chapter 4
1039 Words
The clock on the wall blinked 4:03 AM, its red digits too bright in the diner’s sleepy glow. The bell above the front door hadn’t rung yet—not that it would anytime soon. The regulars wouldn’t start trickling in for another half hour, mostly cagers in steel-toes or old-timers with paper-thin jackets and stories no one else had the patience to hear.
Sage stood behind the counter, flipping over the last of the coffee mugs. Her apron was tied in a crooked knot behind her back, and her hair was pulled into a low bun that still smelled faintly of Silas’s garage. Motor oil and something warmer. Something like comfort.
She hated that.
She didn’t want to think about him. Not really. Not in the way her fingers kept tracing the spot on her hoodie where his shoulder had brushed hers.
Last night had been… a moment.
No promises. No kiss. Just that look in his eyes. Like he saw her. Not in the way most men did—curvy and blonde, either someone to save or to screw—but something else. Something closer to respect. Or maybe regret.
She didn’t know which scared her more.
She poured herself a coffee, adding the right amount of cream and two sugar packets out of pure muscle memory. Her feet hurt already, and her shift had barely started. It was always like this on Mondays—back to the grind, her one free day just a memory. But today, the ache behind her eyes wasn’t from the early start or lack of sleep.
It was from thinking.
“Only when you’re around.”
His words still lingered. The way he’d said them—low, careful, like he was holding back the flood—left her chest tight. She’d gone home and made cinnamon muffins just to get out of her own head, but even that hadn’t helped.
She liked him.
She wanted to not like him. But Silas Creed, with his bruised knuckles and broken edges, had a way of making her feel like maybe her walls weren’t as solid as she thought.
“Morning, Angel.”
Sage rolled her eyes without looking up. “Keep calling me that, Cliff, and your eggs are showing up scrambled with a side of gravel.”
The regular chuckled and took his usual seat at the counter. “You tell that biker boy of yours he’s got competition?”
“He’s not my anything,” she muttered, refilling the coffee pot.
Cliff didn’t push, but the smirk stayed on his weathered face. He’d seen enough young women moon over dangerous men to recognize the signs. Hell, he’d been one once, long ago.
The next few hours passed in a blur—pancakes, burned toast, a spill in booth three, a mother with a crying toddler who reminded Sage far too much of her little sister when she was that age.
But Silas stayed in her mind, like a splinter under her skin.
By the time her shift ended, her body was dragging, but her brain was wired.
She stepped out the back door into the cool morning light, lighting a cigarette more out of habit than desire. She didn’t smoke often, but sometimes it helped. Today was one of those days.
She leaned against the brick wall, breathing deep, letting the silence hold her.
And then she heard it.
The low rumble of pipes.
Her heart skipped.
But it wasn’t just Silas.
Three bikes roared down the alley and cut into the club-owned garage next door. All Sovereign Sons—she recognized the cuts. Brick was one. Mason another. And Silas, riding tail, his face unreadable behind his shades.
Trouble.
She didn’t know why she knew it. Maybe it was the way Brick peeled his helmet off and threw it against the wall. Maybe it was the way Silas didn’t even kill his engine right away, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to be wherever he was going next.
Whatever it was—it wasn’t nothing.
She crushed out her cigarette and ducked back inside. Her shift was over, and whatever storm the Sovereign Sons were riding into, it wasn’t her place.
At least not yet.
---
Later, at the Clubhouse
The Pit Stop was closed to the public, but that didn’t mean it was quiet. Inside, the backroom was thick with cigar smoke and tension. Jack sat at the head of the table, his eyes sharp beneath a lined brow, scar from some long-forgotten war twitching when he ground his teeth.
“We’ve got a rat,” he said simply. “And it ain’t small s**t they’re squealing about.”
Silas sat two seats down, arms folded across his massive chest, expression blank.
The room tensed.
“Cops hit one of our supply drops this morning. Feds were there. This ain’t some rookie with a badge and a chip on his shoulder. This is organized. And someone fed them time, place, route. They even knew Brick’s cage had the clean tags.”
Murmurs broke out. Brick stood, pacing. “I’ll wring that little weasel’s neck when I find him. You know I will.”
Jack nodded. “That’s why you’ll stay the hell out of it. This has to be clean. Has to be quiet. No headlines. We handle this our way. Sovereign way.”
He turned to Silas.
“You’re Enforcer. That makes this your cross to carry. Find them. Deal with it. Quiet.”
Silas nodded once.
No questions.
No arguments.
Just cold resolve.
As the meeting broke up, Silas stayed behind, staring down the empty table. Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder as he passed.
“I know this ain’t the life you want forever, son,” he said quietly. “But right now, it’s the one that needs you.”
Silas didn’t answer.
His mind had already drifted.
Not to the rat. Not to the risk.
But to her.
Sage, standing barefoot in his garage, laughing at Sanders, challenging him with that fire behind her blue eyes. The soft way she’d said “you want it.”
And he did.
God help him—he wanted it bad.
But first, he had a job to do.
- Writer
