Filthy and Dirty with the Bikers

4

Zoe

The Kings of Chaos clubhouse wasn't what I expected.

I'd pictured something rundown, maybe a converted warehouse with peeling paint and bikes parked haphazardly out front. Instead, Ryder led our little convoy down a long gravel road to a property that looked more like a compound. A sprawling metal building sat behind a tall fence, and beyond it I could see a second structure, newer, with clean lines and a row of skylights cut into the roof.

"That's the shop," Mason said, pulling up beside me as I climbed off the passenger seat of Ryder's truck, my truck having been deemed too unreliable for the trip. "Come on. I'll show you."

The inside of that workshop nearly stole what little breath I had left after the day I'd had.

It wasn't just clean. It was immaculate, organized in a way my father's garage never quite managed to be, no matter how many Saturdays I spent trying to help him sort the parts bins. Tool chests lined one wall, each one labeled, each one stocked with brands I usually only saw in catalogs I couldn't afford. Two lifts stood in the center of the floor, both occupied, and along the back wall sat a row of motorcycles in various stages of build, gleaming under bright overhead lighting.

"This is." I turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. "This is not what I pictured."

"What'd you picture?" Mason asked, a hint of amusement in his quiet voice.

"Honestly? A dirt floor and some guy sharpening a knife in the corner."

That earned me an actual laugh, low and surprised, like he hadn't expected to find me funny. A few other club members glanced over at the sound, and I felt the weight of their attention settle on me immediately. Not friendly. Not exactly hostile either. Just watchful, the way you'd watch something you weren't sure belonged in your space.

A heavyset man near the tool chests muttered something to the guy next to him that I didn't quite catch, but I caught my own name in it, and I caught the word outsider clear enough.

Jax appeared at my shoulder like he'd been waiting for exactly that moment, arms crossed, voice pitched low enough that only I could hear it.

"Let's get something straight," he said. "You're here because Ryder made a call, and I'm not in the business of second-guessing him. But you so much as think about running your mouth outside these walls, about anything you see or hear in here, and I will be the one dealing with you. Not Ryder. Me."

I met his eyes, refusing to let him see how much that landed. "Understood."

"Good." He held my gaze a second longer, like he was testing whether I'd flinch, then pushed off and walked away without another word.

Mason winced slightly once Jax was out of earshot. "He's not usually that." He paused, searching for the word. "Direct."

"He seems like a real charmer."

"He's loyal," Mason said simply. "To a fault, sometimes. He's just not big on trusting new people. Comes from experience."

I didn't ask what experience meant. I had a feeling I didn't want to know yet, if ever.

Mason walked me toward the back of the shop, past the two occupied lifts, toward a section cordoned off with rolling tool carts like its own private bay. Three motorcycles sat there, and my stomach dropped the second I saw them properly under the good light.

They were worse than I'd realized back at my garage. The first bike had scorch marks running the length of the frame, the second had a crumpled front end that spoke of real impact, and the third, the one Mason had listened to earlier, sat with its side panel removed, wiring exposed like an open wound.

"These are the three for the championship," Mason said. "Ryder's, Jax's, and mine."

I moved closer to the one with the crumpled front end, crouching down to look at the fork assembly, and something about the damage snagged in my brain immediately, the way a wrong note snags in your ear even before you understand what's off about it.

"This wasn't a crash," I said slowly.

Mason went very still beside me. "What makes you say that?"

I pointed to the fork mounts, to the clean, precise shear along one bolt. "A crash impact does this." I traced a jagged, uneven line in the air. "This is straight. Too straight. Like something failed exactly where it was supposed to fail, instead of where the impact actually hit."

Mason crouched down next to me, following my finger, and I watched his expression shift from careful neutrality into something sharper.

"You're saying the bolt was compromised before the crash."

"I'm saying it looks that way to me. I could be wrong." I moved to the second bike, the one with the scorch marks, and examined the fuel line fitting near the tank. My stomach turned over slowly. "This connector's aftermarket. Cheap. It wouldn't have held under racing pressure even without a fire."

"That connector should be OEM," Mason said quietly. "I installed the OEM part myself two months ago."

Neither of us said the word out loud, but it hung there between us anyway. Someone had switched it.

I moved to the third bike almost without thinking, drawn toward the exposed wiring like it was pulling me in. I reached into the open panel, following the harness with my fingers the way my father taught me, checking each connection by feel before I ever trusted my eyes. Most of it looked right. Clean, factory routing, exactly what I'd expect from someone who took real pride in their work.

Then my fingers brushed something that didn't belong.

It was tucked behind the wiring harness, wedged up against the frame where nobody would find it unless they were searching by touch instead of sight. Small, metal, cold. I pulled it free carefully and held it up to the light, turning it over in my palm.

It wasn't a motorcycle part. It wasn't anything that belonged inside an engine bay at all.

Mason went completely rigid beside me, his easy warmth from a moment ago gone entirely, replaced by something tight and alert.

"Zoe," he said quietly, carefully. "Don't move."

"What is it?"