I turned, intending to head back to the clubhouse, when I noticed Taryn’s dad, Ben Calder, driving with intent in the direction of his house. I’m not sure why I decided to follow him. Just a gut feeling, and I’d learned early to trust that feeling. It hadn’t steered me wrong so far.
I followed at a distance. Hoping to stay off his radar.
Everyone in town knew to keep their distance. After his wife died, the man seemed to lose his sanity. He was both a prepper and a conspiracy theorist. My father, who served with him in the military, always called him intense, intelligent, and a ruthless killer.
Coming from my old man, that was quite the compliment since he was the enforcer of our MC, the Steele Reapers.
As we neared the edge of town, the roads grew narrower. Houses grew scarcer, and the trees on both sides became thicker.
I had to fall far enough behind him to stay hidden, so much so that his taillights were barely visible in the dimming evening light. When Ben turned off onto a gravel road, I killed my headlights early and coasted.
The house sat nestled among a dense grove of trees. It wasn’t dilapidated, but it wasn’t upscale either. It had dark siding and a matching dark tin roof. The gravel driveway curved before the house came into view, with sightlines intentionally blocked. Fencing enclosed the property in clean, unbroken lines—barbed, reinforced, and well-maintained. I could tell it existed for one reason: Fortification.
Motion lights were mounted high, angled for coverage.
I had hell avoiding them, but I managed just barely.
No yard decorations or rocking chairs on the porch. A place that looked more like an army barracks than a home.
This wasn’t a place built to welcome anyone.
It was built to keep them out.
I parked well short and moved in on foot, sticking to the tree line, counting steps, and avoiding motion lights.
Lights snapped on inside. One. Two. Then off again in sequence.
Five minutes later, the front door opened.
Taryn came out dressed for the game.
Damn, she looked good in that skirt. The uniform she wore made her legs look like they belonged to Friday nights and bright lights, but the muscle beneath told a different story—controlled, conditioned, built for distance and endurance.
Her dark ponytail hung down her back, pointing straight at the ass I’d loved staring at for several years. Even if I hadn’t intended to touch it.
Things were different now.
“Well, that’s unusual,” I murmured to myself when I noticed the pack she was wearing.
The bag was more than just decorative; it definitely wasn’t a cheerleading bag. It appeared well-worn, with straps tailored to her body. When she shifted position, I saw authentic hiking boots on the side—scuffed and broken in, clearly showing signs of heavy use.
Ben was already in the truck.
Taryn climbed in without a word. Her face was a stoic mask.
I stayed hidden until the truck rolled out, then made a beeline for my bike, not worrying about the motion lights this time.
All of this was incredibly strange, and I needed to figure out what kind of shit my Fox was involved in.
I grew up facing my own challenges. Having a dad who was an enforcer for a motorcycle club was uncommon, but I learned to survive. He taught me early on that violence wasn’t driven by anger; it was about patience and timing. His training was intense, leaving scars both mental and physical to ensure the lessons stuck.
My loving mother had taught me something else entirely.
That I didn’t matter enough to stay clean for.
By age five, I learned to keep my door locked at all times. By ten, I knew how to throw a punch that quickly ended disputes. Fighting started later—initially for money, then simply because it was the only way to silence my thoughts.
Ben’s truck headed east.
