Page 72 of Sexting the Bikers
Dog stops pacing, turns on him. “Wouldn’t have made a lick of difference,” he fires back. “They outnumbered us three to one and had her locked away before we even stepped foot in that hallway.”
Twitch tapes a bandage across Bishop’s cheek. “Maybe. Still would have been better than letting Zaika walk her out like she was his luggage.”
Dog stops pacing long enough to meet my eyes. “We get to the Marriott. Russians everywhere. I go in posing as staff, find the suite. Zaika’s men are stacked fifteen deep. Soon as I knock, they pull Bishop out looking like he lost a fight with a truck. Katya is inside. We try to pull her out, but they surround us. Guns everywhere.”
Bishop shifts on the couch, pain etched across his face.
Dog starts pacing again, hands flexing like he wants to punch through a wall. “They outplayed us, Reaper. Russians had it planned. We walked right into their trap and left her there.”
Twitch gathers the medical kit, but no one moves. The silence is thick, broken only by Dog’s restless footsteps.
I breathe in slow. “We’re not done. Not by a long shot. Get some rest. At daylight we plan.”
Dog finally stops pacing. His shoulders drop, rage simmering just under the skin. Bishop closes his eyes, head resting against the torn leather of the couch. Twitch sets a fresh roll of gauze on the table and turns off the overhead light.
Dog’s boots fade down the hallway, Twitch’s quiet footsteps follow, and Bishop’s ragged breathing settles into a shallow rhythm. Eventually, Bishop leaves too, but I stay where I am, back against the wall, arms folded so tight my joints ache.
Losing Katya should mean leverage lost, nothing more. A move on the board sacrificed so the game can keep going. That’s how I’ve always played it. Yet every time I close my eyes I see her glare at Novikov, chin lifted even when she was terrified. I remember the way her pulse beat against my lips when I kissed her neck, the feel of her shaking but stubborn in my arms. Three days—barely that—and already her absence scrapes something raw inside my chest.
Impossible. I don’t let people under my skin. I barely let my brothers close, and they’ve bled with me for years. She was leverage. A bargaining chip. Nothing more.
So why does the idea of Novikov’s hands on her twist my stomach? Why do I keep replaying every choice since she walked into the library, picking through them for the moment I could have kept her safe? This is weakness, and weakness gets people killed.
I push off the wall, pacing the dark length of the bar, counting the steps the way I did in prison nights when sleep refused to come. The anger comes easier—anger at Zaika, at Novikov, at myself. I hang on to that.
The gray lightseeping through the kitchen window feels thin, like it doesn’t have the strength to fill the room. I stir the eggs in the skillet, a wooden spoon scraping the cast iron in slow circles. The clubhouse is quiet. Too quiet for a Saturday. Half the crew is off running errands for a job we may never finish, the rest asleep in back rooms or gone to ground until I call. The radio on the counter picks up nothing but faint static.
Heat from the burner spreads across my forearms. I focus on the hiss of the omelet, the smell of onion and cheese, anything except the picture of Katya dragged across Novikov’s porch.
Footsteps echo in the hall. Bishop enters first, moving carefully like every rib hurts. Purple and black bruises spider along his cheekbone, turning yellow at the edges. Dog follows, shoulders high, jaw clenched so tight the veins in his neck stand out. He looks like a dog chained too long, ready to bite whoever gets near.
I set the skillet on a cold burner and divide the omelet onto three plates, sliding one across the counter to Bishop. He nods thanks, lowers himself on a stool with a wince, and digs in. Dog doesn’t sit. He paces, boots striking the tile with each tight turn.
Silence thickens until it chokes. Dog breaks first, spitting into the sink as if clearing poison from his mouth. “You should’ve never let her get in your head.”
My hand tightens around the spoon. I turn, meet his glare. “And you should’ve never brought her here in the first place.”
The words leave a bitter taste the moment they hit the air. Dog freezes mid-stride. His eyes flare, hurt warring with rage. Bishop lowers his fork, watching us both.
“She was running for her life,” Dog says, voice low but shaking. “You think I could leave her on the side of the road?”
“You could have thought past your zipper,” I snap.
Bishop shifts, tension radiating off him like heat. Dog steps forward, fists curling. For a moment I think he’ll swing, and maybe I want him to. A good fight would be easier than the weight inside my chest.
Dog glares at Bishop, then at me. “We lost her because of you. If it wasn’t just Bishop, if you had been there as well…”
“I thought you told Twitch it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference,” I say.
“It would have if we were there, all three of us,” Dog says, “You know that.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t want to put all of our lives in danger, I’m sorry I didn’t want to be reckless. And my worst fears came true, didn’t they?”
“Yeah,” Dog says, looking away.
But Dog is right about one thing. I should have planned smarter. I let the feelings coiled in my chest override the plan. I think about her mouth on mine, the ragged breath she took when I slid inside her, the way she stared at Novikov withdefiance instead of fear. Those memories taste like ashes now. I turn back to the stove, grabbing another egg, cracking it one-handed so the shell crushes against my palm.
I slide Dog’s plate toward him across the counter. “Eat,” I tell him. “Not the time to fight.”
