Page 31 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

BISHOP

I sit on the edge of my bed, a tube of ointment open on my thigh.

My ribs ache, my jaw throbs, and the deep purple mark on my cheek looks like a warning to stay down.

It stings when I dab on the cream, but in a strange way, I can’t help but feel more alive than I have in years.

I’ve taken hits before, broken bones, bled for this club, but nothing has rattled me like the last twenty-four hours.

Maybe it’s the stakes, or maybe it’s her.

The house is quiet except for the creak of floorboards and the occasional clang of tools from the garage. My bedroom door is ajar, letting in the faint hallway light. I catch sight of Dog stalking past, shoulders hunched and fists tight at his sides. He doesn’t even look my way.

Something in his stride is off, all tension and restless energy, and before I think about it, I’m up and after him, wiping ointment from my knuckles. “Dog,” I call out, but he just keeps walking. His boots strike the old wooden floor hard enough to echo.

I pick up my pace. “Dog, wait.” Still nothing.

I try again, voice lower, hoping to cut through whatever’s chewing him up from the inside. “Rhett.”

That gets a reaction. He hesitates, jaw set, and finally slows but doesn’t turn. I catch up, falling in beside him, searching his face for the anger he’s barely holding together.

“Talk to me, man,” I say, keeping my tone steady, careful. “What’s going on?”

He shakes his head, still refusing to look at me, but I can feel the storm brewing in his silence. I know this isn’t just about Katya, or Zaika, or even Novikov. This is about everything coming apart at the seams.

“Bishop, look, this isn’t about you, okay? Stay out of it.” He stalks off toward the garage.

I curse under my breath, looking around for Reaper, but there’s no sign of him.

The big barn smells of oil and old hay, the kind of scent that never quite leaves your clothes.

I step inside and the single overhead bulb swings on its chain, throwing long shadows across the bikes lined against the wall.

Dog is at the far end, crouched beside his Harley.

He tips a metal can and gasoline glugs into the tank, the sharp fumes slicing through the cool morning air.

“What do you plan to do?” I ask, voice low but carrying in the hollow space.

He doesn’t look up. “I’m getting Katya.”

I take a few steps closer, boots crunching grit on the concrete. “That’s a fool’s mission and you know it. You’ll get yourself killed.” I can’t keep the frustration out of my voice. It’s not that I don’t understand, it’s that I do, too well.

He sets the can down with a hard clank. His eyes finally meet mine, wild and stubborn, but underneath I see the same ache I feel. “Then I’m a fool for that woman. And if you let yourself admit it, so are you.”

“We can’t abandon Reaper,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. My ribs protest every breath, but this is worth the pain.

“Why not?” Dog fires back. He flicks the kill switch up and back down, restless fingers betraying the storm inside him. “He abandoned Katya. Left her to Novikov without a plan.”

“He’s looking out for the club.” The explanation sounds thin even to my ears, but I push on. “If we split now, we’re weaker.”

Dog’s jaw tightens. “The club means nothing if we don’t fight for our own.”

I reach out, placing a hand on the handlebar, stopping him from turning the key. “Reaper is our brother. We don’t leave him or Katya. We find a way together.”

He shakes his head, frustration bubbling over. “Together is what got her taken in the first place. I’m not waiting while they decide how best to trade her life for peace.”

The engine light blinks on, an impatient heartbeat. I think about the years we’ve ridden side by side, the fights we’ve bled through, the unspoken truths that bind us. “If you ride out alone, you won’t reach the gate before they gun you down.”

Dog’s shoulders slump for half a second, the weight of truth heavy on his back. “Then come with me,” he says quietly.

That simple plea knocks the wind from my lungs. I close my eyes, feel the bruise ache, and picture Katya in a wedding dress, caged in Novikov’s estate. My fingers tighten on the bar.

Dog’s voice is quiet now, heavy, the edge stripped away. He stares down at his hands, flexing his fingers like he’s gripping something far away. The barn’s shadows make his face look older, more worn than I remember.

“You know what, Bishop?” He lets out a long, shaky breath.

“Ever since my old man got thrown under the bus—set up, handed over to law enforcement by his own club—I swore I’d never be part of anything that couldn’t keep faith.

That couldn’t watch a man’s back.” He pauses, eyes flicking up to mine, looking for judgment, maybe.

