Page 87 of Sexting the Bikers
Nobody has ever stood for me like this, not in Moscow, not in any golden cage. I’ve always been the secret, the pawn to be moved. Tonight I’m the storm in the middle of the field, and men ride all night to draw a line for my freedom.
The wind shivers through my torn dress, and I hug myself, barely feeling the fabric at my arms. My head feels light, my pulse wild in my throat. I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry.
Dog appears at my side, breaking through the chaos. I barely have time to gasp before his mouth is on mine—bruising, desperate, the kind of kiss that says we might not get another chance.
He pulls back just far enough to press his forehead to mine, breathing hard. His eyes are dark and wild and aching with something I haven’t let myself want.
“You okay?” I whisper, fingers skating over a cut at his cheek. He’s still bleeding, and I hate the way he winces when I touch him. “You look like hell.”
He grins, showing teeth. “I’ll go to hell and back for you, kitten. This”—he gestures at the chaos, the bikes, the firelit yard—“all of it. Nobody gets through unless they’re me.”
I want to argue, to tell him to rest, to get patched up, but the words stick. He’s here, and he’s alive, and he’s just promised me the whole world in a single, battered breath. I press my lips to his temple, my hands trembling. “Don’t make a habit of scaring me like that,” I say, but I know I’ll never stop worrying.
Dog cups my face, his thumb gentle at my jaw. “Don’t make a habit of running off with Bratva princes, and I won’t have to.”
He gives my arm a squeeze, then moves back into the crowd. I watch him go, the feeling settling in my gut that none of us are safe, but at least tonight, I’m not alone.
I push through the crowd, scanning faces for Reaper or Bishop, the roar of conversation and engines spilling over into the night. My boots crunch on gravel as I head for the clubhouse—until tonight, I’d only ever seen it empty, quiet in the afternoon with sunlight filtering through the broken blinds. Now, it’s alive.
The door swings open and I step inside. The place is packed. There’s the greasy tang of grilled meat and the low buzz of a dozen conversations overlapping. Wives and girlfriends move around each other in the narrow kitchen, arranging trays of food, stacking loaves of bread, pouring drinks into mismatchedplastic cups. Someone’s set up a battered speaker, classic rock thumping low in the background. A few kids dart between legs, laughing, trying to sneak chips off a tray before one of the older women swats their hands away.
Long folding tables are being set up in the main room, patched together end to end and draped with faded checkered cloths. Plates and cutlery are being laid out in rows, and the air smells like pepper and woodsmoke, with a hint of something sweet.
There’s hardly space to turn around, people shouting for salt, someone else passing down pitchers of iced tea.
I spot Reaper by the far wall, arms crossed, talking with two of the chapter’s older members. He catches my eye and grins, waving me over. I shoulder my way through, dodging a bowl of coleslaw and the swing of a toddler’s toy truck.
“What’s going on?” I ask him, still trying to take it all in.
Reaper’s eyes are bright, his voice carrying just enough so the nearest tables turn to look. “We’re having a barbecue, Katya.”
He calls out over the chatter. “Donella!” The tallest woman in the kitchen waves, wiping her hands on her apron, already bossing the younger girls around. He winks at me, easy and unbothered, like this whole night is under control. “Get comfortable. You’re family now.”
A woman with thick arms and a no-nonsense look stops in front of me, her gaze sharp as a knife. She’s got her hair tied back and flour dusting the front of her shirt, sleeves rolled high. She looks me up and down, eyes landing on the ragged hem of my ruined dress.
“So you’re the one that got the boys all excited tonight.” Her voice is dry but not unfriendly. “What happened to your dress?”
I shrug, mouth quirking. “Reaper,” I answer. No need for more explanation.
She laughs, low and knowing, as if she’s seen this kind of thing before. “Figured. I heard you got these boys to actually clean up this disaster for once.”
“I made a few suggestions,” I admit, not sure if I should feel proud or sheepish.
She nods, pushing a tray toward the end of the table. “Good. Keep suggesting. I don’t need to work all week at the garage, take care of my house and my kids, then drive all the way up here just to clean up after these slobs.” Her eyes flick to a group of guys still dragging in supplies, bickering over who’s supposed to carry what. “Most of them barely know which end of a broom is up.”
A few of the other women laugh, chiming in with their own stories. One tells me how she wrangled the boys into painting the bathroom last winter, another brags about making them fix the leaky roof. Someone else teases that the guys only work this hard when there’s food and company involved.
I glance around, struck by the way everyone moves together, strangers and friends alike. One woman hands off her baby to another with barely a word, a couple of teenagers are hauling chairs out back, and two men come in with arms full of wood for the grill, shooed away by a gray-haired woman who clearly outranks them all.
The sense of community is impossible to miss. Even the kids have their jobs, passing napkins, stacking cups, stealing cookies. The men might lead on the road, but it’s clear the women run things here, keeping everyone fed, the clubhouse running, and the peace held together by a hundred small, unseen acts.
I turn to Reaper, lowering my voice. “Should they really be here? With everything going on, what if Novikov tries something?”
Reaper doesn’t look bothered. He glances around, then back at me with a half smile. “They all know what they signed up for, Katya. Nobody here is afraid of Novikov.”
It sounds reckless to me, but the way he says it makes me believe him, even if just for a moment. Around us, the noise grows as more people come in from the yard. The women keep things moving, herding the men and kids, handing out plates, giving instructions that are followed without hesitation. I notice for the first time that some of the women are wearing leather cuts like the men, only theirs have “Property of” and then a name stitched in white under the club’s rockers.
It should feel old-fashioned, but here it doesn’t. I watch one of them snap her fingers at her husband to grab another case of drinks. He doesn’t complain, just goes. Another woman tells two guys to haul chairs from the back, and they do it without question. The women are everywhere, running the show with a kind of natural authority.
