Page 37 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

I glance up at the building uncertainly. It’s not what I expected. Not even close. I’d pictured something dark, grimy, and vaguely criminal. Smoke-filled and dangerous. Instead, the clubhouse looks weirdly normal. There’s rustic wood siding and a large outdoor patio. Conversation drifts outside through open windows, and I can hear the rev of engines somewhere out back. There’s even a painted sign advertising wings, beer, and live music on Fridays.

It honestly looks more like a Southern bar and grill than some terrifying outlaw headquarters. The smell of barbecue and fried food wafts through the warm mid-morning air while rock music plays from outdoor speakers. Strings of patio lights glow overhead, casting warm amber light across picnic tables scattered around the property. To my complete shock, children are playing around the side of the building. I blink. A little swing set sits near a fenced, grassy area where three kids chase each other, while a woman in a leather vest drinks wine beside a fire pit.

“What…” I say slowly.

Kane smirks beside me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Disappointed?”

“A little.”

His laugh rumbles low in his chest. “Thought we sacrificed goats out back?”

“I was at least expecting a knife fight.”

He smiles, a slow, mischievous grin. “Tuesday nights only.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

Owen is fidgeting excitedly. He tugs on my hand. “Can I play on the swings?”

I glance at Kane, and he nods.

“Okay, but be careful.” He races off, his little sneakers hitting the ground fast. “Slow down,” I call automatically.

Kane catches the back of Owen’s shirt before he can sprint into the parking lot. “Easy, tornado.”

Owen beams up at him. The sight does something strange to my chest again. Somehow, Kane already handles Owen naturally, easily, as if he’s always known him, which makes absolutely no sense.

Kane glances toward the playground area. “Go ahead. Stay where we can see you.”

Owen tears off immediately. I watch anxiously while he runs toward the swings. The group of women sitting nearby automatically smiles at him. One even pushes an empty swing toward him without hesitation. The natural ease and acceptance are the same as at any playground. Owen begins chattering away, making friends with the other children.

Kane watches my expression carefully. “Told you.”

I cross my arms defensively. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Annoyingly smug man.

The closer we get to the clubhouse doors, the more nervous I become. Music spills out louder from inside, alongside the sounds of conversation, laughter, and pool balls clinking together. Kane rests a hand lightly against my lower back as we walk in. The touch shouldn’t affect me as much as it does, after last night, every small contact feels loaded now.

Inside, the clubhouse is warm and loud. It might smell of beer and leather, but nothing you wouldn’t get in any sports bar. It’s not filthy, dark, or menacing. It has a lived-in, welcoming atmosphere. The walls are covered in framed photos, club patches, old concert posters, and motorcycle parts mounted like art. A long, polished wooden bar stretches across one side of the room, while people crowd around the pool tables near the back. Honestly? I’ve been in trendier Nashville bars with worse vibes.

Kane notices me looking around. “Still expecting the human trafficking dungeon?”

“I hate that you can read my face.”

He grins. Then his expression shifts slightly as he looks toward the back corner of the room. Three men sit around one of the tables near the bar. The second they look up, I immediately feel exposed. I don’t feel threatened, just acutely aware of how outnumbered I am. All three men look at me with immediate recognition, like they already know exactly who I am.

The blond one grins first. He’s dangerously handsome in an effortless, reckless way that should honestly be illegal. His hair falls messily across his forehead, showcasing bright blue eyes full of amusement. His tattooed forearms stretch along the back of his chair, as if he owns the room. I can already tell that he’s cocky yet charming, the kind of man who absolutely knows that women are staring at him.

Next to him sits a broader man dressed in dark jeans and a fitted black Henley that stretches across solid shoulders. He’s older than the others, maybe, with a smattering of gray in his dark hair and well-trimmed beard. His striking hazel eyes survey me closely, thoughtfully. Controlled is the word that comes to mind.

Then there’s the scarred one. I can’t help but notice the scar first. It cuts across his chiseled jawline up close to his deep-set gray eyes. He, too, is broad, muscular, with several tattoos, though Kane has the most. His dark hair is slightly too long around the collar. His oil-stained fingers are wrapped loosely around a beer bottle. He doesn’t smile like the others. He just watches me, steady and observant. The intensity of his gaze makes heat creep slowly up my neck.

Kane notices me noticing them and looks smug about it, which only irritates me because apparently, bikers are annoyingly attractive now.

The blond one grins wider as we approach. “Well damn,” he drawls. “Trigger brought her in.”