Chapter 3 — Diesel
I'm at her door at seven thirty in the morning because if this is real, if she's actually choosing this life, she needs to understand it doesn't run on her schedule.
I knock twice, sharp and loud enough to wake her if she's sleeping.
Thirty seconds later the door opens and she's standing there in the same jeans as yesterday but a different shirt, dark grey and fitted across curves I'm trying not to notice.
Her hair is down instead of pulled back, falling past her shoulders in a dark curtain that makes her look softer.
But her eyes are alert, no sleep-fog, like she was already awake when I knocked.
"Get dressed for a ride," I say. "We're leaving in ten."
"Where are we going?"
"Does it matter?"
She studies me for a second and I can see her calculating, trying to figure out what this is and whether she should push back or just comply.
"No," she says finally. "I'll be ready."
The door closes and I head back downstairs. She comes down exactly nine minutes later, hair pulled back again, boots that look designed for fashion rather than function but they'll work.
"Let's go," I say.
Outside, the morning is already warm, cicadas starting their noise in the trees past the fence line.
My bike is where I left it last night and she gets on behind me without hesitation this time, arms around my waist like she's done it a hundred times instead of once.
Her body presses against my back, warm even through my shirt and the cut. Her hands settle flat on my stomach and I can feel every point of contact, every place where her soft curves meet my harder lines.
I start the engine and the vibration runs through both of us.
Then we're moving.
I take us out of the yard and onto the county road headed east, away from Bloomfield proper and toward Route 9.
The sun is climbing higher, heat building, and the road is empty except for us and the blacktop stretching out ahead.
I can feel her behind me. The way she shifts with every turn, the way her thighs grip when I accelerate, the warmth of her chest against my back.
She's not tense. Not nervous. Just present, holding on, letting me take us wherever I'm going without question.
That's the first thing that surprises me.
Most people would ask. Most people would want to know where they're going, especially after one day with a club that doesn't trust them.
But she just got on the bike and wrapped her arms around me and trusted me not to kill us both.
Trust or calculation. I don't know which yet.
I open it up, speed climbing until we're hitting eighty on a road posted for fifty-five. Wind tears at us and her grip doesn't change, doesn't tighten in fear. Just stays steady and solid like she's done this before, like speed doesn't scare her.
The Route 9 corridor comes up fast and I take the turn harder than I need to, leaning into it, feeling her lean with me without hesitation.
Her body moves with mine like we've been riding together for years instead of hours, and that awareness settles into my chest and stays there, distracting and unwanted.
This is a test. That's all this is.
I'm taking her through Marrow territory to see if she signals someone, if she tries to make contact, if she does anything that proves she's working for her father.
That's the only reason we're out here.
The fact that I'm aware of every inch of her pressed against me, the fact that I can smell whatever she's wearing over the exhaust and road smell, the fact that her hands on my stomach feel different than they should, none of that matters.
I force myself to focus.
Route 9 stretches out ahead, two lanes cutting through scrub brush and scattered trees, and I know exactly where we are.
Half a mile ahead on the north side is where Marrow keeps a distribution point, just far enough off the road that you can't see it but close enough that they can move product fast when they need to.
Cain's intel says they keep two guys there during the day, maybe more at night.
I slow slightly as we approach, not enough to be obvious but enough that if she's going to do something, now's the time.
I watch the mirrors, looking for any sign she's moving, reaching for something, trying to signal. I feel for any shift in her weight that would mean she's doing something I can't see.
Nothing.
She just holds on to me and watches the road like this is a normal ride through the country.
I push further, another mile into territory that's definitely theirs, and I can see the turnoff ahead where they access the distribution point.
There's a rusted mailbox marking it, meaningless to anyone who doesn't know, but I know and if she's working for her father she knows too.
We pass it and she doesn't react.
Doesn't turn her head to look. Doesn't shift her weight. Doesn't do anything except hold on to me and breathe steady against my back.
