My Reckless Biker (Bloomfield: Motorcycle Club #5)

Chapter 1 — Diesel

The wrench slips in my grip and I readjust, torque the bolt another quarter turn.

The garage behind the clubhouse is all metal, concrete and the smell of oil that's been here so long it's part of the air. The heat sits heavy even in the shade, the kind that doesn't lift, just presses down and stays.

Tate's at the workbench cleaning the carburetor from his Harley, and the radio's playing something low enough that it's just background noise under the cicadas outside.

I'm bent over my bike's engine when Cain appears in the doorway.

"Clint wants everyone inside," he says. "Now."

Tate looks up. I set the wrench down and straighten, wiping my hands on a rag that won't do much good. Cain's already gone, moving fast enough that I know this isn't routine.

"Fuck," Tate says, which sums it up.

We head for the clubhouse, boots crunching on gravel that's been baked white under the sun. The yard is all dust and chrome, bikes lined up near the building reflecting light hot enough to burn skin if you're stupid enough to touch bare metal in this heat.

Inside, the common room is cooler but not by much.

Brothers are already gathering, spreading out along the walls and near the windows.

Holt's got his arms crossed, face unreadable.

Roan's at the table. Knox leaning against the far wall with that stillness that means he's already calculating what's coming.

Clint's at the head of the table, and his face is giving me nothing, which means this is serious.

I take position near Tate and wait.

Clint doesn't waste time. "We have a visitor. Walked up to the gate ten minutes ago. Says she's Victor Crane's daughter and she wants to make a deal."

Nobody moves.

The ceiling fan creaks overhead, turning slow, and I can hear Holt's breathing shift and Knox's weight settle back harder against the wall.

Victor Crane. Marrow MC. The man who's been pushing at Bloomfield's edges for six months, testing our lines, seeing what he can take.

The man whose people put two of our guys in the hospital last month and burned Ray's truck in the parking lot outside his shop just to make a point.

That Victor Crane.

And his daughter just walked through our gate...

"It's a trap," I say.

Clint's eyes shift to me, flat and assessing. "Probably. But we're going to hear her out." He nods to the prospects near the door. "Bring her in."

They leave and the room stays silent, but I can feel every brother here doing the same math I am. What kind of game is Crane playing, how many moves ahead is he, and how many of us die when it goes wrong.

The door opens and she walks in flanked by the prospects.

Dark hair pulled back tight, not a strand loose. Dark jeans that fit close enough to show she's not hiding weapons, black shirt with sleeves to her elbows.

Composed face that doesn't show the fear she has to be feeling walking into a room full of men who have every reason to kill her.

She's not small. Soft curves visible even in clothes that aren't designed to advertise, full breasts that press against the fabric of her shirt in a way I notice before I can stop myself, thick thighs in those jeans, wide hips that give her the kind of shape most men would look at twice and I'm looking despite every intention not to.

She's substantial, takes up real space, the kind of body that doesn't apologize for existing.

And that's the first thing that makes me suspicious.

Victor Crane's daughter wouldn't walk in here without calculating every advantage, and a body like that is an advantage if she knows how to use it.

The question is whether she does, whether the vulnerability in how she's standing is real or just another layer of performance.

She stops at the table, looks at Clint, not at the rest of us.

Her hands are loose at her sides, but her fingers are pressed together just slightly too tight, the only tell that she's afraid and working to control it.

"My name is Sienna Crane," she says, and her voice is steady, clear, like she's introducing herself at a business meeting instead of in enemy territory.

"Victor Crane is my father. I have two years of comprehensive documentation on Marrow's operations and I'm offering it to you in exchange for protection and resources to disappear. "

Clint leans back in his chair, studying her with the kind of patience that makes people nervous when they don't know him. "Why."

"Because I'm done being his daughter."

"That's not an answer."

She doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. "I've spent two years documenting his operation because I knew I'd need leverage to leave.

Financial trails, distribution networks, contacts, internal communications.

Everything you'd need to prove what Marrow is and who's responsible.

I'm offering that to you because you're the only people with the resources and motivation to protect me from him, and the only people who can use what I have. "

Cain's laptop is already open, fingers moving across the keyboard. "Where's the documentation?"

