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Until I spotted the biker on the corner.

At first, I didn’t think anything about it. People went for joy rides in the warmth of summer all the time.

Two days later, playing with Wylie in the yard, I noticed the same biker, parked beneath the shade of a tree two blocks away. With only a handful of houses on Connie’s street, I’d met most of her neighbors, but I’d never seen this guy before.

Thanks to a decade of marriage to Neil, I picked up details about the bike automatically—a sleek, low-riding chopper. Harley-Davidson, probably. The paint job was a gorgeous lush red, dark like claret wine, that faded to an inky black.

My intuition prickled. I didn’t recognize this biker from the Blackjacks, but thirteen years was a long time. Any number of members could have changed in Neil’s club by now.

The biker was huge, with wiry dark curls, thick tattooed forearms folded across his barrel chest, and biceps as big as my head. Squinting in the sunlight, I noticed the unmistakable shape of a cut.Plenty of bikers wore cuts,I reasoned.

But I had the nagging feeling that this cut specifically would be familiar if I could get a good look at it. Belonging to a certain club that was the bane of my existence.

“Hey, Wylie,” I said. “Do you feel like taking a popsicle break?”

He whooped with delight and shot to his feet, racing for the house. I didn’t follow him inside. Instead, I marched straight for the biker.

Even though his wraparound shades hid his eyes, I could tell he noticed my approach when he sat there stock still. Like a rabbit, hoping to avoid the fox’s attention.

When I was close enough to read the patches on his chest, my suspicions were confirmed.

The first patch read, ENFORCER.

Second patch read, BLACKJACKS MC.

“I’m gonna kill him,” I hissed.

I knew Neil would hunt me down as soon as he realized I was still in town. Coming to a stop directly in front of the biker, I crossed my arms.

“Give me your phone,” I demanded.

His eyebrows flicked upward slightly, but his expression remained stone cold.

“Is there a problem?” he replied in a clipped, crisp Russian accent.

“Don’t play dumb. Call Neil—Kingpin, to you.”

The biker fixed me with a long stare, then he retrieved his phone from a pocket of his cut.

“Hey, boss,” he said. “Yes, your woman wishes to speak with you—"

I stripped the phone out of the biker’s grip without giving him a chance to finish.

“Tell your watchdog to stand down, Neil.”

“Hello to you, too, sweetheart,” he said, voice dripping with sarcastic honey.

It made me want to strangle him even more. I huffed with frustration.

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, I believe you. Trust me, I recognize that tone. Every time I heard it, I ended up sleeping on the couch for a week.”

“You don’t get to do this,” I shot back tartly. “Keeping tabs on me. Assigning one of your men to be my bodyguard.”

“It’s just a precaution.”

“I can handle myself,” I countered.