Chapter Three
Riley
Riley opened the door, but she didn’t leave immediately.
She didn’t know why she still had it.
She pulled it out now, not wanting to look at it and failing, one thumb brushing the faded edge of the image.
Her at nineteen, face bruised black and blue from the last time her father had “taught her manners.” Ronnie Valdez beside her, arm slung around her shoulders, both of them grinning like they’d just won the lottery.
Ronnie’s hair was longer then, his smile cocky, that same smile he’d used to talk her into running with his crew.
The same smile he’d worn when he’d sold her out to save his own skin, left her holding the bag on a felony she hadn’t even known was coming.
The picture trembled in her hand.
Her stomach rolled hard.
She barely made it to the trash can before she vomited. It was mostly bile, mostly shame, and mostly the memory of handcuffs and courtroom lights and the way Ronnie wouldn’t meet her eyes when they sentenced her.
She spat, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and shoved the photo back into the pocket like it might burn her if she looked at it once more.
Never again.
She zipped the bag, killed the light, and stepped outside.
Dan was waiting, exactly where he’d said he’d be.
***
Dan
Dan sat on the bike across the street from the shop, engine off, one boot planted on the asphalt like an anchor.
The night had turned cold enough to see his breath, but he didn’t feel it.
He’d spent the last few minutes on the phone with Denver, voice low, bandana pulled down around his neck so he could speak clearly for once.
The call had picked up right where the last one had ended.
“Three assholes are handled,” Denver said, his voice tinny through the burner. “Dry wash off Marana Road. Left ‘em with new zip ties, a gallon of water, and a polite suggestion to keep walking north until they hit Canada. They’ll be too busy pissing themselves to come back anytime soon.”
Dan watched the shop’s windows, lights on inside. “And the feed?”
“Wiped clean. Remote access, clean job. Not some script-kiddie bullshit—someone knew the model, knew the password hash. We’re talking inside knowledge or someone who’s been watching longer than we thought.”
Dan’s free hand tightened on the grip. “Betrayer’s still breathing, then.”
“Looks that way. Prez wants eyes everywhere. You staying on the girl?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “She’s not just some civilian, Denver. She’s got history with this kind of shit. And she’s not scared enough.”
Denver gave a low chuckle. “Sounds like your type.”
“Fuck off.”
“Watch your six, brother. They were hitting her shop and caught serious flack. Means they’ll know she’s connected now. Might decide to try and use her as bait. Or leverage.”
Dan’s jaw clenched. “Copy the wariness and also copy on them using her for bait or leverage. I told you she’s got history with a club or something. I’m not going to put her at risk. I’ll keep her close. On my life.”
He ended the call, pocketed the burner, and stared at the neon sign until it finally blinked off at 10:07.
A minute later, Riley stepped out, locking the door behind her with quick, practiced movements.
She didn’t look around like she was afraid.
She behaved like someone who’d already decided tonight was going to be a problem and had packed accordingly.
She spotted him immediately and pulled up short, arms folding across her chest. “You told me nine-thirty.”
“Traffic.”
“Liar. You’ve been out here more than half an hour.
Nice trick, makin’ me come to you.” She tipped her head towards a locked shed.
“Give me a minute.” She unlocked the door and rolled it to the side, revealing a matte-black motorcycle parked under the single lightbulb.
She brought it out of the shed and left it resting on the kickstand as she went back and locked up.
The bike had a lowered frame, raked back handlebars, and a custom paint job that shifted like liquid mercury under the sodium glow of the security lights. “I’ve got my own ride.”
Dan’s lips twitched despite himself. “I guess you do. It’s real nice.”
“Thanks. Had an ex tried to take it in the breakup. I kept the bike. He retained the herpes.” She swung a leg over the seat with easy grace. “I decided I’m not staying home tonight. I’d be too easy to find. Think you’ve got a spare room at the clubhouse?”
He blinked. Most women would’ve asked for a hotel or a safe house or, hell, even a lift to the bus station. She was asking to ride straight into the lion’s den.
“You know who we are,” he said.
“More importantly, I know who you’re not.” She pressed the starter. The bike barked once, sharp and mean, then settled into a low, predatory growl. She pulled on a pair of goggles, still staring at him. “Are you coming, Raggedy Dan, or do I ride alone?”
