Page 3 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

REAPER

T he familiar stretch of cracked asphalt winds up the hill, leading us back to the only place that still feels like it belongs to us.

The clubhouse comes into view through the dust and fading light—a weather-beaten farmhouse that’s been patched and rebuilt more times than I can count.

The paint is peeling, the porch leans a little too far to the left, and half the shutters hang by stubborn, rusted hinges.

A battered Ravagers flag droops from a pole near the fence, the colors faded but still flying.

Most people would call it a dump.

To us, it’s home.

Dog kicks his bike into the gravel first, the engine coughing before falling silent. Bishop pulls in right behind him, his face as closed off as ever. I kill the ignition on my own bike last, the engine ticking as it cools under the fading sun.

For a moment, the three of us sit there, the heat from the ride still clinging to our backs, the dust settling around us like a tired sigh. Nothing moves except the wind stirring the tall grass beyond the fence.

The world feels too quiet.

I swing my leg off the bike and head for the front door without a word, my boots heavy on the warped boards. The screen door squeals as I shove it open, the familiar smell of beer, smoke, and old leather hitting me the second I step inside.

The main room is wide and open, broken into rough zones.

A battered pool table leans against one wall, the green felt ripped down the middle from a brawl two months back.

Couches sag in the corners, patches of duct tape barely holding the seams together.

The walls are covered in old club photos, faded patches, and hand-painted slogans nobody remembers writing anymore.

In the back corner, near the kitchen that’s more rusted steel than functioning appliances, Rooster and Twitch are parked at the scarred bar, nursing beers.

Rooster spots us first, his sun-creased face cracking into a lopsided grin.

“Well, look who finally rolled in,” he calls, raising his bottle. “How’d it go with the Death Master?”

I shrug out of my cut and toss it onto the back of a chair. The patch catches the last of the light from the dirty windows, the Ravagers insignia flashing dark red for half a second before settling into shadow.

Dog flops onto the nearest couch, kicking his boots up onto the stained coffee table like he owns the place.

Bishop doesn’t sit. He leans against the far wall, arms crossed, his expression giving nothing away.

I roll my shoulders, feeling the weight of the day still pressing down. “As expected,” I say finally. “Bullshit and posturing.”

Twitch, twitchy as ever, tips back his beer and mutters, “He agree to the deal?”

“The bastard won’t pay up so easily,” I add, my voice low. “He’s playing for time.”

“So what becomes of the shipment?” Rooster asks.

I shake my head once. “He’s stalling,” I say. “Waiting for leverage. Thinks we’re too desperate to walk.”

Dog snorts from the couch. “Guy thinks he’s still king of the old world. Doesn’t see the cracks under his throne.”

Rooster chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You gonna tell him?”

I give a small, cold smile. “No,” I say. “We’ll show him.”

The room settles into a heavy, expectant silence, the kind that always falls before something breaks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bishop staring toward the window.

Dog stretches, popping his knuckles lazily. “At least the visit wasn’t a total waste.”

Rooster raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Dog’s grin turns wolfish. “Met someone interesting.”

I say nothing, but my mind flashes to her—the girl with ice in her eyes and fire under her skin.

Trouble, plain and simple.

Dog leans back against the couch, tossing an empty beer bottle into a trash can across the room without even looking. It rattles against the sides, then settles.

“The girl with him?” he says casually. “Real piece of work. Big blue eyes. Attitude for days.”

Rooster whistles low. “Didn’t think Novikov kept any toys around the house.”

Bishop snorts quietly, the first sound he’s made since we got back. His arms stay folded tight across his chest, his face unreadable.

“She’s not one of his,” Dog says, flashing that cocky grin again. “Or if she is, he’s doing a piss-poor job of keeping her in line.”

I stay silent, but inside, gears are turning. I saw her too.

Not just the looks—plenty of pretty faces cross our path and mean nothing.

It was the way she stood there, calm and defiant, surrounded by wolves and still baring her teeth.

Dangerous.

Rooster chuckles, draining the last of his beer. “So what? You thinking about rescuing a damsel, Dog?”

Dog stretches his arms over his head, easy and slow, like he has all the time in the world. “I’m just saying,” he says, “girl like that…feels wasted in a place like that.”

Twitch grins, twitchy fingers drumming on the bar top. “You sure you ain’t just thinking with your dick again?”

