Page 6

CHAPTER FIVE

Ruger

"Reed just crossed into West Virginia," Bloodhound comments, checking his phone. "Should be here in two hours with Seamus and Butch."

I nod, trying to focus on business instead of Tildie’s soft lips and amber eyes. "Good. Make sure the prospects have the meeting room ready."

Ounce studies me with that knowing smirk that makes me want to punch him. "You look like shit, Prez."

"Fuck off."

"Wouldn't have anything to do with a certain bartender, would it?"

I shoot him a glare that would silence most men.

Ounce just chuckles.

"Leave him alone," Bloodhound says, his gravelly voice neutral. "Man's allowed to have interests outside of the club."

"Since when?" Ounce counters. "He's been married to that gavel for three years."

I ignore them both, thumbing through financial records of businesses tied to the Grim Vultures. "Focus. We need Reed's intel if we're going to stop whatever Striker's planning."

The mention of my uncle sobers everyone up.

Business first, always.

That's the rule I've lived by since taking the Presidency.

But for the first time in three years, something's competing for space in my head.

If I’m being more specific, it’s someone —Tildie.

The way she melted against me in that park, like she was starving for a gentle touch. The cautious trust in her eyes before panic took over.

"Earth to Ruger." Ounce waves a hand in front of my face. "You with us, brother?"

I straighten up, pushing personal shit aside. "Always."

"Sure about that?" Bloodhound asks quietly, those watchful eyes missing nothing. "Because Reed's not coming just for a social call. Vultures have been hitting his territory hard too."

"I know what's at stake today," I snap. "Get the fuckin’ room ready."

They leave me alone with my thoughts and the growing stack of reports.

The Grim Vultures' recent moves suggest coordination with my uncle.

The pieces fit too perfectly to be a coincidence, and knowing my uncle, I know he will never give up moving against us.

And now there's Tildie, whose ex has Vulture connections. Another piece that fits too perfectly.

The question I can't shake: Is she part of this? A plant to get close to me, to get information?

My gut says no.

The fear in her eyes when she got that text was real.

The way she kissed me—hesitant, then honest—that can't be faked.

But I've been wrong before. Trusted the wrong people. Got men killed for my mistakes.

I can't afford to be wrong about her.

My phone buzzes with a message from Ellie:

The bar's closed for Sunday dinner. Will bring potato salad. Tell the boys to behave around Tildie.

Another buzz:

IF she agrees to come. Still working on that.

Sunday dinner at the clubhouse is tradition—our version of normal.

Brothers, old ladies—if there are any—good food, too much liquor, family shit.

I've never brought a woman before, never wanted to.

There's another text, this one from Tildie:

Ellie's insisting I come to some dinner thing tonight. That your doing?

Me:

Club tradition. No pressure.

A long pause, then:

Will you be disappointed if I don't come?

My fingers hover over the screen.

Honest answer? Yes, but pushing would only drive her away.

Me:

Your choice. Always will be.

Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again.

Tildie:

I'll think about it.

It's not a yes, but it's not a no either.

Progress, if you ask me.

The distant rumble of motorcycles signals Reed's arrival.

I tuck my phone away, President mode fully engaged as I head outside to greet one of our biggest allies—the President of the Skulls Renegade MC.

Reed dismounts first—weathered face, salt-and-pepper beard, eyes that have seen too much shit over too many years.

Behind him, Seamus looks like he could wrestle a bear and win, while Butch's watchful gaze scans our compound looking for anything out of place.

"Reed," I greet him, clasping his arm. "Long ride from Tennessee?"

"Worth it to see your ugly mug." He grins, but the humor doesn't reach his eyes. "Got a lot to discuss, kid."

Kid.

I've been running this charter for three years, but to Reed, I'll always be that hot-headed prospect he met many years ago.

We move inside, the mood darkening as we settle around the meeting table.

Bloodhound passes out beers while Ounce lays out maps marking Vulture movements across multiple states.

"They've hit four of our storage locations," I begin. "Nothing major taken, just enough damage to send a message."

Reed nods grimly. "Same in our territory. Coordinated strikes, professional hits."

"Professional?" Bloodhound asks.

"Military timing," Butch explains, his voice quiet but carrying. "Minimal exposure, maximum impact. Someone's running them like a tactical unit now."

"Striker," Seamus growls, the name hanging heavy in the air.

