Page 22 of Sexting the Bikers
A couple guys are in the back, playing cards like they’ve got nowhere else to be, and Twitch is passed out in a chair with a half-lit smoke dangling from his fingers.
No sign of Dog.
“Anyone seen him?” I ask, not really expecting a straight answer.
One of the prospects shrugs. “He left an hour ago. Didn’t say where.”
Of course he didn’t.
I pull out my phone, check for a message, a missed call—nothing.
Typical.
I’m halfway to the garage when I hear it. The low, throaty growl of his engine in the distance. It’s a distinct sound, like a chainsaw flirting with a thunderstorm. Idiot never could leave the pipes alone.
I turn and walk back toward the front lot just as Reaper comes out the main door, already keyed up from the latest round of calls with the gunrunner who just backed out.
He sees me, reads my expression. “Dog?”
I nod.
Reaper’s already stepping onto the porch, his eyes narrowed. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell from the way his jaw ticks that he feels it too. That something’s wrong.
The bike roars into view, headlights cutting across the gravel, engine barking loud as it swings into a hard stop near the front.
Dog throws a leg off casually like this is any other night. But he’s not alone.
She climbs off the back of his bike slowly, like her legs barely work.
She looks shaken—exhausted. Her hair’s a mess, there’s something smudged across her cheek, and she’s drowning in Dog’s jacket, wrapped around her shoulders like it’s armor.
That’s not just any girl. That’sNovikov’sgirl.
And she’s not supposed to be here.
Reaper’s body goes rigid.
My own stomach drops. I step forward, quiet. “Tell me that’s not who I think it is.”
Dog drops his helmet onto the seat like this is just another ride.
“What the actual fuck,” I say, my voice low.
Dog peels off his gloves and grins, like he just brought home a stray puppy instead of the one girl who might get us all killed.
“Surprise,” he says.
Reaper doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “Everyone inside,” he says, low and controlled. “Now.”
No one argues. The porch clears out like the air just got sucked from the yard.
I stay. So does Reaper.
And Dog—dumb, fearless bastard that he is—walks forward like we’re the ones out of line. “She texted me,” he says, casual, as if that explainsanything.
Reaper’s voice is quieter now, and that’s what makes it worse. “You brought someone out of Novikov’s house.”
Dog lifts his hands like we’re being dramatic. “She wasn’t safe. She reached out.”
