Page 17 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

DOG

I sit on a busted-up armchair with the leather peeling off, feet up on the dented coffee table, sifting through the mess we pried out of the men’s pockets. The wallet pile is thick—soft, worn leather and cheap plastic crammed with receipts, old photos, a stack of rubles, a few American bills.

Bishop sits across from me, flipping through IDs and credit cards, sorting them into separate piles.

He does everything neat—maybe it’s a numbers thing, or maybe it’s just who he is.

I glance down at the table. The haul’s not bad—almost enough cash for a couple weeks of food and gas, and more than a few credit cards we’ll hand off to Twitch for a quick burn.

I toss a half-empty wallet onto the table and stretch my back, glancing around the clubhouse.

The place is a wreck—broken glass glinting under the light, bullet holes in the walls, blood smeared on the entryway tile.

The smell of cordite and sweat hangs thick in the air.

Rooster and Gage are taping up a plastic tarp where the front door used to be, muttering curses under their breath.

The bar’s trashed—bottles exploded, liquor pooling sticky and sweet on the floor, and Reaper’s favorite armchair looks like someone took a shotgun to the backrest.

I watch Bishop as he lines up IDs. His jaw’s tight.

He glances up, eyes flicking to mine, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am—none of this was supposed to happen.

The deal with Novikov was supposed to go down clean.

We’d get paid, maybe break a few noses, and move on.

We weren’t expecting this. This is way, way above our paygrade.

“So what now?” I ask, voice low, keeping it between us.

Bishop doesn’t look up from the stack of cards. “If I were Reaper, I’d press the negotiation with Novikov. We still have leverage—Katya.”

He shifts his stance, nods toward the window. “You see them?”

I step over to the broken blinds, push them aside. The bloodied men we dumped by the edge of the property are gone. Just a smear of red on the gravel and deep tire tracks where they dragged themselves or got dragged out.

“Was it smart to let them go?” I ask, more to myself.

“What else could we do?” Bishop says. “Death means all-out war. We can’t afford that right now, not with Novikov circling, the club stretched thin, and half our crew dealing with heat from the last job.”

He’s not wrong. Doesn’t mean I like it. This whole place is a powder keg—one wrong move and the Ravagers are finished. I look at the money on the table. It’s a decent haul, but not enough to buy us peace.

The clubhouse is unusually tense. Even with the bikers who finally showed up, it feels…

off. A little too quiet in the corners. Guys are moving around, whispering.

Two of the younger prospects are wiping blood from the floor while trying not to look like they’re gonna puke.

Some of the older guys are sipping beer like it’s just another Tuesday night, but I can see the edge in their movements—hands too close to their belts, eyes tracking the door.

Katya is the only shining light in here, the way she laughs effortlessly, pulling the men out of the funk they’ve been in since they saw the damage.

The only sound in the room is the hum of the jukebox that somehow didn’t get shot up, still stuck on the same Lynyrd Skynyrd track looping like background noise to our own little apocalypse.

Bishop looks tired. We all do. I rub my thumb across a bloodstained card, thinking about Katya—how she came in wild, desperate, pretty as sin, throwing the whole place into chaos with her bright blue eyes and a mouth that won’t quit.

I think about how she looked after the shooting, curled up by the bar, trying to disappear.

Then, just an hour later, she’s out here working the room, making jokes, moving the men like pieces on a board.

She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t know if I trust her—but right now, she’s the only card we’ve got that’s worth anything.

I look up at Bishop, voice low. “You think she’ll run?”

He shrugs, not quite meeting my eye. “She might. But if I were her, I’d stick close. At least until this mess shakes out.”

I catch one of the guys sneaking a glance at the hallway Katya disappeared down. Sticks is tall, lanky, and mean. There’s something in his stare I don’t like.

“Eyes forward, asshole,” I growl. He jumps like I slapped him, but then he nods and backs off.

“Jesus,” Bishop mutters under his breath. “You’re acting like you’re her bodyguard.”

“Maybe I am,” I snap, louder than I mean to. A couple heads turn, but I glare them down.

