Page 16 of My Wild Biker

He laughs. "Crane's got a message for you, old man."

And my whole world narrows to this moment, this threat, this choice I'm about to make.

Chapter 5 — Isla

I watch Chuck walk out and everything in me says follow him.

Walt moves down the bar toward me, his expression concerned. "He told you to stay inside."

"I know what he said."

"He said it for a reason." Walt's voice is gentle but firm. "This is club business, Isla. You don't want to be part of it."

"What's happening out there?"

"Someone who shouldn't be here is here. Chuck will handle it."

I look toward the door, and my stomach is tight with something I can't name. Fear, maybe. Or the specific awareness that whatever's happening outside is the reality of the world Chuck lives in, and if I want these three days, I need to understand what that means.

The bar continues around me.

Music playing, people talking, Katherine laughing at something Tate said three tables over. Normal Friday night. But I'm frozen on this stool watching the door Chuck disappeared through and thinking about how his whole body changed when Walt said there was trouble.

How he went from relaxed to something else in seconds.

"I'm going out there," I say.

Walt opens his mouth to argue but something in my expression stops him. He sighs. "Stay back. Don't get between them. If I yell for you to come inside, you run. Understood?"

"Understood."

I slide off the stool and my legs feel unsteady. Walk to the door and push through into night air.

The heat hits me first. Thick and pressing even at eight-thirty, humidity that makes my tank top stick to my back immediately. The parking lot is half full, vehicles parked under streetlights that create pools of yellow in the darkness. Beyond the asphalt the trees are black shapes and the cicadas are screaming so loud it's almost painful.

Chuck is maybe twenty feet away. Standing between me and a younger man on a motorcycle I don't recognize. The other man is swaying, drunk or high, with a leather cut that has patches I've never seen before. Even from here I can tell he's younger than me, maybe twenty-two, thin and wired.

Chuck's voice carries in the quiet. Low and controlled. "You need to leave. Right now."

The kid laughs and the sound is wrong, too loud, too eager. "Crane's got a message for you, old man. Your snitch network? We know about it. We know you've been tracking us. And Crane wants you to know he's tired of playing defensive."

Chuck doesn't move, doesn't react. His body is very still. "Message received. Now get out."

"That's it? No tough guy response?" The kid grins wider. "Thought Vigil MC was supposed to be scary. You just look old and past it to me."

I watch Chuck's posture shift. It's subtle, barely visible in the streetlight, but something changes in how he's standing. His weight shifts forward onto the balls of his feet. His hands drop to his sides, loose and ready.

"Last chance," Chuck says, and his voice has dropped half an octave. "Get on that bike and ride away."

"Or what, old man?"

The kid reaches into his cut and pulls a knife. The blade catches the streetlight and my breath stops in my throat.

Everything happens fast.

Chuck moves and it's not like watching a fight in a movie. It's efficient and brutal and over almost before I understand it's started. He closes the distance before the kid can even raise the knife properly, his right hand snapping out to catch the kid's wrist. I hear something crack, sharp and distinct over the cicadas. The kid screams. The knife falls to the asphalt with a metallic ring.

Chuck doesn't stop. His left hand comes up and drives into the kid's face. Not wild, not emotional. Controlled and precise. The kid's head snaps back and blood sprays from his nose, dark in the yellow light. He stumbles backward and Chuck follows, methodical. Another punch to the face. The kid's knees buckle and he goes down hard onto the asphalt.