He watched her for a beat. All that red hair wild under the streetlight, eyes steady, chin lifted like she was daring the whole world to try her again tonight.
Then he tugged the bandana back up over the lower half of his face, thumbed his bike to life, and rolled forward.
“Try to keep up.”
***
Riley
They rode out of the lot in single file, two dark shapes cutting through the sodium-lit streets towards the edge of town.
The wind hit Riley like a slap. It was cold, dry, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow.
She opened the throttle, let the bike eat pavement, and quickly matched Dan’s pace without trying to prove anything.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, adrenaline mixing with a confusing feeling she couldn’t name. The clubhouse was thirty minutes out. It would be isolated, guarded, and full of men who killed clubs for sport. She should’ve been terrified.
Instead she felt alive. For the first time in a long-ass while, she was living.
Halfway there, on a long straight stretch of empty highway, Dan glanced over. She caught his eyes in the glow of a passing streetlight—dark, steady, carefully watching her like he was waiting for her to bolt.
She didn’t.
Instead, she leaned forward, twisted the throttle enough to pull ahead a bike length, then eased back until she was riding on his right shoulder. When he looked again, she lifted one hand from the bars—for a second, just long enough—and pressed her palm to his back.
Then one arm.
She wrapped it around his waist, loose at first, testing, holding her front forks steady with her throttle hand. His body went rigid under the leather, then slowly, very slowly, relaxed. She felt the shift, the way his shoulders dropped a fraction, how the bike seemed to stabilize under him.
Riley, leaning far over, rested her cheek against his hip, felt the heat of him through the layers, and swore she could hear the steady thump of his heart under the scars and ink and armor.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need to.
This was all about trust.
I can trust him with everything.
The wind roared past them, carrying away the last of the vomit-taste from her mouth, the ghost of Ronnie’s smile, and that paralyzing fear she’d carried too long.
For the first time in years, she wasn’t riding alone.
And neither was he.
She knew that Dan had told himself it was just protection detail.
He was a shitty liar.
The clubhouse lights appeared on the horizon like a beacon—or a warning.
They didn’t slow down.
***
The bikers’ compound loomed at the end of the long dirt road like a fortress carved out of the dark forest. It was low-slung cinderblock walls with heavy wooden gates reinforced with steel and bright floodlights casting harsh shadows across rows of gleaming bikes.
Riley’s bike growled to an idle beside Dan’s as the gates rolled open without anyone needing to wave them in. Someone had been watching.
They rode inside and parked where he pointed next to him.
She killed the engine and sat there a second, goggles still on, letting the cool air sting her cheeks.
She wished her arm was loosely wrapped around Dan like it’d been the last ten miles of highway.
She hadn’t wanted to let go right away when the turnoff appeared. Hadn’t wanted to.
She told herself it was for balance.
I’m a shitty liar too.
Dan swung his leg off first, boots hitting the gravel with a crunch.
He turned, offered her a hand, a gallant, big, scarred hand, the fresh gauze white against his knuckles.
She took it, letting him steady her as she dismounted.
Her legs felt rubbery from the ride, adrenaline fizzing in her veins like she’d been guzzling cheap champagne.
The gate clanged shut on the perimeter fence while voices drifted out from inside. She heard some quiet laughter, the clink of bottles, and the low thrum of music someone had turned down when the bikes rolled in. No one rushed out to greet them because they were expected or recognized. Or both.
Riley pulled her goggles off and shook out her hair. She glanced at Dan. The bandana was up, covering the lower half of his face, but his eyes were on her. They gazed at her steadily, searching, like he was waiting for her to change her mind and demand to be taken somewhere else. Anywhere else.
She didn’t.
“Welcome to the lion’s den,” he rasped, voice rougher in the cold.
“Looks more like a wolf pack’s house,” she said, tipping her chin towards the bikes. “You sure they don’t bite?”
“Only if you ask nice.”
A surprised laugh slipped out of her, sharp and real, cutting through the tension in her chest. She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed. Like he was surprised every time she did it.
