Page 20 of Raze
And if I do go down, I’m taking that bastard with me…
Chapter 8
Raze
The clubhouse is a storm of noise—jukebox blaring, bikers laughing, bottles clinking—but it all fades when Dylan, Keegan, and Caleb burst into the backroom where I’m pacing, my head still spinning from the fight at the bar and the ensuing fallout.
Nico’s stitched up, safe for now, but the Broker’s escape is a lead weight in my gut, and Clay’s glare from the bar says I’ve got hell to pay. I’m the Wolf Riders’ enforcer, the guy who gets shit done, and letting the big fish slip is a mark against my name I can’t afford.
But suddenly, all that worry pales into a distant insignificance…
“Raze!” Dylan’s voice cuts through, sharp with panic. “Nico’sgone. He slipped out—he took Tank’s bike!”
I freeze, my blood running cold.
“He didwhat?” My voice is low, dangerous, but my heart’s pounding.
That damn kid. I should’ve known he’d pull something reckless.
Those blue eyes, that defiant streak—he’s been trouble from the second I laid eyes on him in that warehouse.
But stealing Tank’s Harley? That’s a death wish, even for a hustler like Nico.
Tank’s already storming in, his face red, fists clenched like he’s ready to break something.
“Motherfucker took my ride!” Tank roars, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “I’m gonna snap that kid’s neck!”
“Calm the fuck down,” I roar, but my own anger’s rising, mixed with something sharper—fear. Nico’s out there, wounded, alone, with his .38 and a head full of bad ideas.
I should’ve taken that gun, should’ve tied him down, should’ve known he’d bolt after that kiss outside the bar. That kiss—hard, electric, real—fucked with my head, and now it’s fucking with everything else.
“But… guess who got a tracker,” Tank says, pulling out his phone, his fingers shaking with rage. “I got a GPS on my bike. Bastard ain’t getting far.”
I gather around Tank as he opens the app, and a red dot blinks on the screen, moving fast along the highway, then slowing as it hits a street on the edge of town, one that leads into a dense sprawl of suburbia.
My gut twists.
I know that area—quiet, cookie-cutter houses, the kind of place where guys like the Broker hide out, thinking they’re untouchable. If the boy is right, he could be close to the Broker’s ultimate safehouse, the place where he keeps all his ill-gotten riches.
“He’s going after the Broker,” I say, the realization hitting like a punch. “Nico’s not running away—he’s running toward trouble,trying to fix the mess I made. The kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that, but he’s gonna get himself killed. Let’s move.”
Tank doesn’t argue, grabbing his jacket and a spare Glock from the bar. Clay tosses Tank his keys and warns him about returning his cherished bike in one piece. And knowing Clay, he ain’t kidding—but that’s Tank’s problem.
I’m already halfway to my Harley, the keys heavy in my hand.
The night air’s sharp, rain starting to fall, slicking the gravel lot as I swing onto my bike. Tank’s behind me, his ride roaring to life.
My reputation’s hanging by a thread, and Nico’s out there risking his neck to save it.
Damn that boy all to hell and back.
We tear down the highway, the tracker’s red dot guiding us. Rain stings my face, but I push the bike harder, the engine screaming.
Tank’s a shadow at my side, his fury a match for mine, but I’m not just pissed—I’m worried. Nico’s hurt, his arm stitched but still bleeding under that bandage.
The boy’s got no backup, no plan, just that .38 and a reckless streak wider than this road. That kiss keeps flashing in my mind—his lips, the way he leaned into it, the heat in his eyes. And that’s without even thinking about the way he swallowed and sucked on my cock, giving his mouth to me so obediently and submissively, showing me his true desires.
It’s real, this thing between us, but it’s making me sloppy.
