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CHAPTER ONE

Ruger

Present Day…

The leather of my Harley vibrates beneath me as I pull into the gravel parking lot of Backroads Bar & Grill.

It's been three years since I became President, three years since I exiled my uncle Striker, and the weight of the patch on my cut still feels strange sometimes.

But tonight isn't about club business.

The late summer air is thick with humidity, and the neon sign above the door flickers, half the letters burnt out.

This place has been our unofficial neutral territory for years—a shitty little dive where even rival clubs can drink without any blood being shed.

I swing off my bike, Ounce and Bloodhound by my side like they always are.

We can't be too careful these days, not with the rumors we've heard about Striker.

Ounce mutters, nodding toward the bar's window. "You seeing what I'm seein'?"

Through the grimy glass, I catch sight of her .

The new bartender Aunt Ellie mentioned during Sunday dinner last week.

My eyes lock on the woman behind the bar, and everything else fades to the background.

She's fucking gorgeous.

Curves that would make a grown man weep, and hair like rich chocolate that falls in waves past her shoulders.

But it's the way she moves that captures my attention—quick and efficient, but with a wariness that tells me she's been burned before.

"Tildie," I murmur to myself, remembering the name Ellie had mentioned.

Bloodhound looks up at me from his phone, obviously not paying attention. "What's that, Prez?"

"Nothin'. Let's go."

We push through the door, and the familiar scent of stale beer and fried food hits me.

The place is half empty, which is typical for a Tuesday night.

A few regulars nurse their drinks at the bar, and I spot Decorum playing pool in the back with Krypto.

Ellie looks up from wiping down tables, her face lighting up when she sees me.

The bruises from that night have been gone for years now, but sometimes I swear I can still see them.

She retired from the hospital but bought the bar and works here now—says it keeps her busy, keeps her mind off things.

"Hey, honey," she says, shooting me a bright smile. "Tildie, meet my nephew Ruger."

The new bartender, Tildie, turns at the sound of my name.

When our eyes meet, something electric passes between us.

Her amber eyes widen slightly, and I notice how her tongue darts out to wet her lips nervously.

Up close, she's even more stunning.

Full lips that naturally form a pout, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and holy hell, those curves.

Her tank top hugs her voluptuous breasts, and her jeans cling to hips that were made for a man's hands to grip.

She already reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniel's. "The usual, Ruger?"

I shoot my eyebrows up, already impressed. "You know my drink?"

A small smile crosses her face. "Ellie told me what the regulars drink."

I settle onto a barstool, watching her pour two fingers of whiskey like a damn professional.

When she slides the glass across the bar, our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I see her breath catch.

"Thanks, darlin'."

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture that I find surprisingly sexy. "You're welcome."

I take a slow sip of the whiskey."How long you been working here? Think my aunt has been hidin' you away."

I know it hasn't been long. Aunt Ellie told me that much.

Honestly, Aunt Ellie let her other bartender go, so now she and Tildie are handling the bar most days.

She hasn't told me why she finally gave Veronica the can, but I have some ideas, and none of them are good.

Her voice is cautious, like she's not sure how much to reveal. "About six months."

"Ah, you from West Virginia?"

"No, the Pittsburgh area." She pauses, then adds, "But I've been in Morgantown for a while now."

I notice how she avoids giving specifics, how her shoulders tense slightly with my question.

This woman has secrets, and my curiosity is piqued.

"Your aunt told me you were the President, um, but it's on your cut too," she observes, nodding toward my leather vest.

"Good eye."

"Hard to miss." She starts wiping down the bar, her movements coming like second nature. "Ellie talks about you sometimes."

"All good things, I hope."

The corner of her mouth twitches. "She says you're complicated."

I laugh, a genuine sound that surprises me. "That's one way to put it."

Our conversation is interrupted when Bloodhound clears his throat behind me. "You want the usual corner table?"

I nod, but hesitate before moving. "Keep 'em coming," I tell Tildie, tapping my glass.

Her smile is small but real. "I can do that."

I join my brothers at our table, but my attention keeps drifting back to the bar.

Watching Tildie work makes my cock twitch.

She remembers drinks without scribbling notes like an amateur, handles the drunk bastard at the end of the bar like she's done it a thousand fucking times before, and moves like every move she makes is calculated—like she's avoiding being cornered.

Maddox snaps his fingers in front of my face. "Earth to Prez."

I grumble, "What?"

"Ounce was telling us about the Grim Vultures sniffing around our territory again."

I force myself to focus on club business. "What have the fuckers been doing?"

"Moving product through the south side," Ounce reports, his face grave. "They're testing us, seeing how far they can push now."

My jaw tightens.

I've been expecting this. Honestly, it's surprising we made it this long without too many issues from them.

"They've hit four of our drop points in the past month," Bloodhound adds, his voice low enough that the other patrons won't overhear. "Not taking cash, just fuckin' with our inventory. It's a message."