She adjusted the go-bag strap on her shoulder and followed him towards the main door. The air smelled of pine smoke, motor oil, and something faintly like cinnamon—as if someone inside was baking, which felt absurdly domestic for a place that was built to withstand sieges.
Inside, the common room was warm, dimly lit, and heavy with the scents of leather and whiskey.
A couple of brothers looked up from the pool table, nodded at Dan, then let their eyes linger on her a beat longer.
Not hostile. Curious. Assessing. She met every gaze straight on, chin up, the way she’d first learned in county lockup.
The goal was always not to look small, don’t look scared, and never look away first.
One of the men in the room, a tall guy with black hair, a beard, and a president patch, stood from a barstool. Tinder. She recognized him from the shop earlier.
“Riley Monroe,” he said, voice deep and easy. “Welcome. You’re safe under our roof.”
She gave a small nod. “Appreciate it. Didn’t exactly plan on spending the night crashing with an MC, but here we are.”
Tinder’s mouth twitched. “Life’s got a way of rerouting you. Dan’ll show you to a room. Clean sheets, private bath. No one’ll trouble you unless you want.”
She glanced sideways at Dan. He was moving, cutting through the room like he knew every inch of it blindfolded.
“Lead the way, Raggedy Dan.”
He didn’t say anything, simply jerked his head towards the hallway. She followed, aware of eyes tracking them until they disappeared down the corridor.
The room was simple, filled with a queen bed covered by a dark quilt, and a single window with a view of the forest with bars disguised as decorative ironwork. No frills. No bullshit. Functional. Safe.
She liked it.
Dan stepped inside after her and closed the door quietly. The lock clicked, shutting out the world.
He tugged the bandana down, slow, like he was giving her time to brace. The scars were even more brutal under the soft overhead light—twisted burns, mismatched grafts, the permanent snarl on the left side of his mouth. But she’d already seen it all tonight. Already touched it.
He cleared his throat. “You good?”
She dropped the go-bag on the floor and turned to face him fully. “Ask me again in the morning.”
A long beat of silence stretched between them.
Then she stepped closer. She was near enough to feel the heat rolling off him, close enough to smell leather and wind and the faint trace of her own whiskey on his breath from earlier.
“You didn’t have to agree to bring me here,” she said softly.
“Woman, you say that like I had a choice in it. Hell with that. I wanted to.”
She searched his eyes. Found the hunger that matched the feeling curling low in her belly. The same fear too. That damned fear that this was fast, reckless, and way too much like every mistake she’d ever made with men who carried danger like a second skin.
But this didn’t feel like a mistake.
She reached up, brushed her thumb along the ridge of scar on his cheekbone. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
“First time I’ve dared to put my arms around a man on a bike since my ex,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Never rode alongside someone where it wasn’t like a cage around my lungs.”
Dan’s breath hitched. “Whoever he is, I’m not him.”
“I know. Oh, I so know.” She let her hand slide down and rest against his chest, right over the steady, hard beat of his heart. “You’re something else entirely.”
He covered her hand with his, pressing it harder against him. Like he wanted her to feel it. Like he wanted her to know he was solid. Genuine.
“Get some sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be out front if you need anything.”
She tilted her head. “You gonna stand guard all night?”
“Planning on it.”
Riley smiled. It was small, and tired, because it’d been a fuck of a day, but she knew it looked real. “Don’t freeze your ass off, Just Dan.”
He gave the barest hint of a grin under the scars. “I’ve survived worse.”
Then he turned, opened the door, and stepped out.
The lock clicked again behind him.
Riley stood there a moment, heart still racing from the ride, from the touch, from the quiet promise that had hung in the air between them.
She unzipped the go-bag and pulled out the old picture one last time.
Stared at Ronnie’s cocky smile.
Then she walked to the small trash can in the corner and dropped the photo inside.
She didn’t look back.
For the first time in years, the past felt like it might actually stay buried.
She kicked off her boots, crawled under the quilt, and closed her eyes.
Outside, she could hear the low rumble of Dan’s voice talking to someone in the hall. Steady. Calm. Keeping watch.
She smiled into the dark.
Happy Tuesday, Riley Monroe.
It didn’t even feel too sarcastic.