I take us another two miles, deep enough into Marrow territory that if they've got lookouts they've definitely seen us by now, and then I turn us around and head back the way we came.
She still doesn't ask. Doesn't question why we went this direction or what we were doing or why I just took her straight through the heart of her father's operation and then turned around like it meant nothing.
The ride back is faster. I open it up on the straightaways, pushing past ninety, and her arms tighten around me just slightly but not in fear. Just holding on harder because the speed requires it.
I can feel her heartbeat against my back. Steady. Controlled.
Either she's genuine or she's the calmest liar I've ever met.
When I pull into the clubhouse yard and kill the engine, the sudden silence is jarring after the roar of the ride.
She lets go and slides off the bike like we've been doing this for months, and when she pulls the tie from her hair and shakes it loose I watch the dark strands fall past her shoulders and try not to think about what it would feel like wrapped around my hands.
I get off the bike and look at her. "You didn't ask where we were going."
"You didn't offer to tell me." She runs her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back. "Did I pass whatever test that was?"
Smart. Too smart. She knows exactly what I was doing.
"Maybe," I say.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting right now."
She nods, accepting that, and I'm aware that most people would push. Would want confirmation, would need to know if they did it right.
But she just stands there waiting for me to tell her what comes next, and that patience reads like confidence.
Or like someone who's used to not getting answers.
"Inside," I say. "Now."
I lead her through the common room where Holt's near the window with coffee and Cain's at his usual spot with the laptop. They both look up when we walk in, assessing, cataloguing the fact that I took her out alone and brought her back.
I don't stop. Just head for the back hall and she follows without question.
The church room is small, table and six chairs, window overlooking the yard. I close the door behind us and the space immediately feels smaller, the air thicker.
"Sit," I say.
She sits. I stay standing because I need the height advantage, need to be looking down at her while I figure out what the fuck I'm actually thinking.
The ride changed something. I don't know what yet, but something shifted between getting on that bike and getting off, and I need to understand what before I make any decisions about what she is.
"Where were we just now?" I ask.
"Route 9. East of Bloomfield, maybe fifteen miles out. You took us close to something, I'm guessing Marrow territory, then turned around and came back."
"What did you think we were close to?"
"A distribution point or lookout or something Vigil's been watching.
" She leans back in her chair and the motion pulls her shirt tighter across her chest. I force myself to look at her face instead.
"You were testing me. Seeing if I'd try to signal someone or make contact or do anything that would prove I'm working for my father. "
"And you didn't."
"No. I didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not working for him." Her voice is level, matter-of-fact. "I know you think I am. I understand why you think that. But I'm not."
I push off the wall and move closer, leaning on the table so I'm looking down at her and she has to look up to meet my eyes.
"You sat on that bike for forty minutes and didn't once ask where we were going or what we were doing.
Most people would ask. Most people would want to know if they were being taken somewhere dangerous. "
"Most people didn't grow up in Victor Crane's house learning not to ask questions they won't get answers to."
The response comes fast and sharp and true, and I can hear years of training underneath it, the skill of someone who learned early that curiosity costs.
"You're calculating right now," I say. "I can see it. You're thinking about what to say, how to say it, what'll convince me and what won't. Everything you do is strategic."
"Everything everyone does is strategic. You're calculating right now too. You're watching me for tells, listening for inconsistencies, waiting for me to slip up. The only difference between us is I'm honest about it and you're pretending you're not."
She's right. And the fact that she's right, that she sees through me as clearly as I'm trying to see through her, makes this harder than it should be.
I straighten, stepping back to give myself space. "Cain says your intel is checking out. Financial trails match what we know. Contacts are real. Nothing's setting off alarms yet."
"Good."
"But that doesn't prove you're not lying. Just proves the information you gave us is accurate. And accurate information can be bait."
"I know."
"So here's where we are." I cross my arms, need something to do with my hands. "I still don't trust you. But I'm starting to think you might not be lying, which is different than trusting you."
"I understand the distinction."