Chapter 3: Chapter 3
She brought her fingers to her lips, the ghost of his kiss a brand more permanent than any of the ink on her skin.
Act normal.
The words were a sick joke. Normal had been shattered along with the door, swept up with the glass on her floor. Normal had tasted like coffee and violence and a promise she knew she should run from. Her heart was still trying to beat its way out of her chest. She took a step, her boot scraping against concrete, the sound absurdly loud in the hollow silence he’d left behind.
The roar was different this time. Not a statement, but a scream. It wasn’t the low, confident thrum of Cole’s Fat Boy. This was higher, desperate, the engine whining as it skidded to a stop somewhere out in the lot. Tires screeched on wet asphalt.
Raven froze, her blood going cold.
Footsteps, running, stumbling. A shadow lurched through the broken doorway.
Jax.
He was breathing in ragged, wet gulps, one hand clamped to his side. The other hung limp, covered in a slick, dark sheen that wasn't just from the rain. In the garage’s fluorescent light, his face was a ghastly shade of gray.
“You,” he gasped, his wild eyes locking onto her. He staggered forward, leaving a spatter of crimson droplets on the concrete. “He… he just left you here?”
Raven’s mechanic’s mind automatically catalogued the damage. Shallow, rapid breathing. Probable broken ribs on the right side. The bleeding from his arm was arterial, a pulsing flow that dripped from his fingertips. He wasn’t going to last long.
“What happened?” Her voice was tight, all business. The personal shock of moments ago was shoved down, buried under a surge of adrenaline.
“Ambush. Half a mile down the road.” Jax slumped against the fender of an old Camaro she was restoring, his legs buckling. He left a smeared red handprint on the pristine blue paint. “They were waiting. Knew we’d come that way.” He coughed, a spray of blood misting the air. “Cole… he plowed through. Told me to split, draw some off. I think… I think I got the last one. Bike’s in a ditch.”
His head lolled back against the car. “He was right. They’re cleaning house. Tying up loose ends.” His gaze, blurry with pain, found hers again. “You’re a loose end.”
The cold dread in her stomach solidified into a block of ice. She looked from his bleeding form to the gaping hole where her door used to be. Anyone could walk in. They would walk in. They’d follow the blood trail right to her.
“I need to get you out of sight,” she said, moving toward him. Her mind was already racing, calculating the logistics. The small bathroom in the back. The first aid kit. The .38 revolver she kept locked in the bottom drawer of her desk.
Jax’s good hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength. His grip was cold and slippery with blood. “Don’t you get it? They’re not playing. They tagged my bike, too. They’ll be here any minute.” He winced, a fresh wave of pain contorting his features. “He’s gonna lose his mind over this.”
“Over what?”
“Over you.” Jax’s eyes rolled back for a second before he fought to focus. “He shouldn’t care. But he does. It’s a weakness. And they found it.”
He shoved something into her hand. It was small, cold, and metal. A key. Not a house key. A small, numbered locker key, the kind from a bus station.
“His storage unit. In the city. He doesn’t know I know.” Jax’s voice was fading to a whisper. “If… if this goes bad… it’s the only copy. Don’t let them get it.”
He sagged, his weight suddenly heavy against the car. The fight was draining out of him along with his blood.
Raven stared at the key in her palm. It felt heavier than any tool she’d ever held. It wasn’t just a piece of metal; it was a secret. It was a target. The smell of blood and gasoline was suffocating. The flickering neon from the street bled through the broken doorway, painting everything in pulses of frantic red.
Somewhere, in the distance, a new engine sound cut through the night. It wasn't a Harley. It was the low, predatory growl of a car moving slowly, purposefully, searching.
Jax heard it too. His eyes, wide with a final burst of clarity, met hers. "They're here."
She brought her fingers to her lips, the ghost of his kiss a brand more permanent than any of the ink on her skin. Normal. The word was a joke. There was no normal after a man like that had looked at you like you were the only thing left to conquer, after he’d tasted you and walked away leaving the air crackling. She knelt, the gritty crunch of glass under her knees a welcome distraction, and picked up the broom.
