Chapter 2 — Sienna
The room they give me is small and clean and has a lock that only works from the outside.
Second floor of the clubhouse, window overlooking the yard where bikes are lined up like soldiers. I can hear voices downstairs, boots on wood, the low rumble of conversations I'm not part of.
The bed is made with military precision and there's a bathroom attached that smells like industrial soap. No personal items. No evidence anyone's ever stayed here before.
Just a room designed for temporary occupation, which is exactly what I am.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let myself assess the situation now that there's no one watching me do it.
Church went as well as it could have gone, which means I'm still alive and they took the deal. The fake dating addition was predictable. Clint's strategic enough to see the value in provoking my father, and using me as the provocation makes sense from every angle.
What I didn't predict was Diesel.
I expected suspicion. I expected to be monitored. I expected someone controlled who'd watch me for mistakes.
What I got was a man who looked at me like he was cataloguing weak points, who announced his distrust out loud in that room, and who's going to be touching me in public while actively looking for proof I'm lying.
That's a complication I didn't account for when I walked through their gate this morning.
The problem is he's not wrong to distrust me.
If I were him, I'd think exactly what he's thinking. Victor Crane's daughter showing up with perfect intel at the perfect time? That's not coincidence. That's strategy.
The only difference between what he thinks is happening and what's actually happening is that the strategy is mine, not my father's.
I stand and move to the window.
A brother I don't recognize is working on his bike near the garage, and I can see the Vigil patch on his cut.
I count bikes in the lot, assess the fence line, note the cameras mounted at three corners of the building. Good security but not paranoid. Confident.
That confidence will work in my favor if my father comes for me, which he will.
Victor Crane doesn't let go of what belongs to him.
A knock on the door interrupts my assessment. A young prospect steps in, baby-faced and trying for authority.
"You've got two hours," he says. "Diesel wants you downstairs at seven forty-five. Don't be late."
"I won't be."
He leaves and I move to the small mirror over the dresser. Dark hair still pulled back, face composed, no evidence of the calculation running under my skin.
I look like someone who knows what she's doing. I look like Victor Crane's daughter, which is both armor and liability depending on who's looking.
I wonder if Diesel sees the armor or just assumes manipulation.
I wonder if there's a difference.
At seven forty-five I'm downstairs.
The common room is emptier now, just a few brothers scattered around. Diesel is near the door in the same jeans and black shirt from earlier, cut over it, boots that look like they've walked through a decade of trouble.
He doesn't acknowledge me beyond a quick assessment that starts at my face and travels down and back up in maybe two seconds.
Cataloguing again. Looking for something.
"Let's go," he says.
I follow him outside where the heat is still oppressive.
His bike is parked near the building, matte black and chrome, and he's already moving toward it when I realize I've never been on a motorcycle before.
He swings his leg over and looks back at me, waiting.
"I don't know what to do," I say, and I keep my voice level even though admitting ignorance to someone who already thinks I'm lying feels like handing him ammunition.
"Get on behind me." He nods to the footpegs on either side. "Put your feet there. Hold on to me or the grab rail, doesn't matter which, but hold on to something because I'm not slowing down if you fall off."
His voice is flat, no inflection, like he's explaining something obvious.
I move to the bike and it's higher than I expected, requires effort to swing my leg over without making it awkward.
I settle onto the seat behind him and my thighs press against his, my body closer to his than I've been to anyone in longer than I want to calculate.
I can feel the heat of him even through denim. Motor oil and cigarette smoke and something else that's just him.
"Arms around my waist," he says without looking back. "It's easier that way."
I hesitate for half a second because this is the first real touch, the first time the performance requires actual physical contact.
Then I do it, wrapping my arms around his waist and feeling solid muscle under my hands, lean strength that doesn't give when I hold on.
My chest presses against his back. My hands are flat against his stomach. This is strategy. This is the arrangement.
My body doesn't seem to care about the distinction.
The engine roars to life, vibration running through the seat and into me, and then we're moving.
