Page 9 of Sexting the Bikers
There’s a pause. “Yeah,” he says finally, and the line goes dead.
I slide the phone down, and Dog’s still standing there, smiling at me like he’s waiting for something.
I already know what it is.
My stomach knots, but I force my hand forward, offering him the phone like it’s no big deal. He takes it, his fingers brushing mine. Rough. Warm. Too familiar.
He taps the screen fast, punching in a number, a little too confident about it.
“When you get bored of that old man in there,” Dog says, flashing me that crooked smile, “call me. I’ll show you a good time.”
I snort under my breath. “Aren’t you sweet?” I say. “Like a puppy.”
He freezes, eyebrows lifting. “Puppy?” he echoes, like he can’t believe I said it. He hands my phone back, shaking his head. “Never heard that one before.” There’s an edge to his grin now.
I tuck my phone away, giving him a slow look. “Is that so?”
Dog leans in slightly, close enough that I catch the faint scent of smoke and motor oil clinging to him. “People don’t call me that unless they’ve got a death wish. You’d be surprised,” he says, his voice dropping low, “what I do when someone underestimates me.”
Before I can answer, Reaper’s voice cuts through the silence.
“Dog,” he calls from down the hallway. “We’re leaving.”
Dog straightens up, the lazy grin slipping back into place.
He looks at me like he’s not quite ready to go. “Catch you later, princess,” he says, giving me a two-fingered salute.
I watch him go, the swagger in his walk, the way he doesn’t bother glancing back.
3
REAPER
The familiar stretch of cracked asphalt winds up the hill, leading us back to the only place that still feels like it belongs to us.
The clubhouse comes into view through the dust and fading light—a weather-beaten farmhouse that’s been patched and rebuilt more times than I can count. The paint is peeling, the porch leans a little too far to the left, and half the shutters hang by stubborn, rusted hinges. A battered Ravagers flag droops from a pole near the fence, the colors faded but still flying.
Most people would call it a dump.
To us, it’s home.
Dog kicks his bike into the gravel first, the engine coughing before falling silent. Bishop pulls in right behind him, his face as closed off as ever. I kill the ignition on my own bike last, the engine ticking as it cools under the fading sun.
For a moment, the three of us sit there, the heat from the ride still clinging to our backs, the dust settling around us like a tired sigh. Nothing moves except the wind stirring the tall grass beyond the fence.
The world feels too quiet.
I swing my leg off the bike and head for the front door without a word, my boots heavy on the warped boards. The screen door squeals as I shove it open, the familiar smell of beer, smoke, and old leather hitting me the second I step inside.
The main room is wide and open, broken into rough zones. A battered pool table leans against one wall, the green felt ripped down the middle from a brawl two months back. Couches sag in the corners, patches of duct tape barely holding the seams together. The walls are covered in old club photos, faded patches, and hand-painted slogans nobody remembers writing anymore.
In the back corner, near the kitchen that’s more rusted steel than functioning appliances, Rooster and Twitch are parked at the scarred bar, nursing beers.
Rooster spots us first, his sun-creased face cracking into a lopsided grin.
“Well, look who finally rolled in,” he calls, raising his bottle. “How’d it go with the Death Master?”
I shrug out of my cut and toss it onto the back of a chair. The patch catches the last of the light from the dirty windows, the Ravagers insignia flashing dark red for half a second before settling into shadow.
