Wolf’s Rival (Pike Creek Riders MC #2)

CHAPTER 1 QUINN

QUINN

The Montana highway stretched ahead of me, endless and shimmering in the late afternoon heat. Five days into my transfer to Pike Creek, and I was still trying to prove I belonged here—that being Sheriff Bill Jenkins' daughter didn't mean I'd gotten special treatment.

Even if it absolutely did.

My fingers drummed against the steering wheel of the cruiser as I watched for speeders from my spot behind the billboard for Thompson's Feed Store.

The same spot I'd been parking every afternoon this week, telling myself it was because of the sight lines and not because this stretch of highway led directly to the Pike Creek Riders' clubhouse seven miles out of town.

Dad's voice echoed in my head from this morning's briefing, same lecture he'd been giving since I was sixteen and started dating that boy with the motorcycle. Tommy something. Dad had run him off within a week, had the poor kid so scared he transferred schools.

"Stay clear of the Pike Creek Riders. Nothing but trouble, that MC. Criminals hiding behind brotherhood bullshit. They might play nice with the town and pretend to be legitimate businessmen, but I know what they really are."

He'd said it loud enough for the other two deputies to hear, marking his territory, reminding everyone that just because I was his daughter didn't mean he'd go easy on me.

If anything, he went harder. Every shift started with a reminder of proper procedure, every decision scrutinized, every interaction monitored.

"You wanted this transfer," he'd said when I'd complained after my second day. "You wanted to prove yourself. This is what that looks like."

What it looked like was suffocating. In my previous post in Billings, I'd been just another deputy. Here, I was the sheriff's daughter first, deputy second, and Quinn dead last.

The roar of a motorcycle engine pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. A Harley blew past my hidden spot doing at least twenty over the limit, the rider's leather cut unmistakable even at that speed.

Pike Creek Riders MC.

My adrenaline spiked as I flipped on my lights and sirens, pulling onto the highway.

The bike didn't immediately slow, and for a moment I wondered if he'd run.

That would certainly make things interesting—my first high-speed chase in Pike Creek, and with an MC member no less. Dad would lose his mind.

Then the brake lights flashed, and he eased onto the shoulder with an almost lazy confidence, like getting pulled over was just a minor inconvenience in his day.

I ran the plates before approaching, hand on my weapon out of habit more than real concern.

"Michael McCarthy" popped up on my screen.

Multiple minor violations, nothing serious.

Some bar fights, disturbing the peace, the kind of rap sheet that said trouble but not real danger.

Known as "Wolf"—Vice President of Pike Creek Riders.

Great. My first real interaction with the MC, and it had to be with their VP.

I grabbed my ticket book, checked my body cam was on, and stepped out of the cruiser, adjusting my belt and trying to project more authority than I possessed. The man leaning against his bike looked like everything Dad had warned me about—and nothing like it at all.

Wolf McCarthy was six feet of lean muscle and casual danger, arms crossed over his broad chest, that leather cut worn like armor. His jaw was rough with a few days of stubble, and a smile played at the corner of his mouth like getting pulled over was the highlight of his day.

But it was his eyes that made my step falter. Bright blue and locked on mine with an intensity that sent warmth spreading through my chest, like being caught in a spotlight and liking it.

"Afternoon, Deputy." His voice was whiskey and gravel, amused and entirely too confident. "You must be new. I'd remember you."

"License and registration." I kept my voice steady, professional, even as my skin prickled with awareness. This close, leather and motor oil and sun-warmed skin filled my senses, made my mouth go dry.

He made no move to comply, just studied me with those devastating eyes, taking his time like he had all day. His gaze traveled from my face down to my boots and back up again, slow and deliberate, cataloging every detail.

"Sheriff didn't mention his daughter was so fucking beautiful."

The words landed with unexpected force, delivered with a casual confidence that said he knew exactly what effect he was having.

My body responded instantly—nipples tightening against my bulletproof vest, heart rate doubling, an ache building between my thighs.

I'd been hit on plenty of times during traffic stops, mostly by drunk assholes or nervous married men trying to flirt their way out of a ticket.

But never like this. Never with this instant, magnetic pull that made me want to step closer instead of maintaining professional distance.

"That's Deputy Jenkins to you." The words came out steadier than I expected despite the fire spreading through my veins. "License. Registration. Now."

"Sure thing, sweetheart." He reached into his back pocket slowly, deliberately, making me hyperaware of the way his jeans stretched across his thighs, the flex of his forearm as he pulled out his wallet.

He held out his license, and when I reached for it, our fingers brushed.

Warmth spread up my arm from that simple contact, and his smile widened.

He didn't let go immediately, forcing me to either tug it away like a child or stand there with our fingers touching.

I stood there, frozen, for a heartbeat too long before snatching it from his grip.

"Know why I stopped you?" I asked, writing the ticket while fighting to keep my hands steady. Each letter, each number required focus while he stood there, watching my face instead of what I was writing.

"Because you wanted to meet me?" He tilted his head, that cocky smile never wavering. "Could've just asked. Would've saved you the paperwork. I eat at Bea's every Tuesday. Drink at Buck's most nights. Very findable."

"You were doing seventy-five in a fifty-five."

"Was I?" No concern in his voice at all. "Must have been distracted. Saw this gorgeous brunette hiding behind that billboard back there. Made me forget all about speed limits."

My face burned, but I kept writing, ignoring how my body responded to the compliment. "That's not—"

"You've been there every afternoon this week. Same spot. Same time." He leaned back against his bike, completely relaxed while I fought not to combust. "Starting to feel like fate, Deputy Jenkins."