Dog winks. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

I shake my head, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at my mouth before I bury it.

“We’re not here to play hero,” I say. My voice cuts through the easy laughter, pulling them back to the reason we went there in the first place. “Our business is with Novikov. Not his woman.”

But even as I say it, the image of her flashes back into my mind.

Dog throws an arm over the back of the couch, looking way too pleased with himself. “Maybe she was just dazzled,” he says, his grin pure trouble. “I mean, you saw her looking at me. Can you blame her? I’m adorable.”

Rooster snorts into his beer. Twitch laughs like he’s hearing the greatest joke in the world.

I don’t smile.

Because while Dog’s busy talking shit, my mind is still turning over the way she stood there, chin high, eyes cutting sharper than any blade.

She didn’t look lost. She didn’t look scared.

She looked dangerous.

There’s something about her. Something that sets my instincts on edge in a way I don’t like admitting.

I lean back against the bar, the old wood creaking under my weight, and cross my arms over my chest. “She’s not your problem,” I say, mostly for myself.

Long dark hair, tied back in a messy knot at the nape of her neck, like she couldn’t be bothered to pretend at perfection.

Skin pale against the heavy colors of the room, but not sickly.

Eyes bright ice blue, cold enough to freeze a man in his tracks if he looks too long.

Not pretty in the cheap, painted way Novikov likes to show off. No, she was something else.

Twitch frowns. “So how do we deal with this shit now?”

That’s the real problem.

The guns we secured—hot cargo straight out of an Eastern European pipeline—weren’t cheap to move, and sitting on them too long makes us a target for every fed, bounty hunter, and rival club in three states.

Rooster scratches the back of his head. “We eat the cost?”

Dog snorts. “Fuck that.” He sits up straighter, the grin gone now. “We sell it,” he says. “Eduardo’s still buying.”

The second the name’s out of his mouth, Bishop stiffens. “No,” he says sharply. “We’re not going back to that snake.”

Rooster raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Bishop’s mouth thins into a hard line. “Because last time we dealt with Eduardo,” he says, “he nearly got us pinned under ATF surveillance. One bad handshake and we’d have been doing time for federal trafficking charges.”

Dog shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, but we didn’t. We walked.”

“Because Reaper pulled us out before the deal closed,” Bishop snaps. “Luck doesn’t run forever.”

We’ve built our survival on the edge of a knife for years—buying, moving, and selling hardware faster than the law can catch up. The Ravagers made their name in blood and black-market trades, not charity work.

But one wrong move…one wrong partner…and it all burns.

I rake my fingers through my hair, staring at the battered map pinned to the wall.

Novikov’s stalling.

Eduardo’s a risk.

The shipment’s sitting in a locked warehouse, bleeding money by the hour.

Options are running thin.

“We need another buyer,” I say finally. “ Someone local.”

Twitch picks at the label of his beer, head down.

The wind picks up outside, rattling the loose windowpanes hard enough to make the whole place creak. The old farmhouse groans under the pressure, the way it always does when a storm’s coming.

I sit still, listening to it. Something about the way the air feels tonight makes the back of my neck itch. Trouble’s coming. I can feel it, the same way you smell rain before it hits the dirt.

Novikov’s not just stalling. He’s buying time for something bigger. That much I’m sure of.

And somehow, some way, the girl upstairs—the one with cold eyes and too much steel in her spine—was tied to it. Men like Novikov don’t keep women around for comfort. Not women like her. Not women who don’t bow their heads when told.

Call it instinct. Call it years of staying alive by trusting the things most men ignore.

But I know trouble when I smell it.

Night settles heavy over the clubhouse, casting long shadows through the warped blinds and leaving the air thick with the smell of oil, smoke, and old wood.

I don’t speak as I pass, but I don’t have to. My presence alone is enough to shift the atmosphere—conversations soften, laughter fades by a few degrees, and eyes track me out of instinct more than formality.

It isn’t fear I carry with me. At least, not entirely. Authority earned the hard way, paid for in blood and silence.

The bar’s quieter tonight than usual. Fewer bottles on the counter, less clutter on the shelves.

Someone had the sense to restock properly.

Behind it, Twitch is wiping down the surface with the same old rag he’s been abusing for a year now.

His movements are steady, eyes flicking up once as I approach.

“Anything I should know about?” I ask, my tone low but clear.