"What makes you think my uncle's involved?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

Reed leans forward. "Because he showed up in Tennessee last month. Saw him on a run with Viper—Vultures' President."

The confirmation lands like a gut punch. "You’re certain?"

Reed slides a manila envelope across the table. "Got photos."

The pictures show Striker looking older but no less dangerous, shaking hands with a man in the Vultures' colors.

The timestamp shows this was just weeks ago.

"There's more," Reed says quietly. "Your uncle wasn't alone."

He passes another photo.

This one shows Striker with a well-dressed man I don't recognize—dark features, expensive suit, cold eyes.

"Marco Santini," Reed identifies him. "Pittsburgh connection. Handles high-end distribution for the Vultures."

My blood runs cold.

Santini.

Tildie's fucking ex.

Reed catches my reaction. "You know him?"

"Know of him," I say carefully, not ready to reveal Tildie's connection. "What else?"

For the next hour, we trade intel—shipping routes, distribution networks, names of corrupt officials.

The picture emerging is clear: Striker's building an alliance to take back what he considers his.

"He wants Morgantown back," Reed concludes. "With Santini's connections and Viper's muscle, he might have the resources."

"Let him try," I snarl, the protective instinct for my territory—for Tildie—rising like a volcano about to erupt.

Reed studies me with those knowing eyes. "This is personal for him, Ruger. Exiling family creates debts that never clear."

"He crossed the line."

"I know. Not saying you were wrong." Reed leans back. "Just saying, prepare for what comes next. Man lost everything—his club, his woman, his pride. That makes him dangerous."

The meeting continues as we plan countermeasures, but my mind keeps drifting to that photo of Santini.

To Tildie's fear when she mentioned her ex.

To the threats suddenly surrounding her from all sides.

When we finally break, the afternoon has turned into the evening.

Prospects scurry around preparing for Sunday dinner, the mood lightening as some brothers filter in with their flavor of the week.

Reed clasps my shoulder as we watch the transformation. "Staying for dinner?"

"If there's room at the table."

"Always room for you and your club," I tell him. "Besides, it’s good for everyone to see leadership united."

He nods, then adds conversationally, "Heard you bought that bar outside town. Backroads."

"News travels."

"Small community." He pauses. "Also heard there's a certain bartender catching your eye."

I shoot him a look. "You here to discuss business or gossip like church ladies?"

He laughs, the sound genuine this time. "When you've been at this as long as I have, you learn that a President with his head straight makes better decisions. Women can either steady you or shake you."

"She's not—" I stop, unwilling to lie. "It's complicated."

"Isn't it always?" His knowing smile reminds me he's seen countless club romances rise and fall over decades. "Bring her around tonight. Let me see for myself."

"If she comes. She's...cautious."

Understanding crosses his weathered face. "Smart woman. We'll be on our best behavior."

I check my phone—no new messages from Tildie.

The possibility she might skip tonight sits heavier than it should.

"I'll be back," I tell Reed, making a sudden decision. "You good for an hour?"

He nods, something approving in his expression. "Go get your woman."

The ride to Backroads takes fifteen minutes, but the fresh air clears my head.

I've spent the day reviewing threats, building strategies, and preparing for war that’s practically right at my front door.

But none of that stops the nervous energy building in my chest at the thought of seeing her again.

The bar is quiet when I arrive, but that’s no surprise since it’s already closed.

Ellie spots me first, shooting me a knowing look. "She's in the back," she says, not bothering with hello. "Inventory."

I find Tildie counting bottles in the storeroom, hair pulled back, bottom lip caught between her teeth in concentration.

She jumps when she notices me. "Jesus! Make some noise, would you?"

"Sorry," I say, though I'm not. Seeing her rattled does things to me. "Doing inventory on a Sunday?"

"Keeps me busy." She sets down her clipboard. "Shouldn't you be preparing for your dinner thing?"

"It's not 'my dinner thing.' It's a family dinner. Brothers, old ladies, kids running around making noise."

"Sounds chaotic."

"It is." I step closer, giving her space to back away. She doesn't. "Also, the best night of the week."

She studies me, that careful assessment I'm coming to recognize. "Why are you here, Ruger?"

"To see if you needed a ride." I keep my tone casual, like her answer doesn't matter. "Ellie will be here soon."

"I have my car."

"I know."

