I’ve been hiding out all night in my workshop, in the garage across the street from our clubhouse.
Valhalla.
I hear the music across the road. Colliding pool balls. Girls’ laughter.
My brothers, my king, all hungry for the story of Pasado’s death.
A death that hasn’t happened yet.
I say a silent prayer to Tyr, the god of war and justice, that King Haf won’t mount my head next to that moose he shot in Sweden.
Kill that sonofabitch Javier Pasado.
The Toltecs are our only gun-running rivals in town, apart from the Russians—who pretty much leave us alone as long as we keep to the Bay Area.
But the Toltecs…those fuckers are greedy.
Nobody fucks with the Riders of Tyr and lives to see the sunrise.
And yet…
The Toltecs remain very much alive.
It all was supposed to end today.
I was supposed to murder the motherfucker who’s spearheading the raids, in hopes that we could finally start making some dough again.
Except…
My thoughts return to those emerald-green eyes. That tight little body. The way her shirt hung off her shoulder…
My earl—what we call our vice president.
Tor and I are the only two Riders who grew up in the club—raised in the traditions of our viking ancestors.
His father founded the American chapter of Riders of Tyr, and his grandfather still runs the mother chapter in Sweden.
If Tor hadn’t insisted on cropping his hair short, he would actually look like a viking. Golden hair, pale blue eyes. A herd of females following his every move.
“Haf’s looking for you,” Tor adds, taking a seat on the bench beside me and pulling off his boots.
“Haf knows where to find me,” I mumble, returning to my work.
I sigh, abandoning my project to take a seat beside my best friend. He hands me a cigarette.
“Is this about Lily?”
I stiffen at the sound of her name.
She was the only bright light in this bleak world we live in.
It’s been almost two whole years since…
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans. I pull it out, thankful for the distraction.
But the phone freezes in my hand.
“Shit. It’s Haf.”
I groan.
Now it looks like the body count will be two for the price of one…
I rise, digging my hands into my leather jacket, searching for a lighter.
“And where are you going?” Tor asks.
“To see about a girl,” I mutter.
I’m tired of everyone looking at me like I’m some kind of wounded goddamn puppy.
I say nothing, turning my key in the ignition.
The engine roars to life and drowns out anything else Tor can say.
As I ride off into the night, I can’t help but feel guilty.
Guilty because…I’m excited.
I sit up with a start, my chest heaving.
It’s easier to pretend that nothing I saw was real.
Wiping the cold sweat from my forehead, I glance around my shitty motel room.
It’s light outside.
Then again, I’m not exactly what you’d call a heavy sleeper.
Not since I left home, anyway.
I roll over, rubbing sleep from my eyes and offer a groan. It's been a full day since I began my hunt for Riders of Tyr, and I've yet to spot any sign of the hunky mystery man I urgently need to locate.
I check my phone and see three messages waiting for me from my handler, Izzy.
He’s trying to escape me.
Sometimes it’s entertaining to watch them try.
But this guy, this thirty-seven-year-old slob who skipped bail last month after robbing a fucking Dunkin Donuts…I’ve had enough of him.
I’ve already taken out his knees, and the guy is still trying to run…
I clamp my boot down on his back, and he collapses finally, resigning himself to his fate.
“Hands behind your back,” I instruct, and he does as commanded.
Cuffing him, I shove the idiot into the back of my car.
It only took me a few hours to track the guy down. He was staying in his mother’s basement.
The coward tried to sneak out the back door, then made me chase him to the Starbucks down the street. What a sniveling little bitch.
Another day, another dollar.
And I’m not talking about the fifty grand.
After all the bullshit that went down with Pasado yesterday…
This one’s fucking personal.
Bringing him in is going to be sweeter than a goddamn Unicorn Frappuccino.
I climb into the front seat of my car, pulling out onto the main road.
“Please! I didn’t do it!” my bounty wails from the backseat. “I swear to God!”
I roll my eyes.
As we pull up to a red light, I turn on the radio to drown out his whimpering. I scan through the channels, finally finding some halfway decent disco.
A dark figure on a motorcycle pulls up beside me in the left-hand turning lane.
As I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, humming to the sweet seventies melody, I casually glance at the motorcycle’s rider.
The sexy biker who tried to kill Pasado!
My eyes trace up his tight, black jeans.
The dark T-shirt clinging to each sculpted muscle of his torso.
And I’m not talking about another Frappuccino.
I’m so distracted that I don’t even hear the horns beeping behind me.
“Um…lady?” says my bounty from the back seat. “You know it’s a green light, right?”
Just as I come to my senses, the man in black turns his head…
…and looks directly at me.
