Page 2 of Jace (Wolf Rider MC Daddies #2)

Caleb

I should’ve known better than to agree to meet Justin at The Rusty Spur…

The place reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey, and the floor feels like it’s coated in a decade’s worth of spilled beer.

I shift in the corner booth, my copy of Persuasion open in front of me, but I haven’t turned a page in ten minutes.

The jukebox wails some rock song, and the laughter from a group of leather-clad bikers at the bar drowns out any hope of focus.

This is not my scene—not by a long shot.

I’m a high school English teacher, for crap’s sake. My evenings are supposed to involve grading essays and chamomile tea, not dodging leering glances in a dive bar in Willow Creek.

Justin, my colleague and self-proclaimed “fun coach,” swore this place had character. “It’s authentic!” he’d said, like that was a selling point.

Now Justin’s twenty minutes late, and I’m stuck here, feeling like a fish in a shark tank.

I adjust my glasses, run my hand through my hair, and try to sink deeper into Jane Austen’s world. Anne Elliot’s quiet strength usually calms me, but tonight, my nerves are buzzing, and it’s not just the bar’s chaos.

It’s him .

I felt his eyes on me the second I looked up from my book. He’s across the room, leaning against the bar like he owns the place, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with tattoos snaking down his arms and a leather vest that screams trouble.

His dark hair is mussed, like he just rolled out of a fight or a bed, and his jaw is sharp enough to cut glass.

But it’s his eyes—piercing, predatory—that make my stomach flip. And those eyes are staring at me, unapologetic, like I’m the only thing in this smoky hellhole worth looking at.

I drop my gaze back to my book, my cheeks burning.

I’m not used to this kind of attention—not from guys like him.

In college, I dated safe boys, the kind who wore khakis and talked about law school. Kind of similar to me in fact.

This guy though?

He’s the opposite of safe. He’s the kind of man who’d burn the world down and grin while doing it. I sneak another glance, and he’s still watching, a slow smirk curling his lips.

My heart stumbles.

God, he’s trouble. And the kind of trouble I should run from…

So why can’t I look away?

I force myself to read, but the words blur. My mind’s spinning, caught between curiosity and caution.

I came to Willow Creek to teach, to make a difference, not to get tangled up with some bad boy who probably has a rap sheet longer than my syllabus.

But there’s something about him—something raw, magnetic—that makes my skin hum. I’m not naive. I know what men like him want: a quick thrill, a conquest. I’m not that boy…

At least, I don’t think I am.

The air shifts, and I know he’s coming before I see him. His presence is like a storm rolling in, heavy and inevitable and potentially even dangerous unless I stay alert.

I keep my eyes on my book, but my pulse races as his boots thud closer. The booth creaks as he slides in across from me, uninvited, his leather scent—oil, smoke, and something distinctly male—cutting through the bar’s haze.

I glance up, and those eyes hit me like a punch, dark and intense, with a glint of amusement.

“Gotta say, boy’,” He says, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that sends a shiver down my spine, “You’re the last thing I expected to find in a place like this.”

I push my glasses up, trying to steady myself. He’s even more overwhelming up close—tattoos curling across his forearms, a faint scar on his knuckles, and that smirk that says he’s used to getting what he wants.

But I’m not some bimbo boy who’ll melt under a hot guy’s gaze.

I tilt my chin, meeting his eyes. “And you’re exactly what I expected,” I say, keeping my voice cool despite the heat creeping up my neck. “Leather, tattoos, and a corny line ready to go.”

He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that feels like it could shake the walls. “You got me there. But a guy’s gotta try when he sees a boy like you. What’s your name, bookworm?”

I hesitate. Giving him my name feels like stepping onto a tightrope, but there’s a challenge in his gaze I can’t resist. “Caleb,” I say, letting a small smile slip through, just enough to keep him guessing.

I know this is terrible and I know for sure that this man is serious trouble, but I can feel my cock hardening inside my pants. It’s almost like the more I see how wrong this guy is, the harder I get.

