Page 1 of Raw & Reckless

1

PHOENIX

Ihate trucks. Give me a custom chopper vibrating between my thighs, open road, and the wind tearing through my cut, and I’m a happy man. Give me four wheels, a cramped cab, and a dull-ass stakeout on a foggy Port Royal street, and I’m ready to put my fist through the dashboard.

The air inside the cab is stale, smelling of old leather, a pine tree air freshener that hasn’t been changed since the Bush administration, and greasy take-out containers. Outside, a miserable Pacific Northwest mist clings to the windshield, smearing the amber streetlights into sickly halos.

Stryker assigned me this post for an important reason, however, so I’ll do my duty for the club. King’s Logistics & Hauling is supposed to be squeaky clean, but federal eyes are looking for dirt where there shouldn't be any. My mission is to tail Agent Jeremy Davis, noting his schedule, home life, and of course, any weaknesses we can exploit.

Still, sitting here tracking a federal agent investigating our front is the kind of mind-numbing busywork that makes my skin itch. I shift my weight in the driver's seat, my back protesting against the worn springs, and let out a low, slow breath that fogs the glass. Just another afternoon of watching gray paint dry.

Across the asphalt sits the target house. It’s a stiff, colonial-style box painted in a sterile, joyless shade of federal gray. It looks less like a home and more like an evidence locker. Every blind is pulled halfway down with militaristic precision; every shingle is accounted for. It's the kind of guarded fortress built by a man who trusts nobody and controls everything. A cold, lifeless cage meant to keep the real world out. Or, perhaps, meant to lock something precious away.

I blink a few times as the door opens, revealing a breathtaking beauty with long, midnight hair. The club's intel had nothing on anyone else living under his roof, so this must be an angel, or me hallucinating out of boredom.

But, no, this woman steps out onto the porch, very real, very curvy, and very off-limits. The stagnant air in my lungs is siphoned out, replaced by something enchanting and unexplainable. The woman is wrapped in a worn, oversized oatmeal cardigan that tries and fails to hide a lush, unapologetically curvy silhouette. Jet-black hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the pale, dreary light. But the true magic lies in her otherworldly gaze. Even so, the sight of her all wrapped up in a conservative little cardigan slams straight into my chest like a 12-gauge slug.

Every drop of blood in my body surges hot and fast, roaring in my ears like the tide smashing against the jagged rocks of that dying island back home. My pulse drums a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs. I grip the steering wheel until the vinyl groans under my palms and my knuckles pop white. My stomach twists into a hard, aching knot, and a prickling heat floods my skin.

Who the hell is she?

Confused at my own explosive, unprovoked physical reaction, I shove the gearshift into drive the second she starts walking down the sidewalk, trailing her at a careful, agonizing distance. The truck creeps forward, tires hissing against the wet pavement.

She moves with a hesitant, almost fragile grace, keeping close to the brick walls of the buildings like she's trying not to take up space in a world that barely has room for her. She slips into a local bakery, one I’ve passed a million times without giving a second thought. Now, the storefront looks like a glowing beacon.

I cut the engine, sliding low in the seat, and watch her through the massive display window. She orders a drink and a pastry, holding herself with her head down and shoulders folded inward, shielding herself from the room. That tight, painful squeeze returns to my chest, foreign and entirely uninvited.

Something deep inside me aches for the young woman sitting alone next to the glass. She stares out blankly into the expanse, and I recognize that look in those expressive eyes instantly: a fierce, quiet longing for something she can’t even name.

It’s the exact phantom weight I carried the day I watched the gray sea swallow my father whole, leaving my mother to wither away piece by agonizing piece until she simply forgot how to wake up. Human hearts are fragile things, my old man used to rasp over the crashing waves and the smell of salt and diesel on our old fishing boat. They break once, and they stay broken. I learned that lesson the hard way after both of my parents died. Right then, I decided to seal my chest up with iron and scar tissue at fifteen, swearing I’d never let another soul have the power to destroy me.

Yet sitting here, watching this stranger through a sheet of glass, my iron walls feel entirely too thin.

She's an enigma. Innocent, yet carrying the heavy, shadowed weight of a life half-lived. Shy, yes, but there’s a quiet, trembling strength humming beneath her skin that she doesn't even know is there. How the hell I know any of that, I haven't the slightest clue. I haven't spoken a single word to her. I don't even know her name.

Then, a brutal flash of possessiveness burns through my veins like wildfire, sharp enough to make my back teeth ache. The thought of this beautifully tragic woman being connected to the federal agent—his girlfriend, his wife, anyone's—makes a dark, violent snarl claw at the back of my throat.

Mine.

The word ricochets around my skull, hammering deep into my marrow. Panic and raw, feral fury tangle together in my gut. I don’t know what to do with these life-altering, reckless realizations, so I shove them down hard, scrub calloused hands over my face, and curse under my breath. There’s a reason I don’t let people in. There’s a reason I don’t do relationships, and sure as hell don’t do love. It only breaks you. My parents are proof of that, rest their souls. I have a club to protect, a war brewing on the horizon, and a mountain of responsibilities. I can't afford distractions.

I look back up through the windshield, catching another glimpse of those nearly purple eyes and the resigned slump of her shoulders beneath that soft sweater. My traitorous body betrays me instantly, hardening and burning as my mind paints a vivid, filthy picture of what it would take to strip away those layers of fabric until her delicate, shivering skin is bared beneath my calloused hands.

Fuck.

I throw the truck into reverse, pulling away from the curb with a sharp squeal of rubber and circling back toward the agent’s joyless gray fortress. I have to get my head on straight. Because if I look at her for one more second, I’m going to do something unhinged, like kick out the bakery glass, throw her over my shoulder, and drag her back to my world.

2

LAYLA

The rhythm of my footsteps on the pavement is as rehearsed as a heartbeat. Left, right, left. Two hundred paces to the corner, then I cross the street, and forty more paces to the heavy oak doors of the public library. I keep my eyes cast downward, watching the wet, gray concrete blur beneath my sneakers. The ghost of my brother’s rules guides every single step I take, whether inside the house or out.

At twenty-one, I should be thinking about college, about career paths, about stepping out into a world that’s supposed to be waiting for me. Instead, I’m suffocating under the crushing weight of my brother’s hyper-protective guilt.

A sudden, reckless spark flares in my chest. What if I got a secret job? What if I quietly saved up every spare coin until I had enough to rent a tiny, cramped apartment with a crooked window and a lock on the inside?

As soon as the words form in my head, my stomach twists into a painful knot and my throat clogs instantly with hot, stinging tears. The guilt slams into me like a physical wall, suffocating and absolute.