Chapter 3: The Detour
Three days. Seventy-two hours of open road, of sun-baked asphalt and the wind stripping the thoughts from his head until all that remained was the simple rhythm of the engine between his thighs. Duncan had almost convinced himself he didn't need to think about Jared Whitaker at all. Almost.
The bike coughed first, a dry, rattling sputter that had Duncan's hands tightening on the grips. He eased off the throttle, frowning at the gauges. Fuel was fine. Oil pressure looked fine. Then the engine coughed again, harder this time, a sick hacking sound that vibrated through the frame, and Duncan felt his stomach drop.
"No," he muttered, patting the tank with a gloved hand. "Come on, girl. Don't do this to me."
But she did. The third cough was a full choke, and the engine died with a gutted sigh that echoed off the empty desert scrub stretching in every direction. The bike coasted, decelerating fast, and Duncan guided it onto the shoulder with a string of curses that would have made a dockworker blush. He kicked the stand down and swung off, the heat of the Nevada afternoon baking through his denim jacket.
He popped the seat, checked the spark plug leads, checked the fuel line, checked everything he knew how to check and a few things he only sort of knew how to check. Nothing looked wrong. Nothing looked right, either. The bike sat there, dead and indifferent, and the silence pressed in around him like a physical weight.
Duncan leaned against the saddle, dragged a hand through his auburn curls, and stared down the empty highway in both directions. No traffic. No buildings. Just the shimmer of heat rising off the asphalt and the distant purple hump of mountains that hadn't moved in three hours of riding.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper, worn soft from nervous handling. The number was scrawled in a heavy, decisive hand. He'd told himself he'd called it because the bike was dead and he was stranded. Because any sensible person would take the lifeline offered by a friendly face. He'd told himself a lot of things over the last three days, most of them lies.
The phone rang twice before a voice picked up. "Jared Whitaker."
The sound of it hit Duncan somewhere in his chest, low and warm despite the crackle of the connection. "Uh. Hi. It's Duncan. From the diner."
A pause. Then, "The diner. The redhead with the iron grip and the murderous glare."
"That's me." Duncan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, I'm stranded about forty miles outside of Vegas. My bike's dead and I'm not exactly in a position to be picky about who comes to get me."
"Where are you exactly?"
Duncan squinted at the faded green mile marker. "Mile forty-two on the highway. The bike is a... it's a bike. It looks like a bike. I don't know what else to tell you."
"I know the stretch." There was a shift in Jared's voice, the warmth roughening into something practical, almost protective. "Stay with the bike. I'll be there within the hour."
"Look, I can handle myself. I just need to make a call, maybe use a phone book, find a mechanic who—"
"Duncan." The name was a wall. "Stay with the bike. I'll be there."
The line went dead, and Duncan stared at the phone like it had bitten him. Something about being told to stay had his shoulders tightening, the old familiar defiance rising in his throat. He could ignore the order. He could start walking, see how far he got before the heat did him in. But the truth was, he'd called. He'd made the choice, and some cowardly, needy part of him was glad the line was still warm.
He sat on the shoulder, back against the dead bike, and watched the heat shimmer.
Jared arrived in fifty-three minutes. Duncan knew because he'd been counting, his pride needling him at every minute past the forty-five mark. The rumble of the engine came first, a deep-throated growl from a black pickup truck pulling a flatbed trailer, and the sight of it sent a ridiculous flutter through Duncan's chest that he told himself was relief at being rescued.
Jared climbed out of the cab. He was wearing the same black vest over a fresh grey henley, and the desert light caught the silver band on his thumb as he walked toward Duncan with a long, easy stride that somehow made the empty road feel like it was his.
"Dead bike," Jared said, crouching beside the engine block. His fingers moved over the casing with a familiarity Duncan didn't expect from a man who rode to look intimidating. "Fuel line's shot. Clogged injector too, I'd bet. This thing's been running on spite for a while now."
"It got me here."
"Not the rest of the way, it didn't." Jared straightened, dusting off his palms. "We can get her loaded on the trailer. I know a guy back at the clubhouse who can fix anything with an engine and enough threats."
Duncan's jaw tightened. "I appreciate the ride, but I can find a motel, sort out a tow to a shop. I don't need to be a burden on your pack."
Jared's amber eyes fixed on him, and there was something in them that made Duncan's mouth go dry. "You're not a burden. That's not what this is."
"Then what is this, exactly?"
The question hung between them, sharp and honest in the desert air. Jared looked at him for a long moment, and Duncan caught a flicker of something in those eyes, something hungry and careful all at once, a beast on a leash.
"It's an offer of hospitality," Jared said finally. "My pack wants to meet the man who made their alpha buy him pie. I'd say you've earned the tour."
Duncan snorted despite himself. "I didn't know buying pie was such a big deal."
"It was cherry pie. Cherry matters."
The absurdity of it cracked something open in Duncan's chest, a tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. He looked at his dead bike, at the empty road, at this strange, intense man who had somehow decided Duncan was worth driving an hour into the desert for.
"Fine," he said. "But if your pack tries to feed me or make me feel welcome, I'm warning you now, I get weird about it."
Jared's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Noted."
They loaded the bike onto the trailer in silence, working together with an ease Duncan didn't want to examine too closely. Jared's hands were careful with the machine, surprisingly gentle for such a big man, and when Duncan slid into the passenger seat of the truck and the door closed with a solid thud, the cab felt smaller than it had any right to be.
