Chapter One
850 Words
"Walk out."
The heavy steel door hadn't even clicked shut behind her when the command hit the heavy, oil-slicked air.
Nadia didn't flinch. She dropped her heavy tool bag onto the scuffed concrete floor, letting the dead weight of the thud answer for her, and slapped a manila folder onto the counter.
The man on the other side finally looked up.
She had spent the drive here meticulously arranging her expression, preparing a speech meant for the VP, the club secretary, or whatever mid-level enforcer she expected to face. Instead, the sheer, sudden gravity of the man staring back at her dismantled every ounce of her preparation.
It was River.
He wasn't just a prospect running parts anymore; the sergeant-at-arms patch on his leather cut was worn dangerously soft at the shoulders, aged by years of brutal enforcement, not the washing machine.
"I'm here for Marcus Cole's debt," Nadia said, keeping her voice entirely devoid of the cold spike of panic twisting in her chest. "Forty thousand."
River’s dark eyes flicked to the folder. Assessing, not reading.
"I can't pay it in cash," she pushed the paper a fraction closer to him. "I can pay it in labor. I'm an H-D Master Technician. Two years commercial, one year competition builds. I'm better than whoever you have on your lifts right now."
River didn't touch the file. "We don't take women on the floor," he stated, his voice flat and absolute.
"That's a choice that's costing you," she shot back, stepping into his space rather than retreating. "Your turnaround time on the Dyna builds—"
"I know our turnaround time."
"Then you know it's wrong."
River finally closed the folder, the stillness in his massive frame far more threatening than a sudden movement. A distorted radio played low in the shop, cut by the clatter of a wrench dropping onto concrete in the back bay. The air smelled of engine oil, caustic degreaser, and faintly of stale cigarettes and old leather—the exact, suffocating cocktail that had clung to her uncle's shop for twenty years.
Nadia counted her own breaths.
"The debt doesn't transfer," River said softly.
Her lungs seized.
"Marcus Cole signed personal terms," River continued, sliding the folder back toward her with one scarred finger. "He defaults, we take the shop. Paperwork’s already filed."
Nadia didn't reach for the paper.
"Then what do you want?" she asked, her voice dropping all pretense.
River didn’t answer immediately. He wasn't looking at the folder, or her face. He was looking directly at her hands. His gaze tracked the thick calluses at the base of each finger, the jagged burn scar on her left palm from catching a hot header bare-handed two winters ago, and the stubborn grease line wedged permanently beneath her thumbnail.
It was a look of brutal, predetermined recognition. The look of a man evaluating something he had already spent a long time thinking about.
The back of her neck went ice cold. Something sharp folded inward at the center of her chest, but she locked it down, refusing to let the terror show on her face.
"River," a gruff, male voice echoed from the back bay, boots crunching closer. "We've got a problem on the lift."
River didn't break eye contact with Nadia. "One minute," he called back.
Whatever silent calculus he had been running was finished. He pushed off the back wall and leaned heavily over the counter, closing the distance between them without asking for permission.
"You want to work off the debt," he said.
"Yes."
"Your uncle's terms are closed. But there's another arrangement." He let the silence hang for a fractured second. "You work for us. Not the shop. The chapter. On the road, on our schedule, wherever we need a tech. Six months. Debt is cleared."
Nadia heard the pulse thudding in her own ears.
Six months with the Inferno Demon Riders. Six months trapped in their orbit, dragged on the road to wherever five men decided they needed her to be.
She had walked through that door with a controlled, calculated plan. It was entirely gone.
Outside in the yard, a V-twin engine fired, caught, and settled into a violent, throaty idle.
"Six months," she repeated.
"On-call. You go where we go. You work what needs working. At the end of it, the debt disappears and you're done."
River reached blindly beneath the counter. He didn't hand her anything. He simply placed a single key on a plain, unmarked ring onto the scarred wood between them. A take-it-or-leave-it ultimatum forged in cheap brass.
"Okay," Nadia said. The word tasted like iron.
River pushed off the counter. "Bay three. Put your gear there," he commanded, already turning his broad back toward the dim hallway. "Kayne'll walk you through the floor."
"Wait," she said.
He stopped.
"Who's Kayne?" she asked.
River looked at her over his shoulder. His expression shifted into something she couldn't categorize and deeply didn't want to try—something far older than a smile, and infinitely less safe.
"You'll find out," he said.
Nadia picked up the key.
- Writer