The sweeping was methodical. Push, pull, gather. The sharp tang of spilled oil mixed with the dry-dust smell of shattered drywall. Each sweep was an attempt to reclaim the space, to push the chaos back out the broken door. She was stacking the larger pieces of the doorframe against the wall when a different engine sound cut through the night. Not the deep-throated roar of Cole’s Harley. This was higher-pitched, anxious, a snarling approach that ended too close to the building.
She straightened up, the broom held tight in both hands. Not him. Not again.
But it was the other one. Jax.
He didn’t kick the wreckage this time. He just stood in the opening, silhouetted by his bike’s headlight. He was still bleeding, a fresh trickle of red cutting a path through the grime on his temple. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, scanned the garage before landing on her.
“He came back.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was ragged, stripped raw.
Raven didn’t answer. She just watched him, her grip tightening on the broom handle.
Jax took a stumbling step inside. He reeked of sweat, gasoline, and cheap whiskey. “What did he say? What did he tell you?”
“He told me to lock up.” She kept her voice flat, neutral. A mechanic stating a fact.
Jax barked a short, ugly laugh. “Lock up. Right.” He ran a shaking hand over his face, smearing the blood. “He’s lost it. You know that, right? Playing some long game while they’re picking pieces of our guys off the fucking floor.”
He took another step, and now she could see the frantic energy vibrating through him. He was a live wire, sparking and dangerous.
“He shouldn’t have brought you into this,” Jax muttered, more to himself than to her. His eyes darted around the shop, paranoid. “You’re a loose end. A liability.”
“I fix bikes. That’s all.”
“Don’t give me that shit.” He was in front of her now, too close. The whiskey on his breath was a sour cloud. “I saw how he looked at you. Stupid. Reckless. He’s thinking with his dick, and that gets people killed. It already got two kids killed tonight.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. She thought of the tracker, the calculated coldness in Cole’s eyes when he’d understood what it meant. That wasn’t a man thinking with his dick. That was a general assessing a battlefield. But Jax was too far gone to see the difference.
“You need to leave,” Raven said, her voice low but clear. She took a half-step back, her shoulder blades touching the cold metal of the tool chest.
“Or what?” Jax sneered, mirroring her earlier challenge to Cole but warping it into something pathetic and threatening. “You gonna call the cops?” He gestured vaguely at the broken door. “Yeah, do that. Bring ‘em all in. See how that works out for you.”
He leaned in, pointing a trembling finger at her face. “Listen to me. You stay away from him. You hear me? You don’t know what you’re messing with. This club is my family. I’m not letting some greasy mechanic be the thing that breaks it.”
The insult landed, but it didn’t sting. It just clarified things. This wasn’t about club safety. This was about jealousy. About being sidelined.
Raven’s gaze dropped from his frantic eyes to the wrench still lying on the workbench. It was a foot away. Cold, solid, real.
“Get out of my shop,” she said, each word a chip of ice.
For a second, he looked like he might lunge. His whole body coiled, fueled by whiskey and grief and a bleeding temper. He glared at her, his chest heaving. The silence stretched, tight as a tripwire.
Then, just as suddenly, the fight went out of him. His shoulders slumped. He shook his head, a slow, defeated gesture. “Hell. Just… hell.”
He turned and walked back to his bike, his steps unsteady. He didn’t look back. The engine coughed to life, and he weaved off into the night, leaving her alone once more with the silence and the wreckage.
But the silence was different now. It wasn’t just empty. It was charged with his warning, his desperation. A loose end. A liability.
She walked to the workbench and picked up the wrench. The metal was cool and comforting in her hand. She looked from the broken door to the trail of oily boot prints Jax had left on her clean-swept floor.
The war wasn’t just at Cole’s compound. It was here. And she was standing right in the middle of it.