He'd noticed me. My stomach flipped at the realization.

"It's called a speed trap. And you fell for it."

"Did I?" His gaze traveled down again, slower this time, appreciative, making me achingly aware of how my uniform fit, how the afternoon sun was hitting me. "Feels more like I won."

I thrust the ticket at him, needing distance before I did something stupid. "Slow down, Mr. McCarthy. Next time it won't just be a warning."

"This isn't a warning. It's a hundred-dollar ticket."

"The warning is that next time I might have to arrest you."

His eyes flared with interest. "Promise?"

Oh God. The image that flashed through my mind—him in cuffs, pressed against my cruiser, those blue eyes dark with want—made my knees weak.

He took the ticket, fingers deliberately brushing mine again. This time the contact lingered, his thumb grazing my knuckles, tracing the bones there before I yanked my hand back.

"Wolf," he corrected. "And I'll see you around, Deputy."

A promise and a threat wrapped in one. I couldn't decide which interpretation I preferred, and my body didn't seem to care either way.

"Not if you stay out of trouble."

"Now where's the fun in that?" He swung one long leg over his bike, the movement fluid and graceful for such a large man. "Besides, trouble seems to be finding me lately. Pretty, brunette trouble with a badge and her daddy's attitude."

I walked back to my cruiser with as much dignity as I could manage, his attention like hands on my skin, touching all the places that ached for actual contact.

"Drive safe," I called over my shoulder, surprised my voice came out steady.

His laugh followed me, rich and deep. "Where's the fun in that?"

The motorcycle roared to life, the sound vibrating through my chest. He pulled onto the highway at exactly the speed limit, throwing me a two-finger salute as he passed.

I sat in my cruiser for five full minutes after he disappeared, trying to regain control, trying to forget the way he'd looked at me—like I was something he wanted to devour and savor at the same time.

My radio crackled. "Quinn, you there?"

Dad's voice made guilt crash through me. Here I was, getting worked up over exactly the kind of man he'd warned me about. My thighs pressed together, trying to ease the ache between them, while my father checked in on me like I was still sixteen.

"Yeah, Dad—Sheriff. I'm here."

"Everything okay? Saw you had a stop. Took a while."

Of course he was monitoring. Probably had GPS on my cruiser, knowing exactly how long I'd been parked on the shoulder with Wolf McCarthy.

"Just a speeder. Handled it."

"Who was it?"

A pause, knowing this would trigger another lecture. "Wolf McCarthy."

Silence stretched before Dad's voice came back, harder now.

"Stay away from him, Quinn. From all of them.

The Pike Creek Riders are nothing but trouble, and that one's the worst of them.

Cocky bastard thinks his smile can get him out of anything.

Thinks because he's charming people will forget what he really is. "

"What is he really?" The question escaped before I could stop it.

"Dangerous. The kind that doesn't look it until it's too late. VP of an MC doesn't happen by being nice, Quinn. It happens by being willing to do whatever needs doing. Violence, intimidation, worse. Don't let the pretty face fool you."

Pretty face. Even my father had noticed.

The memory of that smile made warmth spread through me again. The way he'd touched my hand like he had all the time in the world. "Copy that."

But pulling back onto the highway, I already knew it was too late. Wolf McCarthy had looked at me like he saw straight through the uniform to the woman underneath—the woman who was tired of being the sheriff's daughter, tired of being perfect, tired of following all the rules.

The woman who wanted those rough hands on her bare skin.

I was in so much trouble.

The rest of my shift dragged like molasses. Every motorcycle engine made my heart race, hoping and dreading it would be him again. By the time I pulled into the station at end of shift, adrenaline and frustrated desire had me wound tight

"How was patrol?" Dad asked when I walked in, his concern more paternal than professional. He sat at his desk, probably had been since I radioed in about the stop.

"Fine. Quiet."

Those sharp eyes that had caught me sneaking in after curfew, that had seen through every lie I'd ever tried to tell, studied me carefully. "That McCarthy boy give you any trouble?"

"No trouble." Unless you counted the persistent ache between my thighs. The phantom touch of his fingers against mine. His voice saying 'sweetheart' on repeat in my head like a song I couldn't shake.

"Good. Remember what I told you, Quinn. Those men are dangerous. They might clean up nice, might pretend to be legitimate with their garage and their protection services, but underneath? They're criminals. Every last one. Don't let them charm you into forgetting that."

Too late for that warning, Dad.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Because the only danger from Wolf McCarthy was to my self-control. The way he'd looked at me wasn't criminal—it was hungry. And God help me, I was hungry too.

That night in my small apartment above the bakery, I lay in bed replaying every second of the encounter. His eyes. His smile. The casual confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. The way he'd said my name—Deputy Jenkins—like it was foreplay.

My hand drifted down without conscious thought, finding the ache that had been building since he'd called me beautiful. I imagined those rough hands instead of my own, that gravelly voice saying my name, that powerful frame pressing me against his bike.

I pictured him pulling me closer instead of letting me walk away, kissing me right there on the side of the highway, not caring who saw. My fingers worked faster as I imagined him lifting me onto his bike, settling me in front of him, my back to his chest, his hand sliding into my uniform pants.

Release crashed through me with his name on my lips—"Wolf"—leaving me gasping into my pillow, ashamed and aroused and already planning where I'd set up my speed trap tomorrow.

Because Wolf was right about one thing.

This did feel like fate.

The dangerous, destroy-everything-you've-built kind of fate.

And I was already halfway to letting it happen.