Shit.

Stay cool you idiot.

And stay alert, he’s bad news…

“Caleb,” he repeats, like he’s tasting it, claiming it. “I’m Jace. And I’m guessing you’re not here for the ambiance.”

I glance around, wrinkling my nose at the haze of smoke and the biker snoring at the next table. “Not exactly. Meeting a friend. He’s late.” I meet his eyes again, bolder now. “And you? Just here to… intimidate the furniture?”

His grin widens, and he leans closer, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate tone that makes my breath catch. “Oh, I’ve got better things to intimidate, Caleb. Like boys who read books in bars and think they can handle a place like this.”

My cheeks flame, but I hold his gaze, refusing to let him rattle me. “Maybe I can handle more than you think,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. It’s not like me to flirt like this, but there’s something about him—his confidence, his edge—that pulls it out of me.

By this point, my dick is throbbing inside my chinos. I can’t control myself, it’s like every word that Jace is saying is doing something extra special to me. I don’t want to be reacting like this, I really don’t. But...

His eyes darken, and for a second, I swear the air between us crackles. “Careful, boy’,” he says, his voice laced with something deeper, something commanding. “You keep talking like that, and I might take it as an invitation to warm that ass of yours up with a firm hand on it.”

I bite my lip, and his gaze drops to my mouth, hungry and unyielding.

My pulse is a drumbeat now, and I’m hyper-aware of everything—his broad shoulders, the way his fingers curl around his glass, the heat radiating off him.

I should shut this down, tell him to leave, but part of me—a reckless, buried part—wants to see how far this can go.

His phone buzzes, breaking the spell. He glances at it, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t answer. “Someone important?” I ask, teasing, but I’m curious too.

Who’s texting a guy like him in a place like this? Is it a partner? Or another boy he’s got on the side? But there’s something about Jace that tells me he’s no cheater. But that doesn’t mean he’s not trouble.

In fact, I’m pretty certain that Jace is the most trouble I’ve ever met. And it’s not even close.

“Someone who thinks they are,” he replies, his tone clipped as he shoves the phone back in his pocket. The shift in his mood is subtle, but I catch it—a flicker of something heavier, like he’s carrying a weight I can’t see.

I lean back, trying to regain my footing. “So, Jace,” I say, keeping my voice light, “What’s a guy like you doing in a shithole like this? Besides hitting on boys with books.”

He chuckles, the tension easing. “Just blowing off steam. Long day.” He doesn’t elaborate, but the way he says it, like it’s more than just a bad day at the office, makes me wonder what his world is really like.

Dangerous, probably.

Definitely not my world. The most dangerous I get is when I hand out a detention, and even then that’s a last resort that I’d really, truly, much rather do anything else than resort to.

I’m about to ask more when I overhear a snippet of conversation from the bar—two bikers, their voices low but urgent. “Vipers hit the warehouse last week,” one says. “Clay wants blood.”

My stomach twists. I don’t know what it means, but it sounds like trouble, the kind that follows men like Jace.

He notices my shift, his eyes narrowing. “You okay, Caleb?”

“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Just… not used to places like this.”

He studies me, like he’s trying to read my thoughts. “You don’t have to be,” he says, softer now, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s offering me an out—or a challenge. “But something tells me you’re not running.”

Before I can respond, his phone buzzes again, this time a call. He curses under his breath, checking it, and I catch a flash of annoyance.

“Gotta take this,” Jace says, standing, but he leans down, so close I can feel the heat of him. “Don’t go anywhere, boy. We’re not done.”

His words send a thrill through me, half-warning, half-promise.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, matching his intensity with a spark of my own.

He chuckles, a low, dangerous sound, and heads for the door, his stride all confidence and power.

I watch him go, my heart pounding, my book forgotten. The bar feels louder now, the bikers’ voices sharper, and I’m left with a mix of exhilaration and dread.

Jace is trouble—everything about him screams it.

But as I touch my lips, still tingling from the way he looked at me, I know one thing: I’m not running.

Not yet …