Page 39 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

The answer comes too quickly. “Yes.” I hold my chin up and meet his gaze.

Kane stiffens beside me. Chief’s hazel eyes settle steadily on me as he calmly reads my expression. If he’s judging me, he doesn’t show it. “Men can surprise you sometimes with what they’re capable of,” he says quietly. Something about the certainty in his tone makes my stomach tighten.

Kane leans back slightly beside me, his arm brushing mine. “She thinks I’m overreacting by saying she needs the Wild Riders’ protection.”

I scowl at him. “I don’t need protection. It’s no big deal, probably some stupid prank.”

Dash snorts softly. “The woman gets a murder note and says maybe everybody should calm down.”

“I did not say calm down.”

“You implied we should calm down.”

Despite myself, I almost smile. Something about Dash’s energy feels weirdly easy. He’s playful and chaotic, smiling at me like we share a secret.

The guys begin discussing possible steps, grilling me about the people I know and who else might be behind the note if I’m so certain it isn’t Ethan, and saying it’s no big deal. The more we talk, the more I start to worry that I am being too calm about this, too flippant. I have to think of Owen’s safety. Outside, Owen shrieks happily from the swings. I glance out the window at him, and he waves. The sight of him happily playing, oblivious to the world’s darkness, makes my heart ache, and I vow to do whatever I can to protect him, even if it means accepting the Wild Riders’ offer.

The whole time we’re talking, Shadow watches me quietly from across the table. He rarely interjects unless asked a direct question. Every time I glance at him, I get the strange feeling that he sees more than he lets on. It’s unsettling.

However, the longer I stand here, the more aware I become of another, bigger problem. I’m attracted to all of them.

Kane beside me, all rough heat and tattoos. Chief with those calm hazel eyes and quiet authority. Dash grinning like sin itself. Shadow’s dark intensity, watching me too closely.

Coming to this place was a terrible idea. An absolutely terrible idea. Yet, I don’t want to leave. Somehow, standing inside this loud, warm clubhouse surrounded by bikers whom I should probably fear a little, I feel safe.

Chapter 11

Dash

The second Trigger says he’ll move into Sadie’s house, I know we’re fucked. Not because she looks horrified at the suggestion, which she does. Not because Chief immediately pinches the bridge of his nose, as if he’s developing a migraine—which he probably is. But because Trigger means it.

I’ve known Kane Ryder for twelve years. I’ve seen him drunk, bloody, furious, half-dead, and laughing so hard he fell through a plastic patio chair once in Daytona. I’ve also seen him in love exactly one time, and it damn near destroyed him. So when he says, “I’ll stay with her,” in that low, rough voice while staring at Sadie like she’s already his, something cold settles in my stomach because I recognize the signs. The possessiveness. The fixation. The intensity. Kane’s the kind of man who burns himself alive once he falls.

Sadie folds her arms. “No.”

Trigger’s jaw tightens. “No?”

“There isn’t enough room.”

Bullshit. Small house or not, Kane would happily sleep on the damn floor. Which means she’s refusing for another reason. Then I notice the way Trigger’s hand briefly brushes her lower back, the tiny flicker of heat across her face at his touch, and the way she avoids looking directly at him. I realize then that they definitely fucked.

Jealousy punches me unexpectedly hard. Not enough to piss me off exactly. Just enough to surprise me. I don’t do jealousy. But now that Sadie’s standing here in front of us, properly—not blurry pictures, flirty messages, or imagined reactions—she’s somehow even hotter than I expected, which honestly feels unfair.

Her hair’s loose around her shoulders, soft chestnut waves catching the warm clubhouse lights. Little denim shorts show off long, tanned legs that I absolutely should not be staring at while Trigger’s one emotional inconvenience away from murder. And her face—Fuck. Big expressive eyes. A full mouth that makes her look permanently kissable. Pretty in a real way. Not like a model, or fake. Sadie looks like the kind of woman who laughs with her whole body, which somehow makes her more dangerous than any femme fatale bullshit ever could.

Trigger’s already fallen hard for her, and honestly, I’m starting to get it.

Chief leans back in his chair calmly, fingers wrapped around a whiskey glass. “You and Owen are welcome to stay here.”

Sadie shakes her head immediately. “No.”

Trigger turns toward her sharply. “Sadie—”

“I’m serious. I am not uprooting Owen’s life to move into a motorcycle club with a bunch of strangers.” She glances at Chief. “No offense.”

Outside the windows, Owen shrieks happily from the swing set while motorcycle engines rumble faintly from the garage. Inside, the atmosphere around our table gets tighter by the second.

Sadie sighs, shaking her head. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but this is getting intense.”