Page 86 of Sexting the Bikers
“I’ve got plenty.” I shift, drawing her behind my right side, interposing leather and muscle between her and Novikov. “This is me controlling the impulse to feed him to the gulls.”
I sink to one knee in front of her like a knight at a crooked court, the matte edge of my Bowie sliding beneath the crimson folds. Silk parts with the sigh of tearing paper, hem spilling onto the asphalt in a dark river that licks at my boots.
Katya doesn’t flinch. She watches me with eyes so steady it makes my pulse gallop. A breeze from the bay finds the newly bared skin of her calves, and the lamplight paints them gold. I saw through the final thread, then rise slow, offering my hand as if we have all the time in the world.
“Hop on, darling,” I murmur, voice pitched intimate, a promise and a provocation in a single breath. “We’ve got better liquor.”
Her eyes—storm-lit, knowing—flick from my palm to Novikov’s paling face, then back to me. No hesitation. She gathers what remains of that royal red, steps clear of the ruined silk, and swings one leg over the saddle behind me, hips settling against mine like a memory I’ve starved for. My crew exhales approval. Engines thrum. Novikov’s men shift, but none dare breach the invisible kill zone Bishop still paints across their bones.
Katya’s arms slide around my torso, fingers hooking into my belt as if she’s done it a thousand times, and heat roars through my veins, fiercer than exhaust flames. I glance down at the discarded fabric—his opulence, his claim—already soaking upthe oily ground like a broken flag, and I feel something primal click into place.
The night belongs to us now.
I thumb the starter, and cylinders roar alive, drowning the last of Novikov’s protests. As we roll forward, gravel spraying behind the back wheel, Katya leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I may know how to make an entrance, but you make an even better exit.”
I give the throttle a grateful twist and let the bike rumble forward, gravel popping beneath the tires as Bishop’s last shot cracks the façade of Novikov’s manor. Behind us, broken lights glimmer on shattered marble like fallen chandeliers, and the Bratva chorus rises, a frenzy of threats hurled across the courtyard. Their pistols spark, bullets whining off wrought-iron gates, yet none come close enough to catch us.
“We will find you,” Novikov calls, the threat shaped into something almost polite, which makes it all the more absurd. His men echo him, fists raised, a litany of promises about torn territory, missing limbs, unmarked graves. Every sentence rolls across the distance and settles like grit on my skin. I tighten my grip on the handlebars until the leather creaks, feel Katya’s thighs firm around my hips, her heartbeat a drum against my spine. A single laugh escapes me, low and deliberate, the sort of sound that once made my drill sergeant flinch.
“I sincerely hope you do,” I answer, voice thrown over my shoulder so it rides the breeze straight into Novikov’s skull. The floodlights flicker once more, painting his features in a sickly strobe, and for an instant I think I see doubt behind his eyes. Then Bishop’s rifle cracks again, somewhere unseen on high, and a chunk of marble explodes beside Novikov’s polished shoe. My cue. I twist the throttle and the bike surges, gravel spitting as we shoot through the gates.
The front wheel lifts just enough to remind every witness that freedom is never gifted, it’s taken with roaring metal and defiant hearts. Katya leans into me, arms locking tight, her torn gown streaming behind like a banner of rebellion as we shoot through the gates. Pebbles spit from the back tire, fireworks for anyone foolish enough to chase.
We hit the main road, engine screaming in triumph, the cool night slashing across my face. Her laughter slips past my ear, warm despite the wind. Buildings blur into forgotten sketches, windows flash by like bullets that miss their mark, and each corner we cut feels like a promise kept. Katya’s fingers slide beneath my jacket, her nails pressing through cotton, not marking, only reminding me that she’s here, that this moment is alive. I tilt my head just enough to hear her words against the rush of air.
“You really think they’ll follow us?” she asks, voice clear amid the gale.
“I’m counting on it,” I reply, eyes on the ribbon of asphalt caught in the headlight glow. “Better to choose the battleground than wait for it to choose us.”