Our eyes lock, the real conversation happening beneath the words.

Me asking her to take a chance.

Her weighing whether I'm worth the risk.

"Yesterday," she begins, then stops. "The park..."

"Was just a kiss," I finish, though we both know that's bullshit. "Doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to."

Something flickers in her eyes—disappointment?

"Is that what you want? For it not to mean anything?"

I step closer, close enough to smell her perfume. "What I want is for you to feel safe making your own choices. What I want is for you to know I respect whatever boundaries you set."

Her expression softens. "You're making it very hard to keep my distance."

"Good."

A small laugh escapes her. "You're not what I expected."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true."

I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Come to dinner. Meet my family. No expectations, no pressure."

She hesitates, then nods. "Okay. But I'm driving myself. Need my own escape route, obviously."

"Smart woman."

"I'm learning to be."

I shoot her a smirk and head back to the clubhouse, figuring she’ll meet me there on her own time. And if she doesn’t, I’m sure I’ll get a text from her.

Back at the clubhouse, the energy has shifted from business to pleasure.

Music plays, the grill smokes, kids chase each other through the clubhouse while the ladies arrange potluck dishes on long tables.

Reed spots me first as I return, raising an eyebrow in question.

I nod once—she's coming—and something like approval crosses his face.

An hour later, headlights cut through the dark.

Two cars—Ellie's ancient Buick, followed by a modest sedan I recognize as Tildie's.

My heart rate kicks up, watching her emerge from the car, scanning the compound like she's mapping escape routes.

She's beautiful in simple jeans and a green sweater that makes her eyes seem more amber than ever.

Hair loose around her shoulders, minimal makeup.

Nothing like the club women with their tight clothes and heavy eyeliner.

"She's here," Bloodhound observes unnecessarily, materializing beside me. "Nervous as hell."

"Wouldn't you be?"

His eyes track to where Venus is flirting with Krypto by the grill. "Different worlds."

I move to greet them, watching Tildie's shoulders relax slightly when she spots me.

Ellie hands me a covered dish.

"Potato salad, as promised. I need a drink."

"Maddox is playing bartender, give ‘em hell."

Her eyes gleam with excitement. "Don’t I always?"

She heads inside, leaving me with Tildie.

An awkward moment passes between us until I cut the tension with a knife. "You came."

"I said I would."

"Still. Thank you."

She glances around, taking in the chaos of a club dinner. "It's not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. More..." She trails off, clearly searching for a polite word.

"Debauchery? Strippers on poles? Knife fights?"

A smile tugs at her lips. "Something like that."

"That's Saturday," I deadpan, earning a genuine laugh from her.

The sound hits me in the chest, bright and honest.

"Who's that?" she asks, nodding toward Reed, who's talking with Ounce nearby.

"Reed. President of the Skulls Renegade MC from Tennessee. Ally. Here for business."

Her expression shifts. "The Grim Vultures."

"Yeah."

She absorbs this, connecting dots I wish she didn't have to. "Should I be worried?"

"No," I say it with more certainty than I feel. "You're safe here."

"Because of you."

"Because of all of us." I gesture around the compound. "The club protects its own, and one day you’ll understand that."

She is startled at that. "I'm not?—"

"You're with me," I interrupt. "That's enough."

The words hang between us, but I meant what I said.

I introduce her around—to Porter and his wife Sarah, to Coin and his teenage daughters, to Decorum who's manning the grill like it’s his fucking destiny.

She's reserved but polite, slowly relaxing as the evening unfolds without incident.

Eventually, we make our way to Reed, who studies her with those perceptive eyes that miss nothing.

"Tildie, meet Reed, President of the Skulls Renegade MC," I introduce them. "Reed, this is Tildie. She works at Backroads."

"Pleasure," Reed says, his weathered face breaking into a genuine smile as he shakes her hand. "Ruger treating you right?"

She glances at me, something warming in her expression. "So far."

"Good. Man needs someone to keep him in line." Reed winks. "His aunt can't do all the work."

Seamus joins us, his massive frame making Tildie's eyes widen slightly.

"Don't let the size fool you," Reed tells her. "Seamus here cries at Hallmark commercials."

"One time," Seamus protests, his deep voice belying the humor in his eyes. "And it was about a soldier coming home to his dog. Anyone would cry at that shit."

