Page 15 of Dagger

I miss my bed, the one with the expensive-ass mattress that I splurged on because I’m too damn old to sleep on crap. I miss Brutus, my dog, who’s probably losing his mind without me. He’s a stubborn bastard, just like me, and I bet Mason’s ready to throw him out by now. But more than anything, I miss my club. My brothers.

And Mason.

He’s pissed. No, beyond pissed. He’s called me nonstop, demanding to know why I walked away, why I stepped down as VP. Every time, it’s the same thing, “What the hell’s going on, Dagger?”

And every time, I give him nothing. “Needed some air.” “Needed a break.” Bullshit excuses he doesn’t buy for a second.

But what the hell am I supposed to say? That I left because of her? Because I can’t stop looking at Chloe like a goddamn idiot? That every time she walks into a room, I feel like the biggest piece of shit alive because I want something I have no business wanting?

Mason would kill me. Or worse, he’d cut me out of the club for good. And I wouldn’t blame him. Chloe’s too young, too good, and way the hell out of my reach.

So, I left.

It’s not like I didn’t try to bury it. Tried ignoring her, avoiding her, pretending like she wasn’t around. Didn’t work. Just made me look like more of an asshole. So now I’m out here, driving aimlessly down one highway after another, trying to outrun the mess in my head.

But let me tell you, the open road isn’t the freedom everyone says it is. It’s boring, it’s lonely, and it gives you way too much time to think. Every mile, I feel like turning the bike around, like just going back and dealing with the fallout.

But I can’t.

Not yet. Not until I figure out how to look Mason in the eye without feeling like a traitor. Not until I can be in the same room as Chloe and remember my goddamn place.

So yeah, Mason keeps asking why I left.

Truth is, I don’t have an answer he’d want to hear.

I’m sitting in a dive bar over a thousand miles away from Jackson, nursing a whiskey and trying not to think about everything I left behind, when my phone buzzes. Mason.

I let it ring a few times before answering. “Yeah?”

“Need you to meet up with a club,” Mason says, skipping the pleasantries. “They’ve got some of their guys going rogue and causing trouble. Figured you’d know how to set them straight.”

I take a slow sip of my drink. “You got it. Which club?”

“The Iron Valkyries,” Mason replies. “Thor Prez is Harlan Scott. Remember him? South Dakota rally a few years back?”

A grin tugs at my lips as the memory hits. That trip was chaos from start to finish. “The ones we got drunk off our asses with?”

“The very same,” Mason says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Harlan’s a good guy, but he’s got his hands full. He needs backup, and I told him you’d come help get things sorted.”

I lean back in my chair, drumming my fingers on the table. “You already told him I’d do it, huh?”

“Damn right I did,” Mason snaps. “You’re out there wandering around anyway. Figured I’d give you something useful to do.”

I shake my head, smirking. Leave it to Mason to call me out and give me orders at the same time. “Fine. Where do I find him?”

Mason rattles off the details, and I jot them down on the back of a coaster.

“And Dagger,” Mason says before hanging up, his tone softening just slightly. “Try not to burn the place to the ground while you’re at it.”

“No promises,” I mutter, but the line’s already dead.

I toss back the rest of my whiskey, throw some cash on the bar, and head for my bike. Looks like the road’s got a new destination.

The next day, I pull up to the compound, my bike rumbling beneath me as I take in the sight. The place looks like a damn fortress—fenced in with tall metal barriers and barbed wire coiled at the top. It’s got the vibe of a prison more than a clubhouse, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell they’re so worried about.

I roll up to the gate, slowing as two muscled, tattooed bikers step out to block the way. They’re both big—built like brick walls—and their eyes sweep over me like they’re sizing me up. One ofthem gives me a quick chin lift but doesn’t look any friendlier for it.

“Name?” the guy on the left asks, his tone sharp and no-nonsense.

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