She rests her cheek between my shoulder blades, and for several miles nothing exists beyond the violent rhythm of the pistons and the taste of salt on the breeze from the distant sea. Orange streetlamps give way to moonlit stretches, the city bleeding into scrubland, then to dirt roads that remember our tires from a thousand reckless nights. Ahead, the horizon flickers with dozens of tiny flames and sputtering headlights, a constellation of two-stroke devotion.
When we crest the final rise, the clubhouse spreads below like a fortified outpost. The old barn has been repainted, the sagging porch reinforced with steel beams, and the yard is alive with machines. Rows of choppers, café racers, and bruiser touring bikes crouch side by side, engines idling or cooling,every exhaust pipe glinting beneath strings of bare bulbs. Men in patched cuts and road-scarred leather stand in loose knots, rifles slung, shotguns resting on boots, machetes sheathed at hips. They hail from every corner of the map, alliances forged over highways and broken fences, summoned tonight by a single word that has always meant more than blood to us.
War.
I coast into the dirt lot, kill the engine in a hush that feels ceremonial, then plant a boot and swing off. Katya slides down after me, her fingers tugging the remnants of that red gown out of the chain’s reach. Conversation falters as faces turn our way, and I watch them take her in, the bruised elegance, the pride that refuses to bend. Several nod, respectful. Some grin like they just glimpsed the first sunrise after winter-long night.
Twitch strides over, grease-streaked and grinning, Dog limping close behind with a fresh dressing on his temple. He slaps my shoulder, then offers Katya a bandanna to tie her hair. The gesture is rough, genuine, a quiet pledge. More riders roll in behind us, headlights sweeping the clearing until the yard looks like an arena lit for judgment.
I step onto the porch and the boards protest beneath my weight, yet they hold, stronger than they appear. The conversations fall silent until only the chirr of insects fills the gap.
I’ve never addressed this many people before, but it comes to me naturally. “You are here because you know where justice lives. You are here because no tyrant should cage innocents, and no oath breaker should think distance keeps him intact.” A murmur answers, swelling into rumble, boots scuffing the dirt in agreement. I rest my right hand on the torn hem of Katya’s dress that I now knot around the steel handlebar. “Tonight a bride chose freedom, and tomorrow morning a syndicate willlearn what freedom tastes like when delivered by a firing line of friends.”
Dog steps forward, blood already crusting at his collar yet grin unbroken. “We’ve stocked the armory. Fifty crates of nine-mil, twenty of twelve-gauge, half a dozen Anti-Materiel souvenirs, courtesy of Bishop’s procurement magic,” he reports, voice loud enough for every corner. Cheers answer, shot glasses thrust skyward where whiskey already sloshes. Katya finds my side, sliding her fingers through mine, and lifts her other hand to touch the Ravagers patch on my cut as if reclaiming sacred ground.
“They think we’re running,” I say, letting my voice carry. “They think we’ll break apart the way cowards do when the odds tilt. But tonight the odds tilt our way, because look around you. Asphalt legends from three states answered the call, not for money, not for territory, but because family was threatened.” I pause, letting the words settle. “Novikov wants a war. We will give him an ending instead.”
A cheer builds like thunder rolling across plains. Boots stomp. Knuckles rap tank tops. The porch shudders with the force of it, and Katya’s smile blooms fierce beside me.
I look at her, feel her hand in mine, and I know exactly why we will win. Not for revenge alone, or reputation, or the songs tomorrow’s prospects will sing. We’ll win because the man who threatens her still breathes, and that’s a problem I intend to correct before another dawn rises.
28
KATYA
The crowd folds around Reaper, voices rising, faces shining with the kind of loyalty that could make even the meanest man hesitate. I watch him take the center, every line of his body thrumming with that restless, unstoppable energy. His voice rolls out over the bikes and steel barrels, and the men hush for him the way they’d hush for thunder—bracing for impact, eager for a sign. I can barely see him now through the press of bodies and the shifting torchlight, just the line of his shoulders and the glint of his patch.
Goose bumps chase down my arms. For one wild moment, I want to throw myself at him, to be folded into the safety of that battered leather. But this is for me too, all of it.
