Page 24 of Sexting the Bikers
I don’t mean to ask, but it comes out anyway. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes flick to mine—blue and haunting.
“You okay?” I ask again, quieter than before.
She continues to look at me but doesn’t answer. Just tightens her grip and pulls the jacket closer like she’s trying to disappear into it.
Reaper shoots me a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “She has to go,” he says again, firmer this time. “Tonight.”
I don’t answer.
Reaper’s jaw tightens. Dog’s arms are crossed, but he’s not backing down.
“You think you’re untouchable?” Reaper says. “You drag her in here, you lie about where you’ve been, and now what—you’re playing house?”
“I didn’t lie,” Dog shoots back. “She reached out. She needed help. You really think I’d leave her there after what she told me?”
Reaper steps forward. Just one step, but it’s enough to shift the gravity in the room.
“What shetoldyou?” he echoes. “You trusting her now? Taking her word over mine?”
“She’s not just some pawn in Novikov’s game,” Dog snaps. “Her name’s Katya. She?—”
“Shut the hell up,” Reaper says.
I stare at the girl. She has a name now. I don’t know if that makes things worse.
Dog’s jaw tightens. Reaper’s fists curl like he’s one breath away from breaking something.
And then, out of nowhere, the girl speaks. “Do you have vodka?”
She says it quietly. Not flirty. Not afraid. Just matter-of-fact, like we’re not standing on the edge of a war.
Reaper turns to look at her—slow, like he’s not sure he heard right.
That stare of his could freeze someone in place, but she doesn’t flinch. She just drifts toward the bar, smooth and unbothered, fingers brushing her hair back as she walks.
Reaper looks at her like she’s grown a second head.
Dog jerks his chin toward a bottle sitting half-empty on the shelf.
She nods, steps behind the bar like she belongs there, and grabs a glass.
“I’m making myself a drink,” she says, not even looking up. “You want one?”
It’s not sweet. Not coy. Just matter-of-fact, like she’s asking if we want sugar in our coffee and not defusing a live grenade.
Dog smirks. Reaper’s jaw tightens.
Katya nods once. Her hands are steady. Measured. She pours like she’s done it a hundred times—no wasted motion, no nerves. Like this is a bar, and we’re just guys she happens to be charming.
I drift closer without meaning to, arms folded, watching her from a slight angle.
What game is this girl playing?
I narrow my eyes.
She doesn’t look like much—small, still wrapped in Dog’s jacket, boots dirty from whatever escape she clawed her way out of. There’s a tightness in her shoulders, sure, but she masks it well.
