Chapter 1-Bit
Okay, so crashing with my cousin for a few weeks wasn’t exactly how I pictured kicking off my thirties.
But here we are.
Not gonna lie, I figured by now I’d have something—anything—figured out.
A career I didn’t hate.
A hobby that didn’t fizzle out after a month.
Maybe even a guy who texted back.
But instead? I’m back in Jersey, living in Kristie’s spare room, surrounded by my failures, a duffle bag, and a couple of unanswered voicemails from my mother.
Yes, we have unresolved issues. Big surprise, right?
I came back into town after spending a few months working in a one-bar town in Colorado—don’t ask.
Long story short, it ended with me accidentally insulting the mayor’s wife and tripping over a mechanical bull.
So yeah.
Back to my roots.
New Jersey. My home state.
Only, I don’t feel as happy or settled as I thought I would.
What can I say? I’ve just never really found my thing.
I’ve tried a bunch—bartending, hair school, photography, even a brief and disastrous stint selling essential oils (fun fact: peppermint oil does not fix a hangover, no matter what the pamphlet says)—but nothing sticks.
I keep waiting for that lightning bolt moment where it all makes sense.
So far? Crickets.
Still, I was trying.
Trying to find myself.
Trying to start over.
Trying not to be a total train wreck.
Then came tonight.
Just a regular night out with Kristie—my bestie and cousin—going to the local biker bar for some greasy food, cold drinks, and maybe a little live music.
It sounded like exactly what I needed: a little chaos, a lot of noise, and zero pressure.
Except, of course, the universe decided that would be too easy.
Because what I didn’t need was some asshat in a leather cut, deciding that because I danced near him once, he suddenly owned me.
Newsflash, stud muffin—no means no.
I shoved him off, hard, but apparently, his ego was allergic to rejection because next thing I know, he’s grabbing my arm again and growling something about me being “his old lady.”
Yeah. Nope.
Cue the shouting match.
Someone threw a drink.
And then, like some twisted magic trick, the music cut out, and the crowd parted just enough for me to see a familiar face storming through the chaos.
Rooster.
Kristie’s Rooster.
The one she still didn’t talk about, but whose name she never quite stopped saying under her breath.
The look on her face said everything.
Mine probably said, Oh shit.
Before I could even catch my breath, the guy was barking orders like he ran the place—and maybe he did.
Bikers started moving, fast, efficient, like they’d done this a hundred times before.
One second I was hashing it out with Kristie about whether and how we should leave.
The next, I was being hustled out the back door by a wall of leather and muscle.
“Get in,” one of them said, jerking his chin toward a box truck parked in the alley.
“Uh, I don’t even know you,” I tried.
But the vibe was all like it doesn’t matter if Rooster says you ride, you ride.
Not exactly the kind of invitation you can politely decline.
So, yeah, I climbed in. Because Kristie’s ex had that tone—the kind that makes you move first and ask questions later.
Now I’m sitting in the back of a rumbling truck on the freaking highway, clutching my hands together and trying to figure out what the actual hell just happened to my life.
It smells like oil, leather, and danger in here.
The guys—big, tattooed, quiet—don’t say much. One’s got an aura like a scar that makes it impossible not to see it. Another’s big as a house and humming something that sounds like country music meets Metallica.
The whole vibe screams illegal but organized, and honestly?
I’m too freaked and too sober by now to argue.
They said they knew Rooster.
That they were taking us somewhere safe.
Which is comforting? Kinda? Maybe?
Or maybe this is how every true-crime podcast starts.
Kristie’s riding with Rooster, but I can’t make out her profile despite the glow of passing headlights.
I figure she’s scared or pissed off, though she’s probably trying not to show it.
I love my cousin to pieces.
She’s tough as nails and twice as stubborn, but I also know she’s been through hell lately.
And if Rooster’s involved, that means trouble.
But yeah. I went with these guys because they were better than the alternative.
And also because family’s family.
No matter what my mother says.
And if I’ve learned anything over thirty messy, chaotic years—it’s that sometimes, survival looks a lot like trust.
The truck hits a pothole, jerking hard, and I bang my elbow on the metal wall.
“Ow! Dammit.”
The guy across from me grins, flashing a set of straight, white teeth.
“Hang on. Won’t be long now.”
I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be reassuring or terrifying.
Either way, I’ve got a bad feeling that tonight’s just the beginning of something I’m really not ready for.
“Ow. Awesome. Add bruises to the list,” I mutter, rubbing it.
We’ve been driving for what feels like forever—past cornfields, through dark stretches of highway, then up into the hills where streetlights turn into stars. I swear we’ve crossed into the land time forgot.
I’ve got zero signal and a growing suspicion that this might be how people end up on true crime podcasts.