He takes us out of the yard and onto the road and the speed picks up until we're flying, wind tearing at my hair and my arms tightening instinctively because this feels like falling and not falling all at once.
I can feel every shift of his body as he leans into turns, every adjustment of his weight. My hands are flat against his stomach and I can feel him breathing.
This is the first time I've touched him. The first time he's touched me, even indirectly.
And it's working exactly the way it's supposed to. My body responding to proximity like it means something when it doesn't, when this is just mechanics and performance and two people pretending something that isn't real.
I analyze the route as we ride. County road headed east, then the turn onto Main that takes us into Bloomfield proper.
Late summer evening, cicadas screaming, heat that sits on everything. We pass a gas station, a hardware store, houses with lights on and families inside living normal lives that don't involve motorcycle clubs or fathers who'll come for you when they find out you've run.
The ride takes fifteen minutes. When he pulls into the parking lot behind The Anchor and kills the engine, the sudden silence is disorienting.
I let go and slide off, my legs unsteady for a second before I find my balance. He's already off, already moving toward the back entrance.
I follow because that's what I'm supposed to do now.
"Stay close to me when we're inside," he says without looking back. "We're together from the second we walk in that door. Don't wander off, don't make me come looking for you, just stay where I can see you."
"I'm not planning to wander."
"Good."
He stops at the door and turns to face me. First time we've been alone since church, first time he's really looked at me without an audience.
His eyes are dark and flat and assessing, and I can feel him cataloguing again. Looking for cracks.
"We need a story," I say, because we didn't coordinate this and we need to before we go inside. "In case someone asks how we met or how long we've been seeing each other or any of the normal questions people ask."
"We met three weeks ago," he says, and his voice is matter-of-fact, like he's already worked this out.
"You were at a bar in the next county. I was there alone.
We talked, you gave me your number, I called the next day.
We've been seeing each other since. Keep it vague if anyone asks for details.
Don't offer anything they don't specifically ask for, and if someone pushes too hard, let me handle it. "
"What bar?"
"Doesn't matter. Pick one. If they push, say you don't remember the name, it was just some place your friends wanted to go."
I nod, filing it away. "And how serious are we supposed to be? Are we exclusive, are we just seeing where it goes, what's the dynamic here?"
"Early stages. Still figuring each other out. That gives us room to be awkward if we fuck up, makes it more believable." He steps closer and suddenly the space between us is smaller. I can see the faint scar through his left eyebrow, the way his jaw is set tight. "You ever done this before?"
"Lied to a room full of people about a relationship that doesn't exist? No, this is my first time."
His mouth twitches slightly. Not quite a smile but close. "You're going to be fine. Just don't overthink it."
"I overthink everything. It's a personality flaw."
"Then tonight's going to be rough for you." His hand comes up and settles on my lower back, warm through my shirt. "Ready?"
The touch feels impersonal and deliberate and calculated all at once, like he's guiding a piece on a board instead of touching a person. No gentleness. Just the mechanical motion of a man doing what's required.
"Yes," I say.
We go inside.
The Anchor is exactly what I expected. Dim lighting, wood surfaces scarred by years of use, the smell of beer and fried food and cigarette smoke that's soaked into everything.
It's busy for a Thursday evening, tables full of people who look like they've been here since five and plan to stay until close.
A few heads turn when we walk in. Eyes tracking us.
I can feel the attention like weight, like assessment, and I'm reading the room the way I learned to read rooms in my father's world. Who's watching, who's pretending not to watch, who's reaching for their phone.
Diesel's hand stays on my lower back as he guides me through the crowd toward the bar.
People make space for us without being asked, and I recognize the dynamic immediately. They know him. They recognize the cut. They understand what it means to have a Vigil brother in the bar.
Respect or fear or both. Hard to tell which.
The man behind the counter is older, maybe sixty, grey hair and a face that's seen enough that nothing surprises him anymore. His eyes track us, assessment quick and competent.
"Diesel," he says. His voice is neutral, neither warm nor cold.
"Walt." Diesel's hand moves from my back to the bar. "Two beers. Whatever's on tap."