Chapter 5 The First Ride
The First Ride
Nampa. Two years before the Bastards patch crowned Tater’s back.
The kind of heat that made even asphalt smell like anger.
She’d been running long enough that every gas station bathroom mirror showed a new stranger. The dragon slept most days, coiled and sulking, but that night it was pacing. It wanted noise. It wanted something to burn.
The bar was called The Switchyard—cheap neon, tin roof, parking lot full of trucks that looked stolen or dying. Inside, the stench of stale smoke hung thick enough to chew. A radio was duct-taped to a jukebox, playing some outlaw song about mercy no one in the room believed.
Ren just wanted whiskey. Maybe a fight.
Tater was there before she knew his name—leaning over a pool table, chalking a cue with that easy confidence that made everyone else step out of his way. No cut, no colors. Just a black T-shirt and arms marked with road scars and ink.
He glanced at her once, long enough to clock the stranger with the too-steady eyes. Then he went back to his shot. That calm should’ve warned her.
Three Hades Hellhounds pushed through the door ten minutes later, laughing the way men do when they’ve already decided who’s going to bleed.
They saw Ren.
Of course they did. A woman alone in boots and a jacket with no patch, hair tied back, eyes that didn’t flinch. Predators notice other predators.
“Thought we told you to stay outta our pit,” one said, voice slurred.
“Guess I don’t listen well,” she said.
He reached for her arm.
Bad call.
She caught his wrist mid-air. The dragon purred, “break him.”
Not yet.
“Let go,” he said, but the sound cracked halfway through.
“Ask nicer,” she said, and twisted.
Bone popped. He howled. His buddy swung, missed, and caught a stool to the knee. Someone shouted; glass shattered.
Tater straightened at the table, still holding his cue. Didn’t move. Didn’t interfere. Just watched.
The third Hellhound drew a knife.
The dragon exhaled inside me. Heat raced under her skin.
Ren warned them. “Back off.”
They didn’t.
Flame cracked from her palm—thin, white-hot, snapping across spilled liquor. The bar top ignited. Someone screamed. Bottles exploded. The smell of burning whiskey filled the air.
The Hades Hellhounds scrambled; one rolled on the floor to put out his jacket. Ren stood in the middle of it, light crawling up her arms, heart steady as thunder.
That’s when she heard him.
“Enough.”
The single word cut through the roar. Low, rough, absolute.
Ren turned.
Tater stood by the door, cue stick still in his hand, eyes catching firelight. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t impressed. He just was.
“Put it down,” he said.
The dragon bristled. “He commands you?”
“He asks,” she thought.
And somehow, she did.
The fire sank back into her skin. Smoke curled and vanished. The bar hissed as sprinklers finally kicked in, freezing water rained over everything.
He walked toward her through it—soaked, calm, a grin ghosting his mouth.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Define all right,” Ren said. My hands still smoked.
“Alive.”
“Barely.”
“Then you’re ahead of the curve.” He offered the cue like a staff between us. “Tater.”
“Ren.”
He nodded once, as if the names already meant something. “You got a bike?”
“Why?”
“Because this place is about to fill with cops, and I don’t do paperwork.”
Outside, night hit us like fresh air. He moved to his Harley—matte black, engine growling even before he kicked it over. I hesitated at mine, half-melted from the heat. He noticed.
“Ride with me,” he said. “Just to the edge of town.”
“Maybe I like the middle.”
“Middle’s where you get caught.”
The dragon murmured, “He’s not afraid.”
“No,” she answered it. “He’s not.”
Ren swung onto the back of his bike. The seat was warm; his back was broader than it looked in the bar. The moment the engine roared, she felt something click into place—like gears finding the right teeth after grinding too long.
They tore down the highway under a reddish-gold moon, smoke trailing behind Them. Wind whipped her hair across his shoulder; his laugh rolled up from his chest, surprised and real.
He shouted over the noise, “You always light up first dates?”
“Only when they get handsy!”
He laughed harder, full, and rough. It was the first time she’d heard him sound alive.
By the time They hit the outskirts, the heat in her hands had cooled, the dragon quiet again.
They stopped near an old grain silo. Dust, crickets, stars like sparks. He cut the engine, leaned forward on the bars, but didn’t turn around.
“You planning to keep running?” he asked.
“From what?”
“From whoever keeps making you burn.”
Ren didn’t answer. She didn’t have one.
He finally looked over his shoulder. “If you ever get tired of it, come find me and the Bastards. We don’t scare easy.”
“You offering me a home?”
He shrugged. “A little bit of peace if you want it. Chaos if you don’t.”
“Peace and chaos,” she said. “That’s your pitch?”
“That’s life,” he said.
The dragon whispered, “Stay.”
“Maybe,” she said aloud.
He smiled—slow, dangerous. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Back in the present, the memory faded with the fluorescent buzz overhead. Ren’s body still ached, but her chest felt lighter, like the echo of that ride still rattled in her bones.
“You still smell like smoke,” Ren murmured to no one.
The dragon stirred, “you like it.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”