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CHAPTER THREE

Ruger

The fluorescent lights in church cast harsh shadows across the redwood table as I lean forward, studying the territory maps spread before me.

Everyone's here—all twelve patched members of my charter.

"The Grim Vultures hit three of our storage locations last month," Ounce reports, marking red X's on the map. "They're not taking product, just fucking with inventory. Testing us."

I run my thumb along my glass of Jack, letting the familiar burn ground me.

After leading this club for three years, you learn to smell danger before it fully arises.

The Vultures have been circling since I took over from Striker—waiting for weakness, looking for cracks.

"They want to see how we respond," Bloodhound adds from my right side.

He's been my Sergeant at Arms since day one, the only man besides Aunt Ellie who knows all my demons.

"Intel says Striker's been spotted in Pittsburgh," Maddox growls. Our enforcer isn't known for holding anything back. "Timing's suspicious."

My hand tightens around the glass.

Three years since I exiled my uncle, and the bastard still won't let go.

Pittsburgh. Why? Why the fuck can’t he move on with his life?

"We need eyes on him," I decide. "Bloodhound, reach out to our contacts. I want to know who else he's meeting with, what he's planning."

Before anyone can respond, my phone buzzes against my cut—Aunt Ellie.

She knows better than to interrupt church unless it's life or death, and I always shoot her a text to let her know when I’m going in church.

I let it ring until it stops.

Five seconds later, it buzzes again.

Then again.

"Take five," I announce, standing abruptly.

I exit the room, heading outside into the hallway and answer on the fourth ring. "What's wrong?"

"Ryan, honey, I need you to come to the bar." Her voice shakes in a way that makes my stomach drop. She still calls me by my real name when she's upset. "It's important."

"Are you hurt? Is someone botherin’ you?"

"No, nothing like that. Just... please come. I need to talk to you about the bar."

Something in her tone—something like fear—gets my boots moving. "I'll be there in twenty."

I head back inside church and rap my knuckles on the table. "Emergency at the bar. Ounce, you've got point until I get back."

"Everything okay, Prez?" Coin asks, our secretary already reaching for his notebook to record the interruption.

"Don't know yet. If I'm not back in two hours, send someone to check on me."

I don’t waste any time waiting for any replies. I head out, needing to know what the fuck is going on.

Aunt Ellie is the only family I have left, and it sounds like she really needs my help.

The ride to Backroads gives me too much time to think.

Aunt Ellie has been a little different lately—quieter, more distracted.

I've been so focused on club business, watching our territory for signs of fuckers getting too ballsy, that I might have missed something happening right under my nose.

Again.

The gravel crunches under my tires as I pull into the lot.

Early afternoon means the place is mostly empty—a few regulars nursing beers, the lunch crowd already cleared out.

I spot Tildie immediately, moving behind the bar with that careful grace I always notice.

She looks different in daylight—still gorgeous, but softer somehow.

Like sunlight reveals more details that the dim bar lights hide at night.

Ellie stands at the end of the counter, wringing her hands.

She sees me and physically sags with relief. "Ruger," she calls out, using my road name.

Professional distance. That can't be good.

I settle onto a stool, watching her face. "What's going on?"

"Let's talk in the office."

The tiny office behind the kitchen is crammed with filing cabinets and precarious stacks of paperwork.

Ellie closes the door and slumps into the desk chair.

"Honey, I need to tell you something."

"I'm listenin’."

"The bar's in trouble. Financial trouble." She opens the center drawer, pulling out a manila folder. "I should have said something sooner, but I was trying to handle it myself."

She slides the folder across to me.

Inside are bills, bank statements, spreadsheets covered in red ink.

My stomach drops as I scan the numbers.

"How long?" I ask.

"Six months."

"Jesus Christ, Aunt Ellie." I run a hand through my beard. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I've spent my whole life having men solve my problems." Her voice cracks. "I needed to prove I could do this on my own."

I want to yell, holler, remind her I’m here to protect her, but I won’t.

"How bad?"

"Two months before we have to close. Three if we stretch every penny."