Coop—the driver and a mountain in a leather vest—catches my eye in the rearview mirror.
“Don’t worry, Sweetheart. Rooster says we’re helping, so you’re good, trust me,” Coop says.
He’s young, maybe in his mid-twenties with dark hair and a polite demeanor.
But am I just supposed to trust him? I mean, yeah, right.
Because I’m somehow comforted now by a guy I don’t know from Adam, who looks like he could bite the heads off nails for fun.
I hug myself tighter.
“Okay, define good.”
Coop grins.
“Safe. You’re goin’ to a sorta friend of ours. We got some business with him.”
“But what’s he like?”
“Uh, I never met him, but I heard he’s ex-military. Straight shooter. Keeps to himself.”
Right. Because “keeps to himself,” totally doesn’t sound like “buries bodies in the back pasture.”
I almost laugh—almost—but I’m too tired, too wired, too damn confused to find it funny. I close my eyes and breathe, counting mile markers in my head until the truck finally slows and turns down a dirt road.
The headlights catch a wooden sign half-hanging off its hinges.
It says JERSEY IRON RANCH.
“End of the line,” Coop says.
The truck grinds to a stop in front of a long stretch of fencing and a barn big enough to house a jet.
The night air hits me like a slap—cool, crisp, smelling faintly of hay, leather, and something musky I can’t place.
I climb out, my boots sinking into the gravel.
My phone’s dead now. My nerves are shot.
And somewhere behind me an animal—I think it’s a bull—snorts loud enough to make my spine stiffen.
Then I see him.
A man is stepping off the porch looking like sin dressed in denim.
Broad shoulders. Work-worn jeans. Hair a little too long, like he forgot civilization was a thing.
There’s a lazy confidence in the way he moves—controlled, deliberate, dangerous.
And those eyes—gray, maybe green, it’s hard to tell in the dark—they pin me in place like he’s cataloging every mistake I’ve ever made.
The stranger is chatting with the guys we rode with, and I can vaguely make out their conversation as he introduces himself to Falcon and the others.
“Sawyer DeWitt. This is Diego. He works the ranch with me and his uncle, Alex.”
There’s a pause, and I look up to find his gaze is lasered to mine.
“I was expecting you but didn’t know there’d be extras.”
Falcon responds, “Helping an old friend. They won’t be trouble, but if they can hang around while we get this run made, it would help us out a lot.”
“There’s room. Angie, my housekeeper, will get them settled,” the cowboy, Sawyer, says. “Angie, we got company.”
The woman, Angie, looks about fifty and sweet as pie as she steps onto the porch and smiles at us.
“Hello, come inside. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
Falcon answers with a shake of his head. “I think we’re good for now, but thank you.”
Then Rooster adds, “Sorry to be direct, but these ladies may need something to sleep in, possibly a change of clothes for tomorrow.”
Then Falcon says, “Yeah, funny story, and I’m sure Rooster will be happy to fill you in. Maybe there’s somewhere we can go to catch up while the ladies get settled?”
I’m waiting for the cowboy to kick us all off his land, instead Angie waves to me and Kristie.
“Of course, come with me. We’ll get you situated.”
And that’s how I wind up a few hours later, showered and wearing borrowed sweats and t-shirt, wandering around in the middle of the night on a ranch in Northern New Jersey, trying to figure out what exactly my life is.
Of course, I didn’t see him standing there in the dark, like he’s a part of the shadows themselves.
“So, they call you Bit?” His voice is low, gravelly, and not exactly thrilled.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Elisabeth Corona. But everyone calls me Bit.”
He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“Figures.”
“Figures?” I shoot back, because apparently my mouth hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re in survival mode.
“Second I saw you I said to myself, now that woman looks like a little bit of trouble.”
He crosses his arms, muscles flexing under his shirt, and hell if my brain doesn’t short-circuit for a second.
I should be scared.
Cautious. Something.
But instead, I’m curious.
Warm. Intrigued.
And when he says, “You can stay in the guest room till this mess blows over. Don’t touch the bulls, don’t wander after dark, and for the love of God, don’t mouth off to the help.”
I can’t help the smirk that slips out.
“Define help.”
“I’d tell you to stay out of trouble, but what would be the point?” he asks, but it’s like he’s not even talking to me.
“Gee, you know how to make a girl feel welcome, don’t ya?”
I have no idea what’s gotten into me, but I can’t help but goad this man.
He sighs like he’s already regretting every decision that led to this moment.
“Welcome to Jersey Iron Ranch, Lil Bit.”
Something in the way he says it—low, rough, like a promise—makes the hair on my arms stand up.
I have no idea what I’ve just walked into.
But for the first time in a long time, it feels like maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.