"Encrypted. Stored digitally across multiple secure locations. I'll provide access once I have assurance you won't kill me the second I do."

Tate shifts beside me and I can feel the same thing he's thinking, the same suspicion working through every brother in this room.

This is too clean, too convenient. Victor Crane's daughter shows up with exactly what we need right when we're planning our next move against him? The timing is perfect.

Too perfect.

Clint asks the questions I would ask, voice even and deliberate.

How long has she been documenting? What specifically does she have?

How did she get access without her father knowing?

Why now? Why us instead of the police or the feds or any other option that doesn't involve walking into a motorcycle club that's been at war with her father for half a year?

She answers everything with the same precision, complete sentences that don't hedge or apologize. No emotion. Just facts presented like a business transaction, which is exactly what she's making this.

I watch her the whole time, looking for tells, for cracks, for any indication this is a setup.

The way she stands, the way she breathes, the way her eyes track Clint's face without dropping or darting away.

She's good. If she's lying, she's exceptional at it.

Her fear is controlled but present in the set of her shoulders, the way she's standing with her weight slightly forward like she's ready to run if this goes bad.

But her voice never wavers and her eyes never drop. She holds Clint's gaze like she knows exactly what she's walking into and chose to do it anyway.

Either she's genuinely brave or she's very well trained. Both options are dangerous.

Clint asks about her father's response when he finds out she's gone.

"He'll come for me," she says. "That's why I need protection."

"And you think we can provide that."

"I think you're the only ones who will, because what I'm offering is valuable enough to make it worth your while."

She's right. If her intel is real, it's exactly what we need to move against Marrow in ways that actually matter, ways that stick. If.

Clint looks at Cain. "Verify what you can. Cross-reference with what we know."

Cain nods, already typing, and I can see his eyes moving fast across the screen.

"You'll stay here while we confirm your information," Clint tells her. "Room upstairs. Brothers on watch. You try to leave or contact anyone, the deal's off and you deal with the consequences."

"Understood."

Clint stands, and the room shifts with him, everyone reading the signal. "Outside. Brothers only."

The prospects move to escort her out and she goes without argument, spine straight, not looking back at any of us.

The door closes behind her and I can hear Holt exhale slowly, Knox's weight shift against the wall. The tension in the room doesn't break, just redistributes.

"It's a trap," I say again, and this time there's murmurs of agreement.

Cain's still on his laptop, fingers moving. "Maybe. But if the intel's real, it's valuable. We've been looking for a way into Marrow's financials for months. This could give us leverage we don't have."

"If it's real," I say. "That's a big fucking if. She walks in here with perfect timing and perfect information, and we're supposed to believe Victor Crane doesn't know about it?"

Tate crosses his arms, jaw tight. "Crane's not stupid. This is exactly the kind of long game he'd play. Plant his daughter, make it look like she's running, let her feed us information that's just real enough to be convincing until she's in deep enough to do real damage."

Holt speaks from near the window, voice low. "So what do we do? Turn her away?"

"We test her," Clint says, and he's looking at me when he says it. "We take the deal, but we watch her close. Give her enough rope to prove herself or hang herself, and we see which one she chooses."

"How do we test her?" Cain asks without looking up from his screen.

Clint's still looking at me. "Public relationship.

Put her with one of us, make it visible, let it get back to Crane.

If she's working for him, he'll react wrong.

Too controlled, too strategic, like he knew it was coming.

If she's genuine, he'll lose his shit seeing his daughter with a Vigil brother.

Either way, we get information we don't have now. "

The room goes quiet and I know what's coming before Clint says it, can feel it in the way his eyes haven't left my face.

"Diesel," he says. "You handle it."

"No."

"Not a request."

I step forward, keep my voice level even though I want to argue loud enough to make him reconsider. "You want to use her as bait, fine. But don't put that on me. This is a bad idea and you know it."

"You think she's lying," Clint says, and his tone is reasonable, which means he's already made up his mind. "That's good. Keeps you sharp. Means you won't get compromised because you'll be looking for the lie the whole time."

"Means I'm the wrong person for this."