Love before the last riders

Chapter two

Denise’s POV

When John first told me he wanted to prospect for The Last Riders MC, something inside me tightened. I tried to smile and act supportive, but the truth was… I hated the idea. I’d grown up hearing stories about that club — big, wild, loud men on powerful bikes, the kind of guys people whispered about in the grocery store.

Everyone knew they were the most notorious motorcycle club in our town. Rumors said they dealt with drugs, guns, maybe even human trafficking. Nobody ever confirmed it, but the whispers were loud enough for me to believe there was at least some darkness behind their gates.

I asked John why he wanted to join, hoping he’d say something that made sense.

He just shrugged and said he’d “always loved bikes” and wanted “brotherhood.” That word — brotherhood — stuck with me. I guess he felt like he needed to belong somewhere more than he needed peace.

I didn’t like his decision, but I tried to be the supportive girlfriend. I told myself love meant standing by him. So he joined. He took the prospect form, started doing their little jobs and errands, and before I knew it, he was practically living there.

At first, we were okay. Maybe better than okay. We were still young, still in love, still believing we had time to grow. But after about six months, everything started changing.

I was in my third year of college and already busy, so I tried not to overthink it when he stopped texting as much. But the messages became shorter… then late… then barely there. I always reached out first — always. And when he did reply, it was with “busy” or “at the club” or “talk later.”

I kept giving him grace because I remembered how it felt when we first fell in love — how gentle he used to be, how excited he got whenever he saw me. We lost our virginities together. We trusted each other completely. So I assumed the distance was just the club, not another woman. The thought of him being with someone else felt impossible.

People in town started looking at me differently, though. Our town was tiny. News traveled faster than cars. When I walked by groups, they lowered their voices. Some stared. Some gave me these soft, almost pitying looks. I brushed it off, pretending I didn’t notice.

Then my old friends from high school planned a small get-together during my final year in college. I was supposed to go with John, but he said he was busy. So I went alone. That night felt strange. People kept glancing at me like they were waiting for a bomb to drop. Ariana, my closest high school friend, walked me out afterward.

“Anything weird going on between you and John?” she asked.

I shrugged and told her his communication had dropped because he was prospecting.

She sighed and said, “Just… be careful, Denny. You’re too good-hearted. I don’t want you hurt.”

Her words have haunted me ever since.

That night, I went to John’s place. He wasn’t home, but I cooked dinner and waited. Hours passed. I almost went to bed before he finally stumbled in — drunk, loud, and barely able to keep his balance.

“Baby, I’m home!” he yelled.

I helped him undress like I had done dozens of times before. But when I took off his shirt, I smelled something faint but sharp. A woman’s perfume. Definitely not mine.

My stomach twisted.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to accuse him without proof. I wanted to trust him.

He ate, showered, and we were intimate. Even then, something in my chest felt heavy. But I held it in and slept beside him like everything was normal.

In the morning, I kissed his cheek. “Good morning, baby.”

He smiled like nothing was wrong.

It took everything in me to bring it up.

“Johnny… your shirt smelled strange yesterday. Like a woman’s perfume.”

He stiffened immediately — the kind of freeze that only comes from guilt.

“Oh, uh… yeah. One of the girls at the club fell on me while serving drinks,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

John had never been a good liar.

My heart dropped a little, but I just nodded. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to lose him.

“Can I come to the club sometime?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Baby, that place isn’t for you. I don’t want those girls influencing you.”

He kissed my forehead, but the answer felt like a locked door being slammed shut.

For the next three months, we stayed together, but each day felt like I was losing him. He came home less, slept less, talked less. The only thing he did more was ride with the club.

I graduated, got a job at a small tech company, and started wanting my own place. John insisted we stay together to save money. I didn’t question it — I thought maybe it would help us reconnect. I was wrong.

Even my boss, an older man with two kids, warned me.

“Kid, you’re too sweet for that boy,” he’d say.

I’d laugh it off, but deep down, I knew John and I were worlds apart now. He had turned into this tattooed, muscled biker — someone who looked like danger. I was still just… me. The same quiet, hopeful Denise.

Then came June 22nd — the day my world shattered.

I heard there’d been a violent clash between rival clubs and that some members of The Last Riders were injured , a woman called Gloria called me from Johnny phone and told me he is badly injured and the club doctor is looking after him, I panicked and rushed to the clubhouse, heart in my throat.

“Hey, I’m looking for John,” I told the guy at the gate.

“No John here,” he replied casually.

I described him, forgetting his biker name.

“Oh, Storm,” he said. “Yeah, he’s inside with one of the whores. Probably two. You came late, Angel.”

My heart stopped.

“No… that’s not John,” I whispered.

He pointed to a room. My legs felt numb, but I forced myself forward. I prayed he was wrong. That it was someone else. Anyone else.

But as I got closer, I heard it — the sounds. The moans. The voices.

“Yeah, Storm… harder!”

And then I heard John’s voice. His unmistakable voice.

My chest caved in.

I opened the door a crack… and the world tilted.

John was in bed with two women — one under him, one on top of him. His hands, his mouth, his body… all on them.

He looked up when he heard the door.

“Who the f**k is—”

His eyes widened. “Baby—”

I ran. I didn’t look back. I just ran as fast as my legs let me.

He shouted my name and tried to follow, but I jumped into the first taxi I saw.

“Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked.

“Just drive,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

I cried silently the whole ride. I felt numb, shattered, stupid. How did I not see this happening? How long had I been walking around town like a fool while everyone else knew?

I told the driver to drop me at a hospital. I needed an STD check immediately. I didn’t trust anything John said anymore. They scheduled me for the next day.

I walked around afterward, unable to face my parents. My phone rang nonstop — my dad, my siblings, John — and I turned it off. Everything felt too loud, too tight.

Around 11 p.m., I finally went to John’s house.

It no longer felt like home.

He opened the door looking devastated, eyes red and swollen. He tried to speak, but I held up a finger.

“Let me shower first.”

I bathed, changed, and came back to the living room. He sat there with his face in his hands, looking like guilt itself.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, John,” I said calmly. “How long have you been cheating on me?”

“A year…” he started.

I didn’t let him finish.

“How many women?”

“I don’t know… mostly club girls. They meant nothing—”

I laughed — a sharp, broken laugh.

“You cheated because I wasn’t available to you 24/7? Fine. Let’s say I was busy at college. What about after I moved in with you? Why didn’t you stop?”

“I… I got addicted. And I didn’t want to hurt you during s*x, so I used them instead. But baby, I’m sorry. I’ll stop. They don’t mean anything.”

“Too bad they don’t,” I whispered. “Because they’re the reason we’re done.”

He reached for me, and I slapped him.

“Don’t touch me.”

He didn’t move.

“Hit me if you need to,” he said quietly. “I deserve it.”

I hit his chest a couple more times, then stopped. He wasn’t worth the effort.

“You’ve ruined us,” I said softly, tears finally falling. “Tomorrow I’m leaving. I’m moving out of this town, and you will never see me again.”

He started crying. I didn’t care.

He kept talking about being “clean,” about using protection, about monthly tests.

I stared at him like he was a stranger. Because he was.

That night, I slept on the couch. Far away from the man who broke me.

And for the first time since we fell in love, I didn’t feel anything but emptiness.