Chapter 2
Chief
Rain pounds the clubhouse roof so hard it makes the walls vibrate.
Not the weak kind either, it’s real Southern storm rain.
Heavy sheets slam against rusted metal and old wood, rattling the gutters outside and turning the parking lot beyond the windows into a dark, reflective blur beneath the security lights.
Thunder rolls low a few seconds later, deep enough I feel it through the soles of my boots.
I sit at the long wooden table in the back corner of the side room just off of the main bar area, our usual spot.
It gives me a vantage point of the whole clubhouse, I can watch everything that’s going on.
Inventory sheets are spread in front of me; I’m trying to finish paperwork I didn’t get a chance to do earlier.
Meanwhile, the rest of these assholes act as if they’ve never been indoors before.
Scratching my chin, I frown at my friends.
Trigger is across from me, leaning back in his chair, with muddy boots propped on the edge of the table. A knife spins lazily between his fingers, flashing silver beneath the low overhead lights each time he flips it over his knuckles.
Dash is half-sprawled across the couch, a beer balanced on his stomach, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who’s been loudly losing money at cards all night.
Shadow sits near the front windows in the old leather armchair nobody else likes because one side sinks lower than the other, with a book open, his brow furrowed as he turns the page.
He looks less like an outlaw biker and more like somebody’s exhausted literature professor.
If their professor was a giant, tattooed biker, that is.
Thunder cracks again outside. The lights flicker once overhead. “Storm’s getting worse,” Trigger mutters, glancing toward the windows.
Rainwater streams down the glass in thick crooked lines, blurring the parking lot outside. The row of bikes parked under the awning gleams black beneath flashes of lightning.
Dash snorts from the couch. “Aw. You scared, Trigger?”
Trigger flips him off without looking up from the knife. Dash chuckles, rapping his knuckles on the table, the rings clunking loudly. “They’re only gonna get more frequent from now on.”
With a sigh, I finish signing the last inventory form and toss the papers onto the table harder than necessary. “If Tommy screws up another parts order,” I say, running my hand down my stubbled chin, “I’m putting Shadow in charge of inventory.”
Shadow slowly lowers his book just enough to look at me over the top of it. “I’d rather die.”
Dash points at him immediately. “See? That right there is what I’m talking about, and people say I’m the funny one. You should be a stand-up comedian, Shadow.”
Shadow huffs, shaking his head and returning his attention to his book.
“You know, you’ve gotta let the rest of us get a word in edgeways, Mr. Chatty,” Dash adds, with his signature crooked grin.
“Knock it off,” Trigger tells him. He launches an unopened beer at Dash, who just barely catches it.
“Jesus! A heads up next time, that almost smashed in my face!”
Trigger smiles sweetly, an expression of boyish innocence that jarringly contrasts with his rough, heavily tatted look. “Who says I wasn’t trying to do that?”
The clubhouse door opens briefly as one of the prospects hurries through carrying another case of beer, letting in a burst of cold, wet air.
Rock music crackles low through the speakers near the bar, distorted from age and blown-out wiring.
Dash replaced the playlist with some pop princess’s album once and practically started a riot.
Trigger was only too happy to fan the flames by singing along loudly and off-key, pretending he loved it and daring anyone to try to change it.
The burner phone the four of us use for club business buzzes loudly against the table. Nobody reacts at first. That thing goes off constantly—club girls, business contacts, people needing favors, people who owe us money, people looking for trouble. They all get given this number.
Trigger catches it before it vibrates off the table entirely. “Probably another one of Dash’s girlfriends,” he says.
“You say that like it narrows things down.” Dash runs his hand through his sandy-blond hair, shrugging.
Trigger tosses the phone toward me one-handed. “Handle your minions, Chief.”
I catch it automatically and glance down at the screen. I pause, my brow furrowing as I read what it says.
Dash notices immediately because Dash notices everything that might entertain him. “Well? Who’s it from?” he asks.
I shouldn’t smile. Honestly, I don’t even mean to. But something about the message catches me off guard enough that the corner of my mouth pulls anyway.
Dash sits upright immediately. “Oh, now I know it’s good.”
I toss him the phone. He reads the screen aloud, dramatically, in a high-pitched, breathy Marilyn Monroe voice, “Free to play?” He pouts, pressing his index finger to his cheek by the side of his mouth for comedic effect.