The drive to the clubhouse took twenty minutes. Duncan watched the desert give way to scrubland, then to the outskirts of Vegas: a blur of gas stations and faded motels and pawn shops with barred windows. Jared turned down a gravel road Duncan never would have noticed, and the compound rose out of the haze like a promise.
It was a sprawling, repurposed industrial building, all corrugated steel and faded signage, surrounded by a chain-link fence and a yard full of motorcycles. Bikes lined both sides of the concrete apron like a row of sleeping animals, all chrome and black paint and rumbling potential.
Jared parked the truck and cut the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, and Duncan could feel eyes on him through the windows of the building.
"Ready?" Jared asked.
Duncan looked at the compound, at the pack gathering behind the glass, at this strange new world he'd driven straight into on a dead motorcycle and a scrap of paper with a phone number on it.
"Not even slightly," he said. "Let's go."
The gravel crunched under Duncan's boots as he followed Jared toward the main entrance, and with every step the weight of unseen eyes pressed harder against his skin. The door swung open before Jared could reach it, and a woman with sharp grey eyes and a leather jacket covered in patches leaned against the frame, arms crossed.
"So this is the pie guy," she said, her voice carrying a dry amusement. "I'm Sofia. I handle the books and the bullshit. Mostly the bullshit."
A huge man appeared behind her, dark-skinned and thick through the shoulders, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. "Marcus," he said, nodding at Duncan. "Your bike's already in the shop. Fuel line's a piece of shit, but I'll have her running by morning."
Duncan blinked. "You started already? I just got here."
Marcus shrugged. "Jared said it was important. So it's important."
The words landed somewhere soft in Duncan's chest, and he hated how much he liked them. He opened his mouth to respond, but then a younger man with a wiry frame and a grin too sharp for his face crowded in behind Marcus, and the air in the room seemed to change.
"Danny," Jared said, his voice with a warning edge. "Careful."
Danny held up his hands, but his eyes were bright, hungry in a way that made Duncan's skin prickle. "Just want to say hi to our guest, boss. Heard he's got a hell of a grip."
Duncan's shoulders tightened. He'd been in rooms like this before, full of alphas who circled and sniffed and decided he'd be easy prey because he was small and soft and omega. He straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and met Danny's grin with a flat stare.
"You want to test it?"
The challenge in his voice cut through the room's hum. Danny's grin faltered, and Marcus laughed, a low rumble that broke the tension like a hammer through glass.
"Fuck me, he's got teeth," Marcus said. "I like him."
Sofia's eyes were sharp on Duncan, appraising, but there was no cruelty in them. "Alright, pack up. Stop circling like a bunch of strays. Let the man breathe."
The pack dispersed with grumbling and good-natured shoving, and Duncan felt the pressure ease. But then Danny walked past him, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed, and something in Duncan's hindbrain snapped.
It wasn't a thought. It was older than thought, deeper than language. The scent of alpha wolf, dominant and unclaimed, flooded his senses, and his body responded before his mind could catch up.
His knees buckled.
Duncan caught himself on the doorframe, knuckles white against the metal, but the wave kept coming. His skin went hot and cold at once, his heart hammering against his ribs, and the world tilted sideways. Every alpha in the room was suddenly a hyper-sharp pressure on his awareness, their scents crashing over him like surf: Danny's sharp and spicy, Marcus's warm and smoky, Sofia's bright and clean, and underneath it all, Jared's, deep and dark and everywhere.
Jared.
The name was a beacon in the chaos. Duncan's head turned toward him without conscious choice, and Jared was already moving, his big body stepping between Duncan and the pack with a finality that made the other wolves take a step back.
"Give us the room," Jared said, and it wasn't a request.
The pack filed out, Danny with a muttered curse and a sulky look, and the door clicked shut behind them. The silence that followed was thick, and Duncan's legs gave out entirely.
He went down hard, his knees hitting the concrete floor with a crack that he barely felt through the roaring in his ears. The world was too loud, too bright, too much, and all he could focus on was the heavy, comforting scent of alpha that filled his lungs with every ragged breath.
"Easy." Jared's voice was low, careful, coming from above him. "Easy, Duncan. You're okay. You're safe."
Duncan lifted his head, and the sight of Jared kneeling in front of him, those amber eyes soft and his big hands held out, palms up, open, waiting for permission, undid something in him.
"I don't know what happened," Duncan said, and his voice came out rough and small. "I don't do this. I don't go weak around alphas, I never have."
"I know," Jared said. "You've got more spine than anyone I've met. That's why this is hitting you so hard."
Duncan swallowed. "Hitting me? This is... this is animal. I felt like I was going to crawl out of my own skin."
"It's your omega instincts," Jared said gently. "They're wide awake now. They know something I've been trying to tell you since the diner."
"And what's that?"
Jared's hand moved, slow, to rest on Duncan's knee. The touch was light, barely there, but the warmth of it burned through Duncan's jeans like a brand.
"That you're not alone anymore," Jared said. "That there's a den here with your name on it, and I'm going to be patient as hell until you're ready to accept that."
Duncan stared at him, at this strange, intense man who had driven an hour into the desert for a dead motorcycle, who had a pack circling him like he was something precious, who was kneeling on a concrete floor with his hands open and his eyes full of a tenderness that made Duncan's chest ache.
His omega instincts screamed at him to lean into that touch, to press his face against Jared's palm and soak up the warmth and safety radiating off him like heat from a sun.
He didn't.
But he didn't move away, either.
"Show me the room," Duncan said, his voice steadier than he felt. "The one with the bed you mentioned."
Jared's eyes flickered with something, a heat quickly banked. "Yeah," he said. "Come on."