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Torrent

I stare up at the bold black and chrome sign above the door: Savage Steel.

It still hits me every time I see it. All the months of wading through red tape, jumping through bureaucratic hoops, kissing ass for permits while hiding what we really are behind a glossy business front and now it’s real. Legit. On paper, we’re just a high-end custom firearms shop.

But between those walls? We're so much more.

We run guns, and this place is our cover. A clean face for a dirty business. With Savage Steel, we don’t just sell to the weekend warriors and collectors. We use it to move product in and out, hidden in plain sight. It buys us time. It gives us cover. It gives us freedom.

And it looks fucking killer.

The front showroom is sleek but gritty, masculine but polished.

There are glass display cases filled with some of the most beautiful, custom-built pieces I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Hand-engraved slides. Cerakote finishes.

Tactical builds that would make any operator weep.

The lighting’s perfect, angled to catch the glint of cold steel.

One wall is dedicated to rare military guns, mounted like museum pieces.

Not just for show, either, every single one works.

The building was a shell when we got it, but now? It’s a fortress.

Our clubhouse connects from a secure door at the back of the build room, where our crew assembles and customizes orders.

Private, off-limits, and armed to the teeth.

We’ve got a sprawling parking lot in front, and a huge concrete pad out back that is perfect for parties, bike nights, and whatever the hell else we want.

And this Friday? We open our doors for the first time.

And when we close for the night?

We fucking celebrate.

Drinks, music, chaos.

Brothers from Jersey are riding in.

It’s going to be a wild goddamn night.

“Yo, Torrent.” Drift claps a hand on my back as he steps up beside me. “Just got off the phone. Another shipment of parts is coming today. Crab and Ganges are already on it. They’ll get everything unpacked and stashed before we open.”

“Good,” I nod, eyes scanning the lot. “Security all set? Cameras online? Lock on the front working?”

“Riptide’s checking everything now. Cameras are running, motion sensors are live, and that lock could stop a tank. You went full-fortress mode, Prez. Nobody’s getting in unless we want them in.”

I nod, liking what I’m hearing.

I’ve spared no expense on security. The front door is guarded when we’re open and locked with steel when closed.

The windows don’t open, the glass is bulletproof, and every angle is covered by 24/7 surveillance.

We’ve got panic buttons. Backup generators.

Steel-shutter roll-downs if shit hits the fan.

I don’t do half-measures.

Not when it comes to my crew.

This club, my brothers, are my responsibility. Their safety. Their future. Their lives. I carry all of it, and I carry it willingly. That weight will never be too heavy. Not for me.

I’ve lost enough people.

More than I’ll ever say out loud.

I’m not losing anyone else.

Not on my watch.

The last customer leaves just as the sun dips low, casting a golden hue over the black-and-chrome sign that now defines us.

The day has been a fucking hit.

From the moment we unlocked the front door, people poured in.

Gun collectors, ex-military, off-duty cops, curious locals.

Hell, we even had a few out-of-towners who made the drive after catching wind on social media.

Drift had the posts up early, and word spread fast. They wanted custom builds, parts, engravings.

They wanted the experience. And we gave it to them.

“Bro, did you see that guy with the vintage M1911?” Ganges yells over the pounding bass echoing from the back lot.

“Guy was like a damn kid in a candy store,” I shout back. “Said he’s coming back next week for a custom suppressor build.”

We sold out of half our display stock, booked consults for custom pieces through next month, and every single brother worked their ass off to make it happen.

We didn’t just open a business, we planted our flag.

And now? We’re celebrating.

The Jersey crew rolled in about half an hour ago. No matter how many miles separate us, when Royal Bastards show up, it’s always like coming home.

I spot Aero first, President of the Jersey chapter. Broad-shouldered, cool-eyed, steady as ever. Grizzly, his VP, is right at his side with that half-smirk, twitching his beard, like he’s already planning some kind of mischief.

I give them the nod as I walk into the yard. Aero walks straight toward me, arms out.

“Torrent,” he says, voice rough with the road and time. “Damn good to see you, brother.”

We clasp hands and pull each other in for a tight embrace. “Could say the same, brother. Glad you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

I spot Backdraft, with his ol’ lady, Zoey, right behind him. They head toward the bar, and Ganges gives Backdraft a quick hug, and they get right to talking.

Surge, their SAA is here too, laughing with Crab about something loud and probably reckless. Emery, his ol’ lady, is rolling her eyes fondly while nudging him in the ribs.

The air’s different today. Lighter. We’re not planning a raid or loading up for war. There’s no blood on the ground or tension in the air.

But there are half-naked girls already dancing on the tables. Beers being chugged, shots slammed, and I’ve already caught two fights brewing in the far corner near the fire pit. Drift and Riptide are egging them on while Finch sits on the hood of someone’s truck, laughing his ass off.

Crab and Cetus are trying to rig up an old speaker to blast more music, but it’s mostly just static and yelling.

It’s fucking perfect.

But I need a minute. Just a second to breathe. To reflect.