Bishop doesn’t respond right away. He just watches me, studying, like I’m some new creature he doesn’t quite recognize. “You serious about her?”

I pause. “I don’t know.”

“You’re sure as hell acting like it.”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. The air thickens around us again, tension creeping in like fog under the door.

“We need to stay ahead of this,” Bishop finally says. “Katya’s the key. She’s the thing they’re all chasing.”

“And what does that make us?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply.

I finish stacking the last wallet on top of the pile Bishop’s made, glancing down at the mess—cash, IDs, credit cards, a few battered watches. Bishop leans back, rolling his neck like it hurts, his eyes never really leaving the window.

“I’ll get this to Reaper,” I say, forcing my voice steady, trying not to betray anything I’m feeling. “No point leaving it out here.”

Bishop gives a low grunt. “He’ll want the haul counted.”

I scoop everything up, tucking it into a plastic grocery bag from under the bar, and make my way down the back hallway.

As I near Reaper’s office, I hear voices—hers, low and urgent, his, that familiar rumble that means he’s losing patience. I slow up, not wanting to interrupt, but I figure it’s nothing new. Katya’s been dancing circles around all of us since she landed in the middle of this mess.

I shift the bag in my hand and ease the door open a sliver, planning to just drop the loot off and get back to the rest of the crew. But as I reach the threshold, I stop short.

Reaper’s hands are buried in Katya’s hair, and she’s pressed flush against him, her fingers locked behind his neck, pulling him in deeper. They don’t hear me. They don’t see anything but each other.

I’ve seen plenty in the club—girls trading beds, patch-hoppers, old ladies who play the field until someone locks them down. Hell, I grew up knowing my own mother’s loyalty was only as deep as her latest bruises. I told myself it didn’t matter, that none of these women ever really belonged to us.

But this is Katya. I can still taste her on my tongue from last night, hear her laugh in my ears. For a second, I let myself believe maybe—just maybe—she’d choose me.

I watch Reaper’s hand trail down her back, strong and sure, holding her like she’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Katya lets herself melt into it, sighing into his mouth, her eyes fluttering closed.

The way she touches him isn’t the way she touched me.

Or maybe it is, and I just didn’t notice.

Either way, the sight knocks the air out of me.

My fingers tighten on the wallets, nails digging into the leather.

It shouldn’t hurt. This is the way things work.

Women move through the club, pick their favorites, settle for a night or a week before someone claims them for good.

But with Katya, it feels personal—like I just lost something I didn’t even know I was holding.

I keep my distance, holding the bag of wallets tight, my mind spinning. I never step into the light spilling from the office—don’t make a sound, don’t even breathe too loud. They don’t see me. Maybe that’s for the best.

My gut’s a knot, anger burning a hole in my chest. I’m the one who brought Katya in, the one who risked everything—club loyalty, my own skin—just to keep her out of Novikov’s hands.

But Reaper…Reaper’s the president. His word is law.

If he wants her, she’s his, whether it’s right or not. That’s how it’s always been.

I duck back from the office, bag still in hand, and head down the back hall, jaw tight.

I can hear my pulse in my ears. Every memory of her—laughing in my arms, pressed against my bike, her lips on mine—feels like a bruise now.

Was it ever real, or was I just a soft place to land until something better came along?

I want to hate her for it, but I can’t. I want to fight Reaper, but I won’t. He saved my ass years ago, gave me a place here when I had nothing. He’s the reason I’m not rotting in some prison, or worse.

But it still burns.

I grip the bag tighter, my knuckles white, and pace into the dim kitchen, away from the chatter and the cleanup and the blood. I tell myself I’ll avoid Katya now, keep my distance, let her chase Reaper’s shadow if that’s what she wants. It’s the smart play. It’s what any brother would do.

But as I slam the bag down on the counter, I know I’m lying to myself. I always do when it comes to women, especially women who look at me like I might be worth saving. I can’t avoid her. Not really. Not for long.

And just how much will you lie to yourself, Dog?

The question hangs in the air, ugly and honest, echoing in the silence.

I wish I had an answer.