Page 13 of Raze
But the way my body reacted, the way I’m still thinking about his touch, says otherwise. I’m in deep, and I need to stay sharp, not get cozy with these guys spinning tales about their biker Daddies…
“Come on,” Keegan says, jerking his head toward a corner of the bar where an Xbox is hooked up to a beat-up TV. “We’re playingCall of Duty. You in? Takes the edge off after a night like yours.”
I hesitate.
Every instinct says to keep my distance, to watch my back.
These guys seem nice, but this is still Wolf Rider territory, and I’m still the guy who got caught with their shit.
My eyes flick to the door, calculating the odds of slipping out. I’ve got my gun, my wits, and a lifetime of running. I could be halfway across town before they notice. But then I think of Raze—his grip on my arm, the heat of him on the bike, the way he saidboylike it was a promise.
Running’s the sensible move, the one that’s kept me alive since I was sixteen…
So why the hell am I not moving?
“Alright,” I say, forcing a grin. “But I’m warning you, I’m a beast atCall of Duty.” It’s a lie—I haven’t played in years—but it gets a laugh, and I follow them to the corner, needing the distraction.
The TV’s screen glows, casting flickering lights across their faces as Dylan hands me a controller. For a moment, it’s almost normal, like we’re just four guys messing around, not a hustler and three biker boys in a den of killers.
We’re barely into the first match when a shadow falls over us. I don’t need to look up to know it’s Raze. The air shifts, heavy with his presence, and my stomach flips. He’s standing there, all leather and muscle, his shaved head catching the neon glow, his eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in the room. The controller feels slick in my hands, and I set it down, my heart kicking up.
“Boys,” Raze says, his voice low, rough, cutting through the bar’s noise. “Nico’s got other plans.”
Dylan raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t argue.
Caleb and Keegan exchange glances, like they know something I don’t.
I stand, trying to keep my cool, but my ass still aches, a reminder of how deep I’m in with this guy.
“What’s up?” I ask, aiming for casual, but my voice comes out tight.
Raze doesn’t answer, just jerks his head toward the door. “Move, boy.”
I glance at the boys, who give me small, knowing smiles, like I’m about to learn some secret of their world. I follow Raze, my sneakers scuffing the floor, past the pool table and the bikers who eye me like I’m prey.
Outside, the night air is sharp, the storm clouds thicker, the smell of gasoline stronger. Raze’s Harley waits, black and scarred, and he climbs on, not looking back.
“Get on,” Raze growls, and it’s not a request.
I swing my leg over, settling behind him, and my body betrays me again, pressed against the hard lines of his back. Every muscle, every ridge of him is solid, unyielding, and my hands find his waist, gripping tighter than I mean to.
The engine roars to life, the vibration hitting me like a punch, and I bite my lip to keep from reacting. Raze tells me we’re heading to a meet with my old crew—Snake, Tito, maybe the Broker himself—and I’m supposed to be the bait, the snitch who’ll point them out.
It’s a trap, and I’m the key, but all I can think about is Raze, the heat of him, the way he’s got me caught between running and staying.
The highway blurs past, the wind cutting through my jacket, but it’s not enough to cool the fire in my gut. I’ve run from worse—cops, dealers, foster parents who thought fists were parenting—but this time, the urge to bolt is fighting something stronger.
Raze is a storm, all power and danger, and I’m caught in it, wanting to feel the lightning even if it burns. My hands tighten on his waist, and I swear he leans into it, just a fraction, like he feels it too. My .38 presses against my hip, a reminder I could still run, still fight.
It’s the sensible move, the one I’ve always made.
But there’s something about Raze—his voice, his touch, the way he calls meboy—that makes me think I won’t run. Not this time. Not yet.
We’re miles from the clubhouse when Raze pulls off the highway into a lay-by, the gravel crunching under the tires. The bike’s engine cuts out, and the silence is heavy, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of wind through the trees.
Raze doesn’t move, doesn’t turn, just sits there, his broad shoulders tense.
My hands are still on his waist, and I’m hyper-aware of every point of contact, the heat of him seeping through my fingers. I should be planning my escape, but all I can think about is what’s coming next, what Raze wants, and why the hell I’m still here.