I grab a cigarette and step around front, leaving the chaos behind me. The night air is cool and crisp. My boots echo on the pavement as I lean against the brick wall beneath the glowing Savage Steel sign, lighting up.

I take a drag of my cigarette and let it burn through me.

This is what we fought for.

A place to call ours.

A future that doesn’t involve constantly looking over our shoulders.

We’ve still got danger breathing down our necks, sure, but now we’ve got a front.

We’ve got control.

I’m about to take another drag when I see her.

Tessa.

Walking down the sidewalk, alone.

Her head is slightly bowed, her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets. The light from the street lamps brushes against her skin, casting soft shadows on her curves. Her long hair tumbles down her back, and I feel that familiar punch to the gut.

She has no idea the effect she has on me.

The cigarette dangles forgotten between my fingers as I track her every step. She’s just walking. At night. In this neighborhood. Alone.

My jaw tightens.

What the fuck is she thinking?

She should know better. This town isn’t safe, even if it pretends to be. Not for someone like her.

My hands curl into fists. I want to go to her. Say something. Offer a ride. Walk her home. Anything but just let her pass by like we’re strangers outside the walls of that diner.

But I don’t move.

There’s too much going on tonight. Too many eyes. Too many risks.

So, I just stand there.

And I watch her.

Until I can’t see her anymore.

Then I lean back against the wall, run a hand down my face, and take a drag of my smoke that tastes bitter now.

She’s in my blood.

It’s more than attraction. More than flirtation. It’s the way her laugh gets under my skin. The way she pretends she doesn’t care when I know she does. The way she sees me when no one else dares to look deeper.

And it pisses me off because it terrifies me.

I’ve got a past that eats away at me every night. People I’ve buried. Mistakes I still bleed for. But somehow, this girl, this waitress with the sharp tongue and soft heart, she’s breaking through all of that.

I’m not a man who wastes time.

Not anymore.

Not after everything.

If there’s even a shot at something real with her, I have to take it.

Soon.

Because life isn’t guaranteed.

And I’ll be damned if I watch her walk away from me one more time and do nothing.

I crush the cigarette beneath my boot, letting the last drag burn out against the pavement. The night feels heavier now with the weight of Tessa still hanging in my chest like smoke that won’t clear.

But I head back anyway.

The moment I step into the party, I’m swallowed whole by the chaos.

The bass is so deep it shakes the ground.

Someone cranked the volume while I was out front, probably Cetus.

The backyard is pulsing with bodies and booze.

Lights strung across the fence give everything a low, golden glow, casting shadows over the concrete lot and the patched leather jackets that fill it.

I don’t make it ten steps before two girls press against me. One blonde, one redhead. Tight jeans, low tops, lips glossed and ready.

“Hey, Prez,” the redhead purrs, running a manicured hand down my chest. “You’ve been hiding.”

The blonde leans in closer, her perfume thick and sweet. “You could’ve at least said hi to your favorites.”

I offer a grin with absolutely no heat. “Didn’t realize I had favorites.”

They laugh and cling tighter, like I didn’t just shut them down. Normally, I’d entertain it, let them flirt, throw a line or two back, but not tonight.

Not with Tessa still echoing in my head.

She’s the only thing I see in the crowd.

The only thing I want.

And she’s not here.

“Excuse me, ladies.” I peel away from them without looking back, making a beeline toward the makeshift bar.

Drift’s already there, leaning back in a lawn chair with a beer in one hand and a shit-eating grin on his face.

I drop into the chair next to him and crack open a fresh bottle. “Hell of a night.”

He clinks his beer against mine. “We fucking did it, brother.”

I take a long pull and glance around the yard. “Didn’t think I’d ever see it like this. Not this soon.”

Drift grins wider. “You see, Riptide almost get into it with that cop who bought the antique revolver?”

I snort. “I thought we were about to lose our business on day one.”

“He winked at the guy’s wife and didn’t even deny it.”

“That sounds about right.”

Laughter rumbles low in my chest until a sudden shriek from the left draws both our heads around. Cetus, big, inked up, and already three shots past his limit, has a girl straddling his lap, grinding on him like we’re in a damn strip club.

Their mouths crash together like they’re trying to swallow each other whole.

Drift raises his beer. “To love.”

I shake my head, chuckling. “More like to stupidity.”

Just as I’m about to take a drink, a crash erupts to the right.

Ganges and Crab. Again.

The two idiots are rolling across the pavement, fists flying, laughing the entire time like this is foreplay.

“Who bet against them fighting tonight?” I ask.

Drift smirks. “Finch. Dumb bastard owes me fifty bucks.”

I lean back in my chair, let the noise soak in, and breathe.

This is ours.

The chaos. The brotherhood. The grind and the glory.

Savage Steel isn’t just a shop; it’s our fucking fortress.

I scan the crowd again, catching eyes, nods, slaps on the back. Everyone’s here. Everyone’s alive. And for a minute, I’m at peace.

But then my mind drifts back to her.

Tessa.

I take another drink and stare up at the stars.

I’ll give her time. I’ll give her space.

But I won’t let her slip away.

Not without trying.

Not without making a move that counts.

Because I’ve waited long enough.

And so has she.