Page 7 of Arch
I don’t want a drink, or company, or anything that isn’t…him.
Fuck. I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated. This isn’t me. I don’t get hung up on people, especially not some biker twice my age who thinks he can order me around.
But I can’t stop picturing Arch—his hands, rough from years of riding, gripping my jacket. His voice… low and commanding, telling me to behave. His eyes… seeing too much.
I swing off the bike, heading for my room, but pause at the door.
Willow Creek’s got nothing for me, not really. I could leave tomorrow, hit the highway, find a new town to tear up.
But I won’t.
Not yet.
Because as much as I hate admitting it, Arch is a puzzle I want to solve. A challenge I want to take. And maybe, he’s the one thing in this shithole town that could make me feel alive again.
Pah, who am I kidding?
I unlock the door, the room dark and musty, and flop onto the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
My pulse is still racing, not from the ride but fromhim.
I close my eyes, and there he is, leaning in, his breath hot, his growl a promise.“Keep pushing, boy.”
I smile, sharp and reckless, because I know I will.
I’ll push, and I’ll see how far we can take this—how far I can takehim—before one of us breaks.
Chapter 3
Arch
Two days, and that kid’s still under my skin like a splinter I can’t dig out…
Keegan.
His name’s a low burn in my gut, tied to that smirk, those green eyes that dared me to do something about his mouth.
I should’ve let him walk out of The Ring and forgotten him.
It’s not like I haven’t got bigger problems to deal with—the Vipers’ latest move, a torched bike left outside our clubhouse with their mark carved into the frame.
Clay’s pissed, Jace is itching for blood, and the men are looking to me to keep this from turning into a war.
But instead of mapping out their next hit, I’m thinking about a twenty-two-year-old troublemaker who called meDaddylike it was a challenge.
Get a grip, Arch.
This ain’t you.
This isn’t how you roll.
Maybe I’m losing my edge. Forty-three years, and I’ve never let anything—anyone—distract me like this.
I’ve outsmarted every fed, every rival, every trap laid to take down the Wolf Riders. But Keegan? He’s a trap I didn’t see coming, and I’m not sure I want to dodge it.
I’m at the clubhouse, nursing a coffee blacker than my mood, when Tank mentions a new guy at Rusty’s Garage, a place on the edge of Willow Creek.
“Ex-military, mouthy, been fixing bikes for cash,” Tank says. “Sounded like that kid you tangled with at The Ring.”
