Page 13 of Sexting the Bikers
Novikov’s dragging his feet, and every hour that passes without a solution is another tick on the clock we can’t afford.
Around me, the clubhouse hums with low energy—the kind that comes with restlessness. A couple of the younger guys are throwing darts near the far wall, half-drunk and full of bad jokes. They laugh too loudly at each other’s misses, slurring insults that would’ve started a fight on any other night. On the sagging couches near the TV, two patched members are locked into a heated video game match, shoulders hunched forward, jaws tight, their trash talk more serious than it should be. They’re shouting, swearing, tossing chips and insults back and forth—killing time like there’s nothing at stake.
Maybe for them there isn’t.
But I can feel the cracks forming beneath all this noise.
Twitch refills his drink without looking up, Bishop disappears back into the garage, and Dog is still nowhere in sight—which means he’s either in the back sleeping it off or chasing something we’ll all pay for later.
The place feels restless. Fractured.
Like everyone’s pretending things are normal because they’re too afraid to ask what happens if they’re not.
I stand near the bar, arms folded, taking it all in. Every missed run, every unpaid tab, every shipment collecting dust in a rented building miles from here. Every sign that the ground’s shifting and nobody’s paying attention.
They want to believe that Novikov’s just dragging his feet. That the money will come. That this is temporary. But I know better.
Men like Novikov don’t stall unless they’re laying traps.
And right now, we’re walking straight into one.
One of the younger guys tosses his dart and misses the board by half a foot. He groans, then mutters loud enough for the room to hear, “Place could use a little more scenery, if you ask me.”
Across the bar, someone laughs. Dog comes in through the back door just as another chimes in with, “Ain’t seen a pair of legs around here in three damn days.”
Twitch snorts without looking up from where he’s drying glasses. “They’re at Donella’s ‘book club,’” he says, fingers making exaggerated air quotes.
Rooster, stretched out in one of the armchairs near the TV, scoffs. “Book club? That’s just an excuse to drink boxed wine and talk shit about us.”
A few chuckles ripple through the room, low and lazy.
Dog plops into a chair and leans back, arms behind his head, a grin playing at the edge of his mouth like he’s been waiting for the right moment to drop a grenade.
“Met a babe today,” he says, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Real knockout.”
The room goes still.
Every man turns, interest lighting in their eyes, curiosity overriding whatever they were about to complain about next.
Three steps, fast and quiet, and my hand’s already in Dog’s collar before he can get out another smug word. I yank him up off the chair and drag him two feet toward the hallway before slamming him back against the wall—hard enough to rattle the old drywall but not hard enough to make a scene I can’t pull back from.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” I snap, my voice low but deadly. “That’s Novikov’s woman.”
Dog doesn’t blink. Doesn’t back down. Just shrugs like I’m overreacting and flashes that same damn grin.
“Doesn’t look like the old man can keep up with that young thing,” he says. “He’s got to be, what, twice her age? She’ll be looking for more entertainment soon.”
My hand tightens in his collar. I feel the tension pull through my knuckles and down my forearm. He’s still playing it cool, but I can see the edge creeping in behind his eyes now. He knows he pushed too far—but he’s too damn proud to take it back.
“Don’t be stupid, Dog,” I say, voice low and steady, each word sharp and slow. “We’ve got enough problems without you chasing the one woman guaranteed to blow this club sky-high.”
He finally holds still, and the grin fades a little. Just enough.
I let go, pushing off him with a sharp breath, and take a step back. “Stay away from her,” I say. “That’s not a request.”
Dog straightens his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, and mutters something under his breath that I pretend not to hear.
But I don’t miss the look in his eyes.
