Page 7 of Raze
But despite all this, my dick’s as hard as a piston and my mind is battling not to lapse into a fantasy where I’m at Raze’s mercy, made to be his submissive slave, trained to call him Daddy…
“Stop it, stop it right now,” I mutter under my breath. “Fucking focus.”
The highway stretches out, a black ribbon under a sky heavy with storm clouds. The bike’s vibrations pulse through me, and I shift, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in my gut.
My hands tighten on Raze’s waist, and I swear I feel him tense, just for a second, like he knows exactly what’s going through my head.
Focus, Nico.
I’ve been in tight spots before—dodging cops, outsmarting dealers, talking my way out of a bar fight with a guy who had fifty pounds on me.
I’m 21, been on my own since sixteen, bouncing from foster homes to the streets, living by my wits and my looks. I’ve got a .38 tucked in my waistband, useless now with Raze’s crew flanking us, their bikes rumbling like a pack of wolves. But I’m surprised Raze didn’t check me for a weapon… the gun could come in handy later. And if I need to use it, I will.
Tank and Kash are behind us, hauling a trailer with the crates we—I—was supposed to guard. I’m the expendable kid, always have been, but this time? This time, I might’ve fucked up beyond saving.
We pull off the highway, tires crunching gravel as we roll up to a cinderblock fortress that must be the Wolf Riders’ clubhouse.It’s a squat, ugly building, windows barred, walls scarred with bullet holes and faded paint.
Bikes line the lot, gleaming under floodlights, and the air smells like gasoline and stale beer. A neon sign flickers over the door, half the letters burned out, but the wolf’s head emblem is clear, snarling down at me like a warning.
Dangerous characters are everywhere—guys in leather vests, tattoos crawling up their arms, eyes hard as steel. One’s cleaning a shotgun on a picnic table, another’s passing a bottle of whiskey to a guy with a face like a fist.
A boy with a shaved head and a knife strapped to his thigh glares at me as we pull up, like he’s sizing me up for a coffin. Jeez, this really is happening. Even for me, and everything I’ve seen over the years, it’s intense.
The Wolf Riders areeverythingI’ve heard—ruthless, tight-knit, and not fucking around…
Raze cuts the engine, and the sudden silence is deafening.
“Off,” he snaps, not looking at me.
I swing my leg over, my boots hitting the ground, and I try to keep my cool, but my heart’s pounding. He grabs my arm, his grip bruising but careful, like he’s holding back just enough to keep me in one piece. For now.
Raze drags me through the clubhouse door, past a bar littered with empty bottles and a pool table where two bikers are arguing over a shot. The place smells like sweat and smoke, with heavy metal blasting from a jukebox in the corner.
Eyes follow us—hard, suspicious, ready to pounce. I’m a rabbit in a wolf den, and every instinct screams to run, but I know better. Running’s a death sentence.
Raze hauls me down a dim hallway, his boots echoing on the concrete floor.
My boots scuff behind him, and I’m hyper-aware of his hand on my arm, the heat of it burning through my jacket.
Raze is all muscle and menace, and that low, commanding voice from the warehouse keeps echoing in my head—You made a big mistake, boy.That word,boy, hit me like a shot of whiskey, sharp and warm, and I hate how it’s still lingering, stirring something I don’t have time to deal with.
We reach a backroom, and he shoves the door open, revealing a stark space with a metal chair, a table bolted to the floor, and a single bulb swinging overhead.
I know what this place is.
It’s an interrogation room, no question, and my stomach drops.
I’m expecting a beating—fists, maybe that crowbar one of them was carrying—but Raze pushes me into the chair and steps back, crossing his arms. His leather vest pulls tight over his chest, and those storm-dark eyes lock onto me, peeling me apart.
“Talk,” Raze says, voice low and rough, like he’s holding back a storm of his own. “Who do you work for? Why’re you here?”
I lean back, forcing a grin, though my pulse is racing. I need to think fast, use my charm—but not too much. I need to deliver this just right or it might be all over before I get a chance to work my way out.
“Look, man, I’m just a small-time runner,” I say. “Got hired by some guys to watch their stuff, that’s it. I don’t even know what’s in the crates.”
Raze stares back at me, silent.
It’s a half-truth, my go-to play. Snake and Tito hired me a week ago, said it was easy money, just guard the goods until they set up a buyer. I didn’t ask questions—never do—but I knew it was hot.
