Page 12 of Sexting the Bikers
The wind picks up outside, rattling the loose windowpanes hard enough to make the whole place creak. The old farmhouse groans under the pressure, the way it always does when a storm’s coming.
I sit still, listening to it. Something about the way the air feels tonight makes the back of my neck itch. Trouble’s coming. I can feel it, the same way you smell rain before it hits the dirt.
Novikov’s not just stalling. He’s buying time for something bigger. That much I’m sure of.
And somehow, some way, the girl upstairs—the one with cold eyes and too much steel in her spine—was tied to it. Men like Novikov don’t keep women around for comfort. Not women like her. Not women who don’t bow their heads when told.
Call it instinct. Call it years of staying alive by trusting the things most men ignore.
But I know trouble when I smell it.
Night settlesheavy over the clubhouse, casting long shadows through the warped blinds and leaving the air thick with the smell of oil, smoke, and old wood.
I don’t speak as I pass, but I don’t have to. My presence alone is enough to shift the atmosphere—conversations soften, laughter fades by a few degrees, and eyes track me out of instinct more than formality.
It isn’t fear I carry with me. At least, not entirely. Authority earned the hard way, paid for in blood and silence.
The bar’s quieter tonight than usual. Fewer bottles on the counter, less clutter on the shelves. Someone had the sense to restock properly. Behind it, Twitch is wiping down the surface with the same old rag he’s been abusing for a year now. His movements are steady, eyes flicking up once as I approach.
“Anything I should know about?” I ask, my tone low but clear.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Had a little noise over at O’Malley’s last night. Bar owner said one of ours ducked out without settling the tab. Nothing big, no heat. I calmed it down before it got loud, but it’s something to watch.”
I absorb that quietly, filing it away. “Name?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Twitch shrugs, not taking his eyes off the counter. “Might’ve been Danny. He left early. Been acting off.”
Right on cue, Rooster comes around the corner, the way he moves making it clear he’s still mid-complaint.
“Kid’s turning into dead weight,” he says, rubbing a hand across his buzzed scalp. “Missed his check-in two nights in a row. Slacked on last week’s warehouse run. Didn’t even cover the gate detail when he was scheduled.”
I keep my expression even.
A lazy prospect isn’t just a pain in the ass. He’s a threat. Not because they screw up once—but because they don’t seem to think it matters when they do. And in this club, that’s how people get hurt.
I make a mental note to handle it at the next church. One sit-down. One warning. If that doesn’t work, he’s gone.
“I’ll deal with it,” I say.
The side door creaks open, and Bishop steps in from the garage, wiping his hands with a filthy rag that’s seen better days. He doesn’t break stride, just moves directly toward the bar and drops the rag on the counter with a heavy thud.
“We’re low on parts,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Carb kits, hoses, filter stock—all down to scraps. I can stretch it another week, maybe less, but after that the lifts go cold.”
I glance at him, and he meets my look evenly. There’s no panic in his voice, no blame either. He’s just laying out the facts, and the facts are what they are.
“With the cash tied up in the Novikov deal,” he continues, “resupplying’s going to get tight. Unless something gives, we’ll be patching with duct tape.”
The club’s been here before. Running lean isn’t new. But this time we’re not waiting on a supplier or a delivery. We’re waiting on a man we don’t trust—someone who’s made a career out of breaking deals and disappearing people when the pressure gets too close.
Novikov’s holding our cash hostage, and in the meantime, we’ve got merchandise collecting dust, bills stacking, and loyalty starting to stretch thin around the edges.
“I’ll find another stream,” I say finally. “Until then, we hold tight.”
Bishop gives a short nod. Twitch slides a beer across to Rooster, who grabs it without a word. Dog’s off somewhere in the back, probably pretending he’s not eavesdropping while cleaning a gun he has no intention of firing tonight.
The wind outside kicks up again, rattling the windows in their frames. The boards creak overhead. The whole place feels like it’s holding its breath.
The slow burn of frustration settles in my chest like a weight I can’t quite shift. It’s not a fire, not yet—just heat under the surface. But club business is getting messy in ways I don’t like. The money’s tied up in a deal we don’t control, we’re sitting on product we can’t move, and the man who owes us is treating our time like it’s worthless.