"What's the message?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"That they don't respect the new leadership," Maddox growls. "Think three years is long enough for us to get soft."

I take a long pull from my whiskey, letting the burn ground me while I process this.

The Grim Vultures have been testing the waters since I took over, but they've been patient.

Waiting for the right moment to push.

"Set up a meet with Viper," I decide. "See what he's really after before this turns into a war we don't need."

As we discuss strategy, I notice the bar getting rowdier.

A group of men in work boots have claimed the counter, already deep into their drinking.

Three years of being President has taught me to read a room, and these bastards are trouble.

"Another round, beautiful!" the loudest one slurs, slamming his empty glass on the bar.

He's built like a linebacker, neck tattoo creeping up from under his collar.

Tildie approaches with a fresh pitcher, her professional smile firmly in place. "Ten minutes until last call, gentlemen."

"Plenty of time to get to know you better," Neck Tattoo leers, his buddies chuckling as his eyes roam over her body. "Goddamn, look at those tits. Real ones too, from what I can see."

My hand tightens around my glass.

Every head at our table turns toward the bar.

"How about showing some respect?" Tildie says, her voice steady, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she pours.

"Respect?" He laughs, the sound grating. "You've got it backwards, sweetheart. A body like that, you should be thanking us for the attention."

I'm already moving before the words finish leaving his mouth.

Three years of being President means I'm an expert at handling shit before it escalates.

"She asked nicely," I say, appearing beside him. "I won't."

The bastard turns, his drunk eyes trying to focus on me.

Recognition doesn't dawn until he spots my cut.

To his credit, his friends go quiet, but this prick's too fucked up to think straight.

"Saint's Outlaws," he scoffs. "Think your patches scare everyone?"

Wrong answer.

I grab his wrist before he reaches for Tildie. "Apologize to the lady."

"Fuck—"

I squeeze harder, bones grinding together until he yelps. "Try again."

"Let... go... you bastard!"

Without releasing him, I lean in close. "Here's how this works. You apologize to the lady, pay your tab, and walk your drunk ass out of here. You come back, you speak to her with respect. You even think about putting your hands on her, and I'll rip your arm off and beat you with it."

His face turns interesting shades of red and purple. "S-sorry," he gasps out.

"Not to me," I growl, nodding toward Tildie.

"Sorry, ma'am," he wheezes.

I release him, and he stumbles backward.

His friends are already pulling out cash, clearly more sober than their buddy, then again, maybe it was this enlightening experience that sobered them up.

"Evening, gentlemen," I say coldly, watching them gather their drunk friend and make for the exit.

The bar has gone quiet, everyone pretending they weren't watching.

I turn to Tildie, who's gripping the bar with white knuckles.

"You okay?" I ask, softening my voice.

She nods, but I see her hands shaking. "Thank you."

"No one—" I catch myself before saying 'touches what's mine.'

Three years of therapy courtesy of Ellie still hasn't completely fixed my possessive streak. "No one gets to disrespect you like that."

Her amber eyes meet mine, something shifting in their depths.

I see gratitude, yes, but also fear. Like she's trying to figure out what I want in return.

"I had it under control," she says softly.

"I know." I lean against the bar, close enough to smell her perfume—something warm and sweet that makes me want to move closer. "But you shouldn't have to."

The air between us crackles with tension. I watch her throat work as she swallows, noticing how her breathing quickens.

"Let me get you boys another round," she offers. "On the house."

"You don't need to do that," I tell her.

"I want to."

The way she says it—firm, determined—tells me arguing will only be pointless.

Ellie was right to hire this one.

There's steel beneath that beautiful exterior.

I return to my table, but my focus keeps drifting back to her. The way her hips sway when she walks, how she bites her lip when concentrating on pouring.

When she bends to grab something from the lower shelf, giving me a perfect view of her ass, I have to shift in my seat to accommodate my growing… problem.

Ounce smirks, noticing what everyone else undoubtedly is. "Someone's got it bad."

"Shut the fuck up."

Maddox chimes in. "Been a while since you looked at a woman like that, Prez."

They're right.

Three years of leading the club, dealing with Striker's messes, and keeping everyone alive hasn't left much time for women.

None worth more than a quick fuck, anyway.

But Tildie… she seems different.

There's something about her—something beyond the obvious attraction.

Around closing time, the other patrons trickle out, leaving the place to us and the staff.

I find myself at the bar again, watching Tildie close down.

"Can I ask you something?" she says, not meeting my eyes.

"Shoot."

"Why did you really step in back there?"

I study her carefully. "Because assholes like that don't get to touch women who don't want to be touched."

"And that's it?"

"That's it," I lie smoothly.

She doesn't look convinced. "Most men in your... life... they usually want something in return."

The bitterness in her voice tells me she's speaking from experience. Someone's taught her not to trust.

"I'm not most men."

She lets out a sharp laugh. "Right."

