Page 76 of Sexting the Bikers
For a moment, we’re just two broken men in a barn, letting silence say the rest. There’s pain here, and fear, and something like brotherhood, just holding each other up in the wreckage, vowing not to let go this time.
“Come on, man,” I say quietly, putting a hand on Dog’s arm as he stares at his bike like he can will it into gear by sheer stubbornness. “You ride out solo, you’re done. Let’s get our shit together, get backup, do this smart.”
He shrugs off my hand at first, jaw clenching, but I step in his path as he heads for the barn door. “Rhett. I mean it. Don’t make me chase you down like a damn prospect.” He finally stops, shoulders tight, breathing hard.
“You really think waiting is going to save her?” he mutters, eyes full of frustration and something that looks a lot like fear.
“I think charging in alone will get you shot,” I say, matching his tone, not letting him look away. “She needs us both. Don’t let anger do the talking for you.”
He lets out a harsh breath and looks away, fighting some internal battle. I know that look. I’ve worn it myself. It’s the same one I had when my old man got locked up and I realized there was no one coming to save us. It’s the look of a man who’s lost faith, but doesn’t know how to walk away.
For a second, I think he’ll push past me. Then he sighs, raking a hand through his hair.
“Alright, Bishop. We’ll do it your way—for now.”
I don’t let myself relax yet, but I nod and we head back to the main house.
Inside, the clubhouse is starting to fill. The clock on the wall says just past noon, and the air is thick with stale beer and the low rumble of bikes outside. Some of the younger guys—prospects and patched members both—are trickling in, voices a little too loud, energy tense. Everyone knows something’s off, even if they don’t know the details.
Dog heads straight for the bar, eyes scanning the room, jaw set in that stubborn line. I follow and pour him a double, watching his hands shake a little as he takes the glass. I’m about to say something, but he’s already speaking, voice rising above the buzz of conversation.
He lifts his chin toward Twitch, who’s standing at the edge of the crowd with his arms crossed, tension written all over his face. “Twitch, you were there,” Dog says, voice cutting through the room. “You saw those smug bastards. Are we going to let them trample all over us?”
Twitch shifts his weight, jaw working as he looks around at the brothers, then finally nods. “Hell no,” he says. “Not in my town.”
That simple answer sets off a new wave of mutters and movement—guys straightening up, hands balling into fists, the temperature in the room rising by the second.
“You all know what happened last night,” Dog says, not quite shouting, but every head in the place turns. “You want to act like nothing’s changed, fine. But I’m done waiting around while one of ours is out there, alone and outnumbered.”
I look around. Twitch and Rooster must have talked with the other recruits.
Rooster, leaning on the pool table, says, “She was with us, and now she’s in the wind. That ain’t right.”
Dog slams his glass on the counter. “We don’t leave people behind. That’s what makes us different. We ride, we fight, we bleed for each other, and now we’re just twiddling our thumbs because Reaper’s afraid to piss off the Bratva?”
A low grumble spreads through the room. Someone else—Twitch, maybe—calls out, “I say we back Dog. I’m tired of acting like we owe Novikov shit.”
More voices chime in, some with cautious agreement, others with more force. The room splits slowly, invisible lines being drawn in the dust. I watch it happen—members drifting behind Dog, others looking to me for guidance, a few uncertain which side they’ll take.
Dog looks at me, something desperate flickering in his eyes. “Now who’s with me?” he says, louder this time. “You want to keep playing it safe, fine. But I’m riding out for Katya, with or without the patch.”
I look around at these men, brothers in arms, all of us wounded by this business one way or another. We’re fractured,hanging by threads. Nobody wants to start a fight, but nobody wants to back down either.
My hand tightens on the bar. “You all want to ride out blind, you better remember what you’re up against,” I say, voice low and clear. “This isn’t just a rescue mission, it’s war. And once we start, there’s no coming back.”
The room goes still, every breath held. Dog and I lock eyes, neither willing to step down. I don’t want to take on a brother, but I’ll stand my ground if I have to.
The air is thick, suffocating, the old wood almost groaning with the strain. For a second, it feels like one wrong word, one misplaced gesture, could tip us all into chaos.
“All right, enough. We aren’t enemies here. We need a plan, not a goddamn mutiny,” I say.
The murmurs don’t die down. I know I’m losing them by the minute, and I need to act fast.
I hold up my hands, trying to calm the surge before it boils over. “Listen up,” I say, my voice steady but not quite as loud as Dog’s. “We all want Katya back. We all want to make those Russians pay. But going in half-cocked, split down the middle, that’s how we get ourselves killed. We need to work together, not tear each other apart.”
The words hang for a second, but I can see it’s not enough. People start looking at each other, choosing sides almost unconsciously. Rooster and Twitch gravitate closer to Dog, their faces set, conviction clear. Others, loyal or cautious or just wary of chaos, take a step toward my end of the bar, looking to me for leadership.
Dog’s team grows by the minute, old loyalists, men who’ve always followed their hearts first and orders second. I recognize the look in their eyes, the stubborn set to their jaws. They won’t be talked down.