I study the numbers again.

Accounts payable stacking up, revenue down, payroll barely covered.

The lunch service helps, but it's not enough to offset dropping evening sales.

"I could?—"

"Before you say it, I won't take your money. Not as charity."

"Not charity. Business." I close the folder, meeting her eyes. "The club needs legitimate fronts. Backroads could be perfect. You stay on as manager, run it like you always have. But the books balance, and you don't lose everything you've built."

She's quiet for so long I think she'll say no.

When she speaks, her voice is small. "I hate that I need saving again."

"You're not being saved. You're accepting a business partnership." I lean forward. "Different thing entirely."

"Terms?"

"The club buys the bar. You stay on as operating manager—full control of day-to-day. We clean up the books, provide capital for improvements, and handle security." I pause. "And nobody loses their job. Especially not Tildie."

Her eyebrows raise at the last part. "Especially not Tildie?"

"She's good at what she does."

"Uh-huh." The knowing look she gives me makes me shift in my seat. "What about my apartment upstairs? I've lived here for years."

"Comes with the deal. Your home's safe."

She studies me, that maternal intuition working overtime. "You know, I hired Tildie six months ago when she showed up desperate for work. Girl took a pay cut just to help me keep this place afloat."

The information hits differently than it should.

Tildie, working for less to protect someone else's dream.

It just adds another layer to the mystery of her past.

"I'll want to review the full books before bringing it to the club," I say, redirecting. "And we'll need to set proper terms. But yeah, Aunt Ellie. I'll buy your bar."

Relief floods her face. "Thank you, Ryan."

"Don't thank me yet. We're still dealing with lawyers and legalities. Could take weeks to finalize."

"I know. But knowing I won't have to let anyone else go, that I can work with you on this… it helps."

We emerge from the office to find Tildie refilling salt shakers at the bar.

She glances up, clearly trying not to eavesdrop but obviously worried. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Ellie answers, shooting me a look that says 'tell her.' "Actually, Ruger's buying the bar. Club business, but it means we're staying open."

Tildie's eyes widen, landing on me. "You're what?"

"Long story. But your job's secure."

Her laugh comes out sharp, almost bitter. "Right. Nothing comes without strings."

The comment lands harder than it should.

I want to tell her about fighting monsters my whole life, about how some protections come without price tags.

But Ellie touches my arm—a silent plea to go easy on her.

This woman's been burned before, sees threats where I'm offering help.

"No strings," I say simply. "Just business."

A regular calls for a beer, and Tildie hurries away.

I watch her go, noting how she keeps glancing back like I might disappear, taking the safety net with me.

"Give her time," Ellie murmurs. "She's been running from something since she got here."

"I know she has."

"Do you?" She studies me. "Because the way you look at her tells me you see more than running."

Before I can respond, the door swings open.

Bloodhound enters, tension in every line of his body. "Prez," he calls out. "We got a problem. Sorry, but it couldn't wait."

"Talk."

"That warehouse fire last week? Found evidence it was a setup. Someone left our marker there deliberately."

It doesn’t take me long to figure out who, or why.

The Grim Vultures have been trying to provoke a war, and now they're framing us for attacks we didn't order.

"Meeting back at church in an hour," I tell him. "Get everyone there."

I turn to Ellie. "I'll bring papers tomorrow. We'll work out the details then."

"Sounds good, honey."

At the door, I pause.

Tildie's serving the regular, that professional smile hiding whatever she's really thinking.

I catch myself memorizing details—the way her hair catches light, how she bites her lip when concentrating.

They’re dangerous thoughts.

But, I can’t focus on this shit right now.

I head back to the clubhouse, keep myself busy and then head back into church with my brothers.

"They're escalating," Maddox comments.

"Or Striker is," Ounce counters. "He knows our security protocols. Could easily coordinate these hits."

"We need to respond," Porter argues, our treasurer’s aggression is coming out thick. "Show strength."

"No." I cut through the rising tension. "We respond smart. Bloodhound, I want surveillance on all our assets. Maddox, double patrols on our territory. They’re slipping in somehow and I want to know how."