“I think we saw the measure of Reaper last night. He’s a selfish bastard. ”

The words linger between us, raw and exposed. Dog, always the cocky one, always a joke to cut the tension, now stripped down to just a son betrayed, a man still learning how to trust after everything he lost. I see the fear in his eyes, that old wound wide open. It hits too close to home.

I clear my throat, not trusting my voice.

My own loyalty’s been tested more in the last few days than in all my years patching in.

I think about the bruises, the blood, the ache in my chest every time I picture Katya alone, surrounded by enemies.

There’s a piece of me that wants to believe Reaper’s just playing the long game, that he hasn’t truly abandoned any of us.

But another, darker part wonders if Dog’s right.

“We’ve all lost something in this life,” I finally say, voice rough. “Sometimes it feels like loyalty’s the only thing we have left. And if that’s gone—” I break off, unable to finish.

Dog looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see the fear and hope tangled together. “I can’t just let her go, man,” he says, the words barely above a whisper.

I shake my head. “Neither can I.”

For a moment, we’re just two broken men in a barn, letting silence say the rest. There’s pain here, and fear, and something like brotherhood, just holding each other up in the wreckage, vowing not to let go this time.

“Come on, man,” I say quietly, putting a hand on Dog’s arm as he stares at his bike like he can will it into gear by sheer stubbornness. “You ride out solo, you’re done. Let’s get our shit together, get backup, do this smart.”

He shrugs off my hand at first, jaw clenching, but I step in his path as he heads for the barn door. “Rhett. I mean it. Don’t make me chase you down like a damn prospect.” He finally stops, shoulders tight, breathing hard.

“You really think waiting is going to save her?” he mutters, eyes full of frustration and something that looks a lot like fear.

“I think charging in alone will get you shot,” I say, matching his tone, not letting him look away. “She needs us both. Don’t let anger do the talking for you.”

He lets out a harsh breath and looks away, fighting some internal battle. I know that look. I’ve worn it myself. It’s the same one I had when my old man got locked up and I realized there was no one coming to save us. It’s the look of a man who’s lost faith, but doesn’t know how to walk away.

For a second, I think he’ll push past me. Then he sighs, raking a hand through his hair.

“Alright, Bishop. We’ll do it your way—for now.”

I don’t let myself relax yet, but I nod and we head back to the main house.

Inside, the clubhouse is starting to fill.

The clock on the wall says just past noon, and the air is thick with stale beer and the low rumble of bikes outside.

Some of the younger guys—prospects and patched members both—are trickling in, voices a little too loud, energy tense.

Everyone knows something’s off, even if they don’t know the details.

Dog heads straight for the bar, eyes scanning the room, jaw set in that stubborn line. I follow and pour him a double, watching his hands shake a little as he takes the glass. I’m about to say something, but he’s already speaking, voice rising above the buzz of conversation.

He lifts his chin toward Twitch, who’s standing at the edge of the crowd with his arms crossed, tension written all over his face. “Twitch, you were there,” Dog says, voice cutting through the room. “You saw those smug bastards. Are we going to let them trample all over us?”

Twitch shifts his weight, jaw working as he looks around at the brothers, then finally nods. “Hell no,” he says. “Not in my town.”

That simple answer sets off a new wave of mutters and movement—guys straightening up, hands balling into fists, the temperature in the room rising by the second.

“You all know what happened last night,” Dog says, not quite shouting, but every head in the place turns. “You want to act like nothing’s changed, fine. But I’m done waiting around while one of ours is out there, alone and outnumbered.”

I look around. Twitch and Rooster must have talked with the other recruits.

Rooster, leaning on the pool table, says, “She was with us, and now she’s in the wind. That ain’t right.”

Dog slams his glass on the counter. “We don’t leave people behind. That’s what makes us different. We ride, we fight, we bleed for each other, and now we’re just twiddling our thumbs because Reaper’s afraid to piss off the Bratva?”

A low grumble spreads through the room. Someone else—Twitch, maybe—calls out, “I say we back Dog. I’m tired of acting like we owe Novikov shit.”

More voices chime in, some with cautious agreement, others with more force. The room splits slowly, invisible lines being drawn in the dust. I watch it happen—members drifting behind Dog, others looking to me for guidance, a few uncertain which side they’ll take.

Dog looks at me, something desperate flickering in his eyes. “Now who’s with me?” he says, louder this time. “You want to keep playing it safe, fine. But I’m riding out for Katya, with or without the patch.”

