Page 11 of Sexting the Bikers
“We’re not here to play hero,” I say. My voice cuts through the easy laughter, pulling them back to the reason we went there in the first place. “Our business is with Novikov. Not his woman.”
But even as I say it, the image of her flashes back into my mind.
Dog throws an arm over the back of the couch, looking way too pleased with himself. “Maybe she was just dazzled,” he says, his grin pure trouble. “I mean, you saw her looking at me. Can you blame her? I’m adorable.”
Rooster snorts into his beer. Twitch laughs like he’s hearing the greatest joke in the world.
I don’t smile.
Because while Dog’s busy talking shit, my mind is still turning over the way she stood there, chin high, eyes cutting sharper than any blade.
She didn’t look lost. She didn’t look scared.
She looked dangerous.
There’s something about her. Something that sets my instincts on edge in a way I don’t like admitting.
I lean back against the bar, the old wood creaking under my weight, and cross my arms over my chest. “She’s not your problem,” I say, mostly for myself.
Long dark hair, tied back in a messy knot at the nape of her neck, like she couldn’t be bothered to pretend at perfection. Skin pale against the heavy colors of the room, but not sickly. Eyes bright ice blue, cold enough to freeze a man in his tracks if he looks too long. Not pretty in the cheap, painted way Novikov likes to show off. No, she was something else.
Twitch frowns. “So how do we deal with this shit now?”
That’s the real problem.
The guns we secured—hot cargo straight out of an Eastern European pipeline—weren’t cheap to move, and sitting on them too long makes us a target for every fed, bounty hunter, and rival club in three states.
Rooster scratches the back of his head. “We eat the cost?”
Dog snorts. “Fuck that.” He sits up straighter, the grin gone now. “We sell it,” he says. “Eduardo’s still buying.”
The second the name’s out of his mouth, Bishop stiffens. “No,” he says sharply. “We’re not going back to that snake.”
Rooster raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”
Bishop’s mouth thins into a hard line. “Because last time we dealt with Eduardo,” he says, “he nearly got us pinned under ATF surveillance. One bad handshake and we’d have been doing time for federal trafficking charges.”
Dog shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, but we didn’t. We walked.”
“Because Reaper pulled us out before the deal closed,” Bishop snaps. “Luck doesn’t run forever.”
We’ve built our survival on the edge of a knife for years—buying, moving, and selling hardware faster than the law can catch up. The Ravagers made their name in blood and black-market trades, not charity work.
But one wrong move…one wrong partner…and it all burns.
I rake my fingers through my hair, staring at the battered map pinned to the wall.
Novikov’s stalling.
Eduardo’s a risk.
The shipment’s sitting in a locked warehouse, bleeding money by the hour.
Options are running thin.
“We need another buyer,” I say finally. “ Someone local.”
Twitch picks at the label of his beer, head down.