"And Striker?" Bloodhound asks.

"Keep gathering intel. When we move, it'll be with complete information."

After church, I find myself staring at Backroads' financial papers in my office.

The numbers tell a story—Ellie refusing to sell, cutting corners, doubling down on her independence.

Pride. It's a family trait.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:

This is Tildie. Ellie gave me your number. Can I ask you something?

Me:

Sure.

Tildie:

Why did you really offer to buy the bar?

I should give her a business answer.

Club needs, money laundering, strategic positioning. Instead, I type:

Me:

Because losing that bar would break Ellie, and I've seen enough of her broken.

Three dots appear, then disappear.

Tildie:

Your aunt says you're one of the good ones. I hope she's right.

The honesty surprises me.

Me:

Why did you stay when Ellie cut your pay?

Tildie:

She needed me. Sometimes you show up for people even when it doesn't make financial sense.

The answer fits everything I'm learning about her.

Loyal to a tee.

Me:

Smart and beautiful. Dangerous combination.

No response. I curse myself for overstepping.

She's skittish as a wild horse, and I'm complimenting her like some teenager with a crush.

Twenty minutes later:

Tildie:

I'm not looking for dangerous men anymore.

Me:

What are you looking for?

Tildie:

Safe spaces. People I can trust.

This conversation is like walking barefoot over hot coals.

One wrong step could burn whatever connection we're building.

Me:

Safety's relative. Trust has to be earned.

Tildie:

Agreed. Goodnight, Ruger.

Me:

Night, darlin'.

I set the phone down, mind churning with too much stress from the day.

Striker's return, the Grim Vultures pulling some shit they know we’ll retaliate for, the bar purchase, and underlying it all—this woman who's managed to burrow under my skin in less than two days.

Sleep isn't going to happen anytime soon, so I make my way to the clubhouse bar.

At this hour, it's quiet—most of the brothers have home or crashed in the rooms upstairs. Just Decorum playing pool by himself and Krypto passed out in the corner.

I settle at the bar, drumming my fingers on the worn wood.

"Rough night, President?"

Venus slinks over from where she'd been organizing bottles.

Her tight tank top leaves little to the imagination, pushing her tits up and out like an offering. She's been around the club for years, knows her way around all of us.

"Something like that," I mutter, watching as she pulls down a bottle of Jack.

She slides a glass toward me, pouring two fingers. "Company helps with rough nights."

I down the whiskey in one swallow, enjoying the burn. "Not tonight."

Venus refills without being asked. "You sure? Bailey and Shayla are around too. We could all help take the edge off." She runs crimson nails along my forearm, a move that usually works on me.

Not tonight.

I shake my head, pulling my arm back. "I'm good."

She studies me, those shrewd blue eyes seeing more than most give her credit for.

Venus may fuck for attention, but she's far from stupid.

She leans against the bar. "What's her name?"

"What?"

"The woman that's got you all twisted up. Only time a man turns down what I'm offering is when he's stuck on someone else."

I take another swallow, considering lying. But what's the point? "Tildie."

"New girl at your aunt Ellie's place, yeah?" She nods, not waiting for confirmation. "Heard she's pretty. Different kind of pretty than what you usually go for."

"What do I usually go for?"

Venus laughs, gesturing to herself and over toward Shayla, who's lounging on a couch texting. "Easy. Available. Uncomplicated."

I can't argue with that.

"She must be something special." Venus pours herself a shot and knocks it back. "Don't worry, no hard feelings. Just let me know if you change your mind."

She saunters away, joining Bailey who's just emerged from one of the back rooms.

I stare at my empty glass, mind full of beautiful amber eyes, chestnut hair, soft curves and those cautious smiles Tildie throws my way.

Sex with Venus would scratch an itch, nothing more.

I've been there plenty of times before, but right now, there's only one woman I can picture naked on top of me, riding me hard until we're both seeing stars.

Only one set of lips I want to taste, one body I want pressed against mine.

Tildie’s… and that's the most fucking dangerous thing of all.