"Tildie," I say, and she finally looks at me. "I don't know what happened to you before, but I'm not him."

Something flickers in her eyes—pain, maybe, or fear. "How do you know it was a 'him'?"

"Because I recognize the signs." And I do. Years of watching my aunt heal, of seeing the way she still flinches at sudden movements sometimes. "Someone hurt you."

She turns away, focusing on the cash register with laser intensity. "I need to finish closing up."

I should leave it alone.

Three years of being President has taught me when to push and when to back off, but something about her draws me in.

"You know," I say, watching her count bills, "if you ever need backup?—"

"I don't," she interrupts, her voice sharp.

"Everyone needs backup sometimes."

"No offense, but I've learned not to trust men who wear 'badass' like it's a personality trait."

I can't help but grin. "Fair enough. But the offer stands."

She finally looks at me again, studying my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle. "Why are you being so nice?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a complete asshole."

That gets a small smile out of her. "Just mostly?"

"Mostly," I agree.

The tension between us eases slightly.

She finishes her closing duties while I nurse one last whiskey, both of us pretending this conversation isn't fueled with something we're not ready to admit.

Aunt Ellie emerges from the back room with her purse. "You heading out?"

I stand, pulling out my wallet. "Yeah."

"You boys' money's no good here," Ellie says firmly. "Family discount."

I shoot Tildie a look. "Told you the owner plays favorites."

"Good to know," she says quietly.

As we head for the door, I pause at the bar. "See you tomorrow, Tildie."

"Probably," she replies, her walls coming right back up.

Outside, the night air has cooled down considerably, and thank fuck for that.

My brothers are already on their bikes, waiting.

"You coming back tomorrow?" Bloodhound asks the question innocently enough, but I hear the underlying curiosity.

"It's a good place to think about club business," I say vaguely.

"Right," Ounce smirks. "Club business."

We ride back to the compound, but my mind stays at the bar.

The way Tildie's guarding herself makes me think she's running from something—or someone.

Back at the clubhouse, I head straight to my office.

Paperwork never stops—even in the club, bills need paying and the books need balancing.

But as I review supply manifests and territory reports, my phone buzzes.

Aunt Ellie:

You were good with Tildie tonight. Proud of you. Appreciate you not jumping her bones the first second you could. I know she's your type.

I can't even hold back my laugh.

Me:

Ah, so was this some blind matchmaking shit?

Aunt Ellie:

No. Just don't scare her off, Ryan. She's the only one who stayed when I let the others go… took a pay cut to help me keep the bar open.

I stare at the last text for a long moment before responding:

What's going on with Backroads… and what's her story?

Aunt Ellie:

I'll tell you about the bar later. I'm beat, sweetheart. As far as Tildie goes, not my story to tell. Give her time.

I don't like this. Aunt Ellie never keeps anything from me, not since shit went down with my uncle.

I set the phone down, leaning back in my chair.

The possessiveness I felt earlier wasn't just a protective instinct. It was something primal, immediate.

It's like seeing her flipped a switch I didn't know I had.

I've taken plenty of women to bed over the years. Quick fucks to release tension, meaningless encounters that left me feeling empty afterward.

But none of them made me feel like I'd been hit by lightning just from touching their hand.

My phone buzzes again.

Bloodhound:

Striker's been spotted in Pittsburgh.

The message kills my mood instantly.

Three years, and the bastard still can't let go.

Striker's been making noise through our contacts—bitter complaints about being forced out, threats about coming back to reclaim what's "his."

Me:

Keep tabs on him. Let me know if you hear about him heading this way.

Bloodhound:

Copy that, Prez.

I close my eyes, picturing Striker's face that night.

The rage, the entitlement, the complete lack of remorse for what he'd done to my aunt.

Even after all this time, I still don't regret exiling him.

But his presence in Pittsburgh, just hours away, is concerning.

Pittsburgh.

Where Tildie said she was from.

Coincidence?

Maybe. But I've learned to question coincidences.

I return to my reports, but my mind drifts.

Tildie's careful movements, the way she positions herself with exits in sight.

Her reaction to my cut—recognition but also fear.

This woman's been around dangerous men before.

Tomorrow, I'll go back to that bar.

Part of it is club business—we need to establish a stronger presence to send a message to the Grim Vultures.

But mostly, it's about her.

I want to know what makes Tildie tick.

What shadows haunt those beautiful amber eyes.

Why a woman that stunning is slinging drinks in a dive bar instead of ruling some lucky bastard's world.

She's trouble.

Every instinct I've developed in thirty-two years tells me so.

She's the kind of trouble that changes everything, that makes you question everything.

But as I finally head upstairs to my room, all I can think about is chocolate hair and amber eyes, full lips and dangerous curves.

The way my skin burned where we touched, how her voice wrapped around my name.

I should probably run in the opposite direction.

Instead, I'm already planning what time to roll into Backroads tomorrow.