Her Salvation, His Damnation

#8.

The growl of Tate’s engine led the way, a low snarl that echoed off the industrial walls of the warehouse district. He leaned into the curves of the asphalt, his silhouette a dark streak against the dying light, with his men behind him, As they pulled into the gravel lot of the clubhouse, the air was already thick with a tension.

His remaining men were gathered outside, but they weren't relaxed. They stood in a defensive line, hands hovering near leather jackets, their eyes fixed on a fleet of bikes that didn't carry the Viper Kings' insignia.

Tate killed his engine, the sudden silenc expectant. He dismounted in one smooth move, kicking the stand down with a metallic clack. Standing in the center of the lot, surrounded by a crew of unfamiliar faces, was Jace.

A cold, familiar ripple of loathing passed through Tate. He didn't rush his approach, he walked with the slow pace of a man who owned the ground under his boots.

"What are you doing here?" Tate’s voice was like a blade drawn over stone.

Jace leaned against his bike, a slow, taunting smirk spreading across his features. He adjusted his collar, his eyes dancing with a malicious sort of glee. "Long time no see, Tate. You’ve grown even more charming in your old age."

Tate stopped directly in front of him, facing him squarely. He didn't flicker an eyelid at the posturing. "State your business, Jace. I don't have the patience for a social call."

"Straight to the point as always," Jace mused, his smirk widening. He stepped away from his bike, spreading his hands. "I want a race. A real match. Just you and me, the way it used to be before you started playing King."

Tate let out a short, dry sound, a mockery of a laugh. He looked past Jace at the horizon, his expression bored. "I don’t race anymore. I have men for that. If you’re looking for a track day, pick one of them."

The insult landed visibly. Jace’s face flushed, his eyes darkening. "I didn’t realize the mighty head of the Viper Kings had grown soft. Or maybe you’re just scared, Tate? Is the crown getting a little too heavy for you to lean into a turn?"

Tate moved then, a sudden, predatory closing of the distance that forced Jace to stumble back an inch. Tate loomed over him, his height a physical threat that Jace hadn't properly accounted for. Even at six foot four, Jace found himself looking up, the two inch difference in Tate’s favor feeling like a mile in the suffocating proximity.

Jace’s gaze flickered up, a momentary look of disbelief crossing his face. "I didn't realize... I didn't think you were that much taller," he muttered, trying to regain his footing.

"I’m not scared of a race," Tate said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating thread. "But a race is the last thing on my mind right now. I have real problems to deal with, Jace. You’re just a distraction."

Jace turned away, directing his smirk toward the line of Tate’s men. "You hear that? Your leader is weak. He’s hiding behind his desk and his protocols because he knows he can't hold the line anymore."

Jacob, standing only a few feet away, took a step forward. His face was a mask of loyal fury. "No one has ever beaten Tate," Jacob snapped, his voice ringing out across the lot. "Not once. If he says he’s retired from the track, who the hell are you to question him? You’re a footnote, Jace. Don't forget your place."

Jace looked at Jacob, his expression a mix of anger and defeat. He knew the history, everyone did. But the sting of Jacob’s words only served to fuel his desperation. He turned back to Tate, his jaw set.

"Fine," Jace spat. "Don't race. But I won't stop. I'll spend every hour of every day spreading the word that the Viper King has lost his nerve. I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re a ghost of what you used to be."

Jacob growled, his muscles tensing as he prepared to lunge at Jace, but Tate’s hand shot out, catching Jacob’s chest and holding him back with effortless strength.

"I’ve got this," Tate said quietly.

He turned back to Jace, his eyes cold. He could see the play Jace was making, a desperate grab for relevance. Tate knew he couldn't let the rumor of weakness take root, not with the rivals already circling Grace’s scent.

"I’ll rematch with you," Tate said, the smirk finally reaching his own lips. It wasn't a kind expression. "But on one condition."

Jace’s eyes lit up with a greedy curiosity. "What's the condition?"

"If you lose," Tate said, his voice ringing with a terrifying finality, "you dissolve your crew. Every one of your men joins the Viper Kings. They swear fealty to me, and you leave the city for good."

The smile vanished from Jace’s face instantly. He looked away, his eyes darting toward his own men, who were shifting uncomfortably. The stakes had just shifted from pride to existence. He looked back at Tate, his eyes locking onto the King's with a stubborn, reckless fire.

An idea seemed to take hold in Jace’s mind, a counter move born of pure ego. He straightened his shoulders, meeting Tate’s gaze with a chillingly calm.

"Fine," Jace agreed, his voice steady. "But if you lose, Tate... you step down. You walk away and let a real rider take the throne as the Biker King."