Page 4 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

He doesn’t hesitate. “Had a little noise over at O’Malley’s last night. Bar owner said one of ours ducked out without settling the tab. Nothing big, no heat. I calmed it down before it got loud, but it’s something to watch.”

I absorb that quietly, filing it away. “Name?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Twitch shrugs, not taking his eyes off the counter. “Might’ve been Danny. He left early. Been acting off.”

Right on cue, Rooster comes around the corner, the way he moves making it clear he’s still mid-complaint.

“Kid’s turning into dead weight,” he says, rubbing a hand across his buzzed scalp. “Missed his check-in two nights in a row. Slacked on last week’s warehouse run. Didn’t even cover the gate detail when he was scheduled.”

I keep my expression even.

A lazy prospect isn’t just a pain in the ass. He’s a threat. Not because they screw up once—but because they don’t seem to think it matters when they do. And in this club, that’s how people get hurt.

I make a mental note to handle it at the next church. One sit-down. One warning. If that doesn’t work, he’s gone.

“I’ll deal with it,” I say.

The side door creaks open, and Bishop steps in from the garage, wiping his hands with a filthy rag that’s seen better days. He doesn’t break stride, just moves directly toward the bar and drops the rag on the counter with a heavy thud.

“We’re low on parts,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Carb kits, hoses, filter stock—all down to scraps. I can stretch it another week, maybe less, but after that the lifts go cold.”

I glance at him, and he meets my look evenly. There’s no panic in his voice, no blame either. He’s just laying out the facts, and the facts are what they are.

“With the cash tied up in the Novikov deal,” he continues, “resupplying’s going to get tight. Unless something gives, we’ll be patching with duct tape.”

The club’s been here before. Running lean isn’t new. But this time we’re not waiting on a supplier or a delivery. We’re waiting on a man we don’t trust—someone who’s made a career out of breaking deals and disappearing people when the pressure gets too close.

Novikov’s holding our cash hostage, and in the meantime, we’ve got merchandise collecting dust, bills stacking, and loyalty starting to stretch thin around the edges.

“I’ll find another stream,” I say finally. “Until then, we hold tight.”

Bishop gives a short nod. Twitch slides a beer across to Rooster, who grabs it without a word. Dog’s off somewhere in the back, probably pretending he’s not eavesdropping while cleaning a gun he has no intention of firing tonight.

The wind outside kicks up again, rattling the windows in their frames. The boards creak overhead. The whole place feels like it’s holding its breath.

The slow burn of frustration settles in my chest like a weight I can’t quite shift.

It’s not a fire, not yet—just heat under the surface.

But club business is getting messy in ways I don’t like.

The money’s tied up in a deal we don’t control, we’re sitting on product we can’t move, and the man who owes us is treating our time like it’s worthless.

Novikov’s dragging his feet, and every hour that passes without a solution is another tick on the clock we can’t afford.

Around me, the clubhouse hums with low energy—the kind that comes with restlessness.

A couple of the younger guys are throwing darts near the far wall, half-drunk and full of bad jokes.

They laugh too loudly at each other’s misses, slurring insults that would’ve started a fight on any other night.

On the sagging couches near the TV, two patched members are locked into a heated video game match, shoulders hunched forward, jaws tight, their trash talk more serious than it should be.

They’re shouting, swearing, tossing chips and insults back and forth—killing time like there’s nothing at stake.

Maybe for them there isn’t.

But I can feel the cracks forming beneath all this noise.

Twitch refills his drink without looking up, Bishop disappears back into the garage, and Dog is still nowhere in sight—which means he’s either in the back sleeping it off or chasing something we’ll all pay for later.

The place feels restless. Fractured.

Like everyone’s pretending things are normal because they’re too afraid to ask what happens if they’re not.

I stand near the bar, arms folded, taking it all in. Every missed run, every unpaid tab, every shipment collecting dust in a rented building miles from here. Every sign that the ground’s shifting and nobody’s paying attention.

They want to believe that Novikov’s just dragging his feet. That the money will come. That this is temporary. But I know better.

Men like Novikov don’t stall unless they’re laying traps.

And right now, we’re walking straight into one.

One of the younger guys tosses his dart and misses the board by half a foot. He groans, then mutters loud enough for the room to hear, “Place could use a little more scenery, if you ask me.”

Across the bar, someone laughs. Dog comes in through the back door just as another chimes in with, “Ain’t seen a pair of legs around here in three damn days.”

Twitch snorts without looking up from where he’s drying glasses. “They’re at Donella’s ‘book club,’” he says, fingers making exaggerated air quotes.

Rooster, stretched out in one of the armchairs near the TV, scoffs. “Book club? That’s just an excuse to drink boxed wine and talk shit about us.”

A few chuckles ripple through the room, low and lazy.

Dog plops into a chair and leans back, arms behind his head, a grin playing at the edge of his mouth like he’s been waiting for the right moment to drop a grenade.

“Met a babe today,” he says, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Real knockout.”

The room goes still.

Every man turns, interest lighting in their eyes, curiosity overriding whatever they were about to complain about next.

Three steps, fast and quiet, and my hand’s already in Dog’s collar before he can get out another smug word.

I yank him up off the chair and drag him two feet toward the hallway before slamming him back against the wall—hard enough to rattle the old drywall but not hard enough to make a scene I can’t pull back from.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” I snap, my voice low but deadly. “That’s Novikov’s woman.”

Dog doesn’t blink. Doesn’t back down. Just shrugs like I’m overreacting and flashes that same damn grin.

“Doesn’t look like the old man can keep up with that young thing,” he says. “He’s got to be, what, twice her age? She’ll be looking for more entertainment soon.”

My hand tightens in his collar. I feel the tension pull through my knuckles and down my forearm. He’s still playing it cool, but I can see the edge creeping in behind his eyes now. He knows he pushed too far—but he’s too damn proud to take it back.

“Don’t be stupid, Dog,” I say, voice low and steady, each word sharp and slow. “We’ve got enough problems without you chasing the one woman guaranteed to blow this club sky-high.”

He finally holds still, and the grin fades a little. Just enough.

I let go, pushing off him with a sharp breath, and take a step back. “Stay away from her,” I say. “That’s not a request.”

Dog straightens his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, and mutters something under his breath that I pretend not to hear.

But I don’t miss the look in his eyes.

He’s not done.