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Her voice drops low enough that only I can hear. “Did you run from war or prepare for it?”

What the fuck does that mean? She doesn’t think it’s over with Redline…?

I don’t have an immediate reply. She isn’t wrong. Most people who taste real violence either run as far as they can or arm themselves for the next round. I chose the latter. Apparently, she did, too. Before I can press further, Fuse’s voice booms across the gym, “Break’s over, bitches!”

Tatum bumps my shoulder lightly as she pushes off the post—bare contact, a slight touch—but it sends a crackle of heat straight down my spine. I watch her walk back toward the mats, the sway of her ass, the set of her shoulders.

Focus, Corbin. She’s a prospect. Nothing more.

TATUM

Fuck, I’m out of shape.

The morning chill clings to my skin as I step out the front door of the clubhouse. I stretch my arms carefully, wincing at the bruises from yesterday. None of these men get to see weakness. Between running my mouth and jabbing an officer, I’m sure I’ve earned a spot on every prospect’s shit list. Whatever. I’m not here to win a popularity contest. I’m here to earn respect. Friends can come after I get my patch—if I survive that long.

Lennox hooked me up with a new phone, and I'm honestly grateful. I pull it out of my pocket and immediately go to the app for Redline’s cameras. Dead quiet. No movement since the place cleared out. Lennox asked me to watch the cameras for snoopers, but so far, it’s just club bunnies swiping liquor. The silence sets my nerves on edge, like I’m on a cliff waiting for one strong gust of wind.

Switch is already outside by the garage, leaning against his matte-black Dyna like he owns the whole damn world. Arms crossed, faded black tee stretched tight across that chest. Those sharp emerald green eyes lock on me the second I pocket the phone. He’s assessing hard—trying to decide if I’m trouble.

Buddy, trouble was heading your way long before I rolled up.

“Morning, Prospect,” he drawls, voice rough like gravel under boots. “Figured you might sleep in after yesterday.” His rough tone hits me straight in the chest. My nipples pebble under my thin T-shirt. Traitorous body.

Fuck it.

I give him a lazy smirk, standing up taller. “And miss watching a bunch of wannabe Harley riders eat my dust? Not a fucking chance.”

A hint of amusement flickers across his face. His gaze dips to my chest for a split second before snapping back up. Fuse is hollering at some of the other prospects from the first bay. The air smells like motor oil—comforting in a way that makes my chest ache with memories I refuse to touch.

“Maintenance day,” Corbin says, jerking his chin toward a row of club bikes lined up in the different bays. “Oil changes, chains, brakes, the works. You’re on the Honda Rebel at the end. Think you can manage without crying for help?”

I raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the bike that is fucked up in more ways than one. “The one with the loose chain and shot front forks? Yeah. I got it.”

He pauses mid-step, turning to me, giving me that full intense stare. “How the fuck do you know that from twenty feet away?”

“Lucky guess.” I shrug and strut straight to the toolbox, grabbing sockets, a drain pan, fresh filters—everything I need, so I don’t have to beg or wait on anyone. My hands move on autopilot. Not much has changed since Dad ran this place. If anything, this is the one place that looks exactly the same. Years of secret garages and back-alley fixes have burned the motions into me.

I feel Switch’s heated stare searing into my back. It reminds me of Nicholas—impressed and possessive. I shove that thought down hard. Switch is off-limits. Nicholas is dead to me. If I repeat it enough in my head, it should stick.

I drop the Honda Rebel onto the stand and pop the drain plug. Old oil oozes out. The other prospects keep sneaking looks—especially Thomas—but nobody opens their mouth. Smart. I don’t need an audience for this. Switch hovers close, not crowding, but definitely watching while I swap the filter, torque everything down, and adjust the chain slack. Too loose, exactly like I called it. My shoulders burn from yesterday, but I push through.

When I step back, he crouches down beside the rear wheel before I can inspect my own work, running a hand over the chain. “Tension’s perfect. Brakes look solid, too.” His voice is laced with shock.

“Told you I could handle it.” I let a cocky tone carry the words.

He straightens, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it down on the seat of the Softail. Those green eyes pin me again, sharper now. “You’ve done this before. A lot.”

Picking up the dirty rag, I toss it into the nearby bin. Sarcastically, I tell him, “Women can turn wrenches, Switch. Shocking, I know.”

“Not what I mean.” He nods toward the Rebel. “That was clean. Efficient. It looked like borderline muscle memory. Something else you picked up from Redline?” There’s that condescending tone.

My stomach twists from his words. I turn away fast and start on the next bike, so he can’t read my face. Memories slam into me, anyway—Dad teaching Lennox and me oil changes, my brother laughing when I demanded my own bike at twelve, Nicholas guiding my hands early on, whispering how useful I was…until “useful” turned ugly. “My dad taught me the basics, the rest doesn’t matter,” I say.

“It matters if you’re dragging old club bullshit through my gates,” he snaps back at me, not trying to cover the anger or accusational tone.

I laugh once, sharp and humorless, not even turning to face him. “Relax, big guy. I’m not here to sabotage your precious club. I already torched enough bridges on my way in.” The words burn like ash in my mouth. I slam the toolbox drawer harder than necessary. “Next bike, or are we gonna keep playing twenty questions?”

He doesn’t push harder right then, but I can feel the questions brewing behind those eyes. I’ll need to check with Lennox about what’s safe to say. We grind through the rest of the bikes in my bay. I lose myself in the rhythm—drain, replace, check, torque. For the first time in days, I feel steady, the garage has given me a moment of peace in the violent war going on in my head. When Fuse finally calls break-time, most of the guys head inside for coffee. I stay out, drawn to my lime-green Ninja like always. I run a hand over the tank, the curves grounding me. Freedom is Tink—my bike.