Page 7 of Piston

I didn't know what the future held, didn't know if I'd ever find a way to balance my loyalty to the club with my growing feelings for Jenny. But for now, all I could do was keep moving forward, keep fighting for what I believed in, even if it meant sacrificing everything else.

As the miles flew by, I felt a sense of clarity start to take hold. I was a warrior, a fighter, and I would never back down from a challenge. Whatever came next, I would face it head-on, with the strength and determination that had gotten me this far.

THREE

JENNY

I stepthrough the doors of Perdition, and that familiar buzz of excitement ignites under my skin. The place is packed, as always—bikers and their groupies filling every corner of the room. My eyes scan the crowd until I spot Carlie’s bleached blonde hair at a table in the back. She’s already at it, knocking back shots with some of the MC brothers.

As I make my way over, Carlie jumps up and throws her arms around me. “Jenny! About damn time you got here!”

“Yeah, sorry I’m late,” I say with a laugh, sliding into the empty chair next to her. “Boss kept me late at the shop again.”

Mason slides a shot of whiskey across the table toward me. “Well, you’re just in time. We were just about to toast to another successful run.”

I grin and lift the glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

The whiskey burns on the way down, but it’s a familiar burn—a good one. The conversation around the table quickly turns rowdy as the guys dive into their usual banter, swapping stories about close calls with the cops and run-ins with crazy exes.

Dagger leans back, roaring with laughter, nearly falling out of his chair. “And then, I shit you not, she tried to chase after my bike! In nothing but a thong and pasties!”

“No fucking way,” Tank howls. “Please tell me you got pics.”

I snort, shaking my head. Typical. Crass jokes, tall tales, and way more bravado than common sense. But beneath all the trash talk and chaos, there’s something real here—a sense of brotherhood, a bond that goes deeper than words. They’d have my back no matter what, and I’d do the same for them.

I lean back, nursing my beer and letting their voices wash over me. Carlie catches my eye and grins, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. This is it. This is where we belong. The Iron Reapers aren’t just a motorcycle club. They’re family. My family.

Dagger slams his beer down, foam spilling over the rim. “Speaking of crazy bitches, let me tell you about this broad who tried to say I gave her the clap last week.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the sticky table, already bracing myself. This ought to be good.

“So there I was, minding my own business,” Dagger starts, his hands waving wildly, “when this chick storms into Perdition like a bat outta hell. She’s screeching about how I ‘ruined her life’ and gave her some disease, demanding I pay for her medical bills and shit.”

I can see it perfectly in my mind—Dagger’s trademark look of confusion and panic as this woman goes off in front of the entire club. Biting my lip, I fight to keep from laughing.

“I’m telling you, I wrapped it up tight with that one!” Dagger insists, jabbing a finger at Mason for emphasis. “You *know* I always double bag after that pregnancy scare with whatshername in Reno.”

Mason throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey man, I believe you. Bitches be crazy.”

“Damn straight. Anyway, this broad’s making a huge scene, and I’m just standing there like, ‘what the fuck?’ Prez had to come break it up before she started throwing shit.”

I don’t even have to try to imagine it. I can already see Dagger, sputtering out half-baked excuses while this woman’s rage boils over. Glasses shattering, the brothers diving for cover. And there’s Dagger, dead center, wide-eyed with his hands up like some unlucky perp caught red-handed.

A giggle escapes before I can stop it. Dagger shoots me a look, narrowing his eyes, though the sparkle of amusement gives him away. “Laugh it up, Jenny. Coulda happened to any of us.”

“But it always happens to you, Dag,” I shoot back, grinning. “Maybe it’s a sign from the universe to keep it in your pants once in a while.”

The table explodes in laughter, the guys hollering and slapping the table like a bunch of kids egging each other on. Dagger flips me off, all good-natured.

“Please,” he says, gesturing dramatically to himself. “Like I’d ever deprive the ladies of all *this.*” He wiggles his eyebrows, selling the moment for all it’s worth.

I roll my eyes, even as a grin tugs at my lips. Typical Dagger. The guy’s a walking disaster when it comes to women, but damn if he doesn’t know how to turn his screw-ups into the best stories.

As the laughter died down, I found myself studying Dagger's profile. The crooked slope of his nose, the faded scar above his left eyebrow. Hard to believe there was a time I thought I might be into him.

It was back when I first started hanging around the clubhouse. Dagger had been the first brother to really take me under his wing, showing me the ropes. Late night rides, shooting the shit over beers - we just clicked.

Guess it was only natural that things would get a little blurred. One night, high on adrenaline after outrunning the cops, we'd ended up in a heated make-out session against his bike. But the second his hands started roaming, it was like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.

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