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Chapter One
Red
It was a lazy summer afternoon at the Alpha Riders clubhouse. The air conditioning unit whirred and wheezed, struggling to combat the hot, dry California desert air that blasted in every time the door opened to admit yet another leather-clad, tattooed biker seeking an ice-cold beer.
I didn’t mind the heat. It gave me a chance to work on my motorcycle without interruption. Apart from a few of my MC brothers’ bikes lined up in the meager sliver of shade provided by the brick building of the clubhouse, the parking lot was empty. The pavement was hot enough to cook an egg in under a minute. Sweat slicked the back of my neck and the sun beat relentlessly on my head and shoulders, but I didn’t care.
I couldn’t help feeling a swell of pride at the sight of my fire-engine red Harley with the gleam of a fresh polish. For nearly twenty years, this bike had been by my side, carrying me through thick and thin—aging out of the foster system, drifting up and down the West coast, falling in with Brewer and eventually finding my home with the Alpha Riders.
One day, my Harley might give up the ghost. One day, I might have to let it rest in a junkyard and replace it with a newer model. Until then, I planned to keep it well-cared for and in tip-top shape the way it deserved.
I was so engrossed in my work that I didn’t hear the tread of sneakers approaching. When someone cleared their throat, I finally glanced up, squinting against the sun’s glare. A slim silhouette stood before me—female, young. Definitely not anyone from my club.
“I’m looking for Joel McDowell.”
I blinked in surprise at hearing my name. When was the last time someone had called me that? Probably over a decade by now…
Tugging a rag from the back pocket of my jeans, I wiped my hands clean and shifted until the sun wasn’t shining in my face anymore and I could get a good look at the visitor.
She couldn’t have been more than a teenager—maybe seventeen at the most—with ripped black jeans, black converse sneakers, a purple plaid shirt thrown over a faded Metallica tank top. Her wiry, short dark curls were pulled back in a messy ponytail, pinned haphazardly in place as if taming it had taken considerable effort.
I didn’t recognize her, but she certainly knew who I was.
“Everyone calls me Red these days,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
The girl’s sharp hazel eyes darted over my motorcycle with an appraising look.
“Nice bike.”
I stared at the girl, studying her. Now that school was out for the summer, teenagers in the tiny town of Merry Field, California often drifted by the clubhouse, bored, looking for something to entertain themselves. Only the truly brave ones wandered into the club’s parking lot. Less than a handful ever dared to make conversation like this.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.
“Cam.”
She knew my name—my full name, the one I rarely used—but all she was willing to give me was a nickname. She gestured to my Harley.
“Do you need a hand with that?”
Now I was truly baffled. I scrubbed at the back of my neck and glanced toward the clubhouse, wondering if my club was pulling a prank on me somehow. This random teenage girl showed up out of nowhere and offered to help with my bike, no explanation given.
On the other hand, an instinctual tug somewhere deep in my gut recognized a kid in need. I spent my life in the foster system with no family of my own until I met Brewer, which eventually led to joining the Alpha Riders as a Prospect.
If Cam wasn’t ready to talk, I could give her the space she needed to forget about the world for a while. God knows my bike had provided a safe haven for me countless times, saving my sanity, my life, when there was no one to lean on.
“Sure,” I replied. “Do you know how to check the tire pressure?”
She shook her head. “I can learn though.”
As I walked her through the process, Cam lapped up every word, every scrap of information. After the tires were done, we moved on to other things—like switching out the ignition circuit breaker that had been acting up lately.
“How do you know all this stuff?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Trial and error mostly. Repair manuals are helpful, too. And I’m lucky to have a club who will put their heads together with me if I can’t find a solution on my own.”
Cam hummed in thought, scrubbing at a spot of grease in the middle of her palm.
“Sounds nice. I don’t think my mom would be too happy if I joined a motorcycle club though.”
