Nine
1371 Words
Riot hadn’t slept. Not really. The old couch in the back room of the garage creaked every time he shifted, but the ache in his back wasn’t what kept him up. It was the silence. The kind that didn’t belong in a place like this. Not with everything closing in. Not with blood on the pavement and his name on too many lips.
The darkness outside had begun to peel back. He stared at the ceiling for too long, until the soft blue haze of early morning pushed through the dirt-streaked windows. That first light didn’t bring clarity. It brought weight. Something thick in his chest that hadn’t gone away since the crash. Since Cage.
Since her.
He sat up slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. His shoulders were tight. His mind even tighter. The air smelled like oil, sweat, leather, and time. Familiar. But not comforting. The Vultures' garage used to be a place where he could breathe. Now it felt like he was being watched even in his own skin.
By the time he stepped out into the open bay, the younger prospects were already moving around the lot, pretending not to notice him. They worked quietly—more quietly than usual. Less laughter. Less talking. Riot didn’t need to hear gossip to know what was circling. Word always moved faster than truth. And truth didn’t matter when the club started to doubt you.
He lit a cigarette and leaned against the doorframe, watching the street with narrowed eyes. The asphalt glowed orange under the rising sun. Still no cars. No footsteps. Just the faint sound of the wind moving paper across the sidewalk.
That’s when he saw him again.
The same kid. Loitering across the street. Tall but scrawny, like he hadn’t filled out yet. Denim jacket. Hair tied back. Too clean. Too alert. Same nervous energy as before. Riot took a long drag, exhaled, and flicked the ash to the ground.
“Prospect,” he called without looking.
One of the younger guys glanced up from where he was tightening a bolt on a stripped-down bike.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Bring the kid in.”
“You mean Malcom?”
Riot finally looked over. “You know his name?”
“Yeah. He’s been hanging around since Tuesday.”
Riot didn’t reply right away. Just watched the boy across the street shift from foot to foot like he could feel himself being summoned. Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate.
“Bring him.”
A few minutes later, the kid stood near the side wall, trying to look comfortable. He wasn’t. Riot stayed where he was, arms crossed, eyes hard.
“You want something?”
“I heard you take new riders sometimes.”
“We do. When they prove they’re worth the patch.”
Malcom’s jaw twitched, like he wanted to sound tougher than he was. “I’m not scared of proving myself.”
Riot raised an eyebrow. “You ride?”
“No. Not yet.”
“You got a job?”
“Not anymore.”
“You got anyone who’d miss you if you didn’t show up tomorrow?”
The pause was too long.
“No.”
Riot nodded slightly, then pushed off the wall and walked up to him. The kid held his ground, barely.
“You keep hanging around here, you’ll either get beat in, or run off. That what you want?”
“I want in.”
Riot studied him closely. Something about him itched under the surface. Not obvious. Not enough to act on. But just enough to pay attention.
“Start showing up. Work. Keep your head down. Keep your mouth shut.”
Malcom nodded, but too quickly. Riot didn’t say anything else. He walked away, but his mind didn’t.
He didn’t trust that kind of eagerness. Not from strangers. Not right now.
Not with the tension already breathing down his neck.
Back inside the main office, he poured a mug of bitter coffee and stared out the small square window. The club was too quiet lately. And when the club got quiet, it meant somebody was thinking too loud.
Preach had barely said a word all morning, and when he did, his eyes carried something behind them that Riot didn’t like. Something older than concern. Something close to doubt.
Riot leaned against the counter, jaw clenched, thoughts twisting hard. There were too many things happening at once. Cage in a coma. Eyes from all sides. Sienna pulling closer when he knew he should be pushing her away.
And now some eager kid sniffing around like he wanted to belong.
He didn’t believe in coincidences.
And he didn’t believe in trust.
Not anymore.
Across town, Sienna stepped out of the hospital and into the sharp heat of midday. Her shift had ended an hour ago, but she hadn’t wanted to go home. Not yet. Not after the conversation she’d had with the new security guard posted outside Cage’s room.
New, but not unfamiliar.
The man had once worked under her father. Quiet guy. Never spoke much. The kind of man who took orders without asking why.
Now he was hospital staff.
She didn’t believe that for a second.
She’d tried to ask him something—something casual, like how long he’d been on the job—and he hadn’t even looked at her when he answered.
That silence said more than words ever could.
Someone was watching.
And this time, it wasn’t the club.
She sat on the edge of the planter near the front entrance and pulled her phone from her pocket. Her fingers hovered over Riot’s contact longer than necessary before she finally texted.
You busy?
The reply came fast.
For you? No.
Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. She typed again.
Five minutes. Back alley behind Callahan’s.
She didn’t wait for a reply. She was already walking.
When she reached him, he was already there. Leaning against the wall like he belonged in shadows, his vest open, arms crossed, that unreadable look in his eyes again.
He didn’t say anything at first. Neither did she.
Then, finally, he asked, “What happened?”
She looked up at him, voice steady. “They’re watching again. One of my dad’s men. Pretending to be hospital staff.”
Riot didn’t flinch. But his jaw locked. She could see the shift in his shoulders, the weight rolling through him like tension made bone.
“They’re not watching Cage,” she added. “They’re watching you.”
His voice was quieter than usual. “Yeah. I figured.”
She stepped closer. Close enough that her shoulder brushed his.
“I know I said I was fine,” she murmured, “but I’m not.”
He turned toward her then, not all the way, just enough to make the moment intimate in its stillness. The air felt charged between them.
“I’m trying to keep this from becoming a war,” he said.
She nodded slowly. “I know. So am I.”
He lifted his hand, gently touched her jaw, thumb brushing once near the corner of her mouth like he was memorizing something he couldn’t keep.
“I can’t protect you from this if it keeps getting deeper.”
“I never asked you to.”
Her voice was soft, but her eyes were unshaken. He dropped his hand and stepped back just enough to breathe again.
“I’ve got a kid sniffing around the club,” he muttered. “Says he wants to join. Doesn’t ride. Doesn’t work. But he’s too eager.”
“You think he’s a plant?”
“I don’t know what I think yet.”
They stood there a little longer, the air between them heavier than it should’ve been. Sienna touched his arm lightly, then backed away first.
“I should get home,” she said. “Before he starts asking more questions.”
Riot didn’t stop her. He just watched her walk away until she disappeared around the corner.
Only then did he speak—quietly, to no one.
“Someone’s playing a long game.”
And he was about to start playing one of his own.
- Writer