Silence hangs for exactly one second. Then Trigger laughs. Not a small, polite laugh either, it’s full of rough amusement that bounces through the room. Even Shadow lowers his book and looks up.
Dash presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “Gentlemen. It’s difficult being this desirable.”
“You look like a divorced magician,” Trigger tells him.
Dash knows well enough to move Trigger on from that idea before he starts throwing knives at him. “Women love mystery.”
“Women love when you shut the fuck up.” Trigger tosses the knife up in the air, catching it by the handle as it spins down above him.
Dash ignores him completely, still grinning down at the screen. “No contact name,” he says. “Interesting.”
I lean back in my chair slowly, watching rain hammer against the windows. “Probably the wrong number.”
“Or…” Dash says reasonably, “fate.”
Trigger makes a disgusted noise. The phone buzzes again in Dash’s hand. Another message:
Hello???
Dash gasps. “She’s impatient. I like her already.” He clutches his chest.
“You like everybody already,” I point out.
He spreads his arms wide and leans back on the couch. “That’s because I’m warm and approachable.”
“Like herpes,” Trigger says, tossing a peanut in the air and catching it in his mouth.
Dash flips Trigger off before looking back at me. “Can I answer?”
“No,” I reply. The last thing we need in this clubhouse is more drama and more women fighting for Dash’s approval.
“Too late.” His thumbs move quickly over the screen as he types. He shows the message to us before he hits ‘send’.
That depends. What’re we playing?
Trigger starts laughing immediately. “Jesus Christ. Think of that all by yourself?”
Dash looks smug as hell with himself. “Women enjoy confidence.”
The phone buzzes almost immediately. All three of us automatically look down at the phone lying in the middle of the table.
That depends. Are you always this cocky?
Trigger whistles low. “Oh, she’s got attitude.”
Dash is already typing again when Trigger reaches over and steals the phone from him. “Move.”
“You’re ruining the chemistry,” Dash protests. He doesn’t try to take the phone back, though; he isn’t stupid.
Trigger snorts, not looking up from the phone as he furiously types. “You don’t know what chemistry is.”
“Excuse you. I’m chemistry incarnate.”
Trigger ignores him entirely, sending the message before any of us can say otherwise.
Only when I receive an invitation like that. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that if you play with fire, you might get burned?
We wait. Rain crashes against the roof overhead in heavy waves while thunder rumbles through the walls. Somebody at the bar shouts over a pool game in the main room.
The response comes fast enough to tell me she’s still staring at her phone, too. Still engaged, still interested.
So you’re saying whatever happens next is my fault?
Trigger grins slowly. “Oh, she’s fun.”
He’s right, something about the messages is different. She’s not acting desperate or sloppy drunk, looking for a late-night hookup. She’s not trying too hard, just being playful and fun.
The phone buzzes again.
You gonna answer? Or can’t you think of something witty to say?
Dash points across the table immediately. “That one’s definitely for you, Chief.”
I give him a flat look.
Trigger smirks. “She likes bossy.”
I frown. “She doesn’t know me.”
“Exactly.” Trigger winks.
Dash snorts into his beer.
The truth is I should shut this down. I know that. It’s clear by now that this must be a wrong number, some random woman who’s probably drunk. A club bunny would have given herself away by now, would have referred to one of us by name. Or all four of us, if she was hoping for that kind of fun.
But the storm has everybody restless tonight, and there’s already something weirdly addictive about the conversation.
The way she answers quickly and easily, without overthinking, and the teasing confidence underneath whatever nerves she’s hiding.
Because I have a feeling that she’s not as confident as she appears in text.
Trigger tosses the phone back toward me. “Go on, your turn.”
I catch it one-handed. The screen glows brightly against my palm while the room somehow settles more quietly around me. Dash watches openly, grinning like an idiot. Trigger looks entertained. Shadow’s pretending to read again, but he hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes.
I type before I can think too hard about why I’m bothering.
Careful. You might not be able to handle what happens next.
The typing bubble appears immediately. Disappears. Returns. Then:
Sounds a little threatening. Are you a bad boy who’s going to punish me?
Trigger barks out another laugh.
Dash nearly slides off the couch. “Oh, she’s flirting flirting.”
I ignore both of them. Outside, lightning flashes pale blue through the windows, illuminating the room for half a second. Thunder follows almost instantly. The storm’s right overhead now.
The response bubble appears again.
Maybe I’d like it?