I look around at these men, brothers in arms, all of us wounded by this business one way or another. We’re fractured, hanging by threads. Nobody wants to start a fight, but nobody wants to back down either.

My hand tightens on the bar. “You all want to ride out blind, you better remember what you’re up against,” I say, voice low and clear. “This isn’t just a rescue mission, it’s war. And once we start, there’s no coming back.”

The room goes still, every breath held. Dog and I lock eyes, neither willing to step down. I don’t want to take on a brother, but I’ll stand my ground if I have to.

The air is thick, suffocating, the old wood almost groaning with the strain. For a second, it feels like one wrong word, one misplaced gesture, could tip us all into chaos.

“All right, enough. We aren’t enemies here. We need a plan, not a goddamn mutiny,” I say.

The murmurs don’t die down. I know I’m losing them by the minute, and I need to act fast.

I hold up my hands, trying to calm the surge before it boils over.

“Listen up,” I say, my voice steady but not quite as loud as Dog’s.

“We all want Katya back. We all want to make those Russians pay. But going in half-cocked, split down the middle, that’s how we get ourselves killed.

We need to work together, not tear each other apart. ”

The words hang for a second, but I can see it’s not enough.

People start looking at each other, choosing sides almost unconsciously.

Rooster and Twitch gravitate closer to Dog, their faces set, conviction clear.

Others, loyal or cautious or just wary of chaos, take a step toward my end of the bar, looking to me for leadership.

Dog’s team grows by the minute, old loyalists, men who’ve always followed their hearts first and orders second. I recognize the look in their eyes, the stubborn set to their jaws. They won’t be talked down.

Behind me, a smaller group gathers, men who’ve taken more beatings than they can count, who understand that rushing in is sometimes a quick ticket to a pine box. I know them too. The risk-takers and the careful planners, all of us stitched together by the same battered colors.

The door creaks open and Reaper strides in, boots heavy on the boards, eyes taking in the split down the middle of the common room. His jaw is set hard, the kind of look that used to shut down any argument, but today the tension’s too thick to cut through so easily.

“Enough,” he says, voice echoing in the quiet. “This is ridiculous. One woman shouldn’t mess with us like this.”

I feel my hands tighten on the edge of the bar, but I don’t back down. “Well, that’s just the problem, isn’t it,” I say quietly. “She’s not just any woman.”

Dog’s chin lifts, a fierce pride in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. “Damn straight.”

The air hums with tension, the brothers looking between us and Reaper, waiting to see which way this will turn. I see the pain and the anger written in every line of Dog’s face, and I know he’s not going to give up—not on her, not on his principles.

Reaper’s eyes flicker, just for a second, to the old patch on Dog’s cut, then back to me. “So what, Bishop?” he asks, voice rougher now. “You think she’s worth burning down everything we’ve built?”

I look him dead in the eye, the way you do when there’s too much to say and no way to say it. “I think she’s worth not forgetting who we are.”

Dog doesn’t smile, but the set of his shoulders relaxes just a hair. For a second, nobody moves, and I realize just how fragile this moment is—how easy it would be for all of us to lose each other if we say the wrong thing.

“She had us all wrapped around her little finger,” Dog says, eyes blazing. “Gentlemen, you know what that Bratva princess is to us? She’s our queen. And I’m going to get her.”

For a heartbeat, no one moves. I could step in his way. I could argue, try to talk sense into him, but the fire in Dog’s voice is the same thing burning in my own chest. Reaper stands, silent and unmoving, maybe waiting for someone else to step up and take control. But I don’t. None of us do.

Dog shoves past Reaper, who doesn’t even try to block his path this time.

Something’s shifted. No one’s calling him back.

Even I just stand still, breath caught halfway between pride and dread.

The rest of the club is quiet, watching through the windows as he grabs his cut, swings a leg over his bike, and kicks the engine to life.

The machine roars, the echo bouncing off the old walls, and I watch him go, dust and sunlight chasing his taillight.

For a moment, I wish I could have said something—anything—but the words catch in my throat.

Dog is already rolling out, a man with nothing left to lose except what he’s riding toward.

I turn to face Reaper, and the rest of the brothers, knowing that everything’s changed now. Lines have been drawn, and the only question left is which side we’re all willing to bleed for.