just came through, different angles of the courtyard, what appears to be the perimeter of the property, and several views of Blackwater Falls itself, including Main Street and the police station.
"You're monitoring the town," I say, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
"We're monitoring potential threats," King corrects me. "There's a difference."
Before I can respond, the door at the far end of the room opens and a man steps through.
He's younger than King but carries himself with similar authority.
Dark hair, full beard, and eyes that miss nothing.
He wears the same leather vest as the others, but with a patch that says "VP" where King's says "President. "
"What the fuck, King?" The newcomer stops short when he sees me, his expression darkening. "You brought a civilian to the clubhouse? After an Eagle attack?"
"Tank, this is Luna Hartwell." King's voice carries a warning note that even I can detect. "Emma's granddaughter. Luna, this is Tank, my VP."
Tank's hostility doesn't diminish, but it recalibrates slightly at the mention of my grandmother. "Emma's granddaughter or not, she doesn't belong here. Especially not now."
"She was with me when the Eagles attacked," King says evenly. "She needs to understand what she's walked into."
"So explain it to her somewhere else." Tank gestures at the door. "This is club business, not a social call."
I should be intimidated. Tank clearly outranks everyone except King, and his opposition to my presence is obvious.
But after the past 24 hours? Nearly being robbed, discovering my inheritance is a ruin, witnessing a violent street fight, and fleeing the police on a motorcycle, my patience for male posturing is nonexistent.
"I just watched seven men try to kill your president outside my house," I say, stepping forward. "I'm already involved, whether you like it or not. And he needs stitches before that eye swells completely shut, so how about we skip the territorial display and get to the first aid kit?"
The room goes silent. Tank and Rage exchange glances that I can't interpret. Beast's eyebrows arch. And Tank... Tank looks like I just slapped him.
"First aid kit's behind the bar," King says into the silence, a hint of something that might be pride in his voice. "Tank, call everyone in. We need a full meeting."
Tank looks like he wants to argue, but after a moment of eye contact with King, some silent communication I'm not privy to, he nods curtly and pulls out his phone.
King leads me to the bar, where he retrieves a surprisingly professional-looking medical kit from a cabinet. "You always speak your mind like that?" he asks as he sets it on the counter.
"Only when I'm having a really weird day." I open the kit and start sorting through supplies. "Sit down so I can see that cut."
Remarkably, he obeys, sliding onto a barstool and tilting his face toward the light. I clean the wound with antiseptic first, relieved to find it's not quite as bad as it initially looked. The cut is deep but clean, and the bleeding has mostly stopped.
"This is going to need stitches," I tell him, preparing a suture kit.
"Do what you need to do." He doesn't flinch as I administer a local anesthetic, just watches me with those unnervingly blue eyes.
"You promised to tell me everything," I remind him as I begin stitching. "What happened back there, who those men were, what I've walked into."
King's gaze never wavers, even as the needle pierces his skin. "Those men were Iron Eagles. Rival MC. They've been moving west for months, absorbing smaller clubs and eliminating anyone who won't fall in line."
"And they're after you specifically."