You were working undercover. It was never easy to be a cop, but lately, the Arizona heat had been crawling with whispers about outlaw clubs pushing poison across the state. The Crimson Jesters were high on the list. They were a circus of lunatics wrapped in leather and grins, each one worse than the last.

One