The tension breaks, and soon Tildie is drawn into conversation with Reed about Tennessee, where she apparently visited once as a child.

I watch her, something easing in my chest as she navigates the club world without shrinking away.

When dinner is served, I find myself seated between Tildie and Bloodhound, the long tables arranged in the clubhouse's main room.

Children's laughter mixes with rough biker humor, ladies gossip, prospects serve drinks.

"It's like a big family dinner," Tildie murmurs, sounding surprised.

"That's exactly what it is."

Her knee touches mine under the table—an accident, I think, until she doesn't move it away.

After dinner, as people break into smaller groups, I notice Tildie slip outside.

I follow, finding her leaning against the railing of the clubhouse porch, staring up at stars beginning to dot the darkening sky.

"Too much?" I ask, keeping a respectful distance.

She shakes her head. "Just needed air. It's a lot to take in."

"You did good in there. Reed likes you."

"He seems nice. Not what I expected from a motorcycle club president."

"We contain multitudes," I quip, earning another smile.

We stand in silence, the sounds of the party muffled behind us.

When she shivers slightly in the cooling air, I shrug out of my cut, draping it over her shoulders before she can protest.

She tenses initially, then relaxes into its weight. "It’s heavy."

"Responsibility usually is."

Her fingers trace the President patch, the touch oddly intimate. "Thank you for inviting me tonight. For showing me this side of your life."

"Thank you for being brave enough to come."

Her eyes find mine, searching. "The man I met in that park yesterday—he's the same one here tonight. Real."

"Always will be with you." The promise slips out before I can think better of it. "No masks, no games."

She steps closer, close enough that I can feel her warmth. "I'm still scared, Ruger. Of what this might mean. Of how… vulnerable you make me."

"I know."

"But I'm more scared of running away from something that might be..." She trails off, searching for words.

"Worth the risk?" I suggest.

"Yeah."

I reach for her slowly, giving her time to pull away.

When she doesn't, I cup her cheek, thumb tracing her jawline. "One day at a time, Tildie. That's all I'm asking for."

Her hand comes up to cover mine, and the simple touch feels more intimate than the kiss we shared yesterday.

"One day," she agrees.

The party continues inside, but for this moment, the world narrows to just us.

"Ruger," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the muffled music from inside.

I step closer, eliminating what little space remains between us. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

But instead of pushing me away, she rises on her tiptoes, her fingers gripping the front of my shirt to pull me down to her.

When our lips meet, it's nothing like the hesitant kiss in the park.

This time, she knows what she wants.

I back her against the porch railing, one hand cupping her face while the other slides down to her waist.

She gasps against my mouth, the sound shooting straight to my groin.

I deepen the kiss, my tongue exploring hers as her hands tangle together behind my neck.

"You're driving me crazy," I murmur against her lips, letting my hands roam over her curves.

The soft swell of her hips fits perfectly in my palms as I pull her harder against me, letting her feel exactly what she's doing to me.

She arches into my touch, her body softer than I imagined.

When my thumb brushes the underside of her breast, her breath catches, and I swallow the sound with another kiss.

My beard must be rough against her skin, but she doesn't seem to mind—her nails scrape against my scalp, urging me closer.

I trail kisses down her neck, breathing in her cinnamon scent as my hands continue exploring the dips and curves of her body.

The leather of my cut falls open around her, creating a private space that's just ours.

"We should stop," she whispers, even as her head tilts to give me better access to her throat.

"Should we?" I ask against her skin, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips.

Her hands slide down to my chest, not pushing me away but not pulling me closer either. "Anyone could walk out here."

The reminder of where we are—exposed on the clubhouse porch—brings me back to reality. I rest my forehead against hers, both of us breathing hard.

"Come home with me," I say, the words escaping before I can think better of them.

She tenses slightly, and I immediately backtrack. "Just to talk. Just for a while. Away from all this."

Tildie studies my face, her amber eyes dark with desire but cautious. "I don't think that's a good idea. At least… not tonight."

"One day at a time," I remind her, forcing myself to ease back, giving her space.

She nods, a small smile playing at her kiss-swollen lips. "And tonight has already been a big step."

I brush my thumb across her bottom lip, memorizing the way she looks wearing my cut, hair tousled from my hands. "For both of us. I’ll go at your pace, Tildie, as long as it takes."

Somehow, I don’t think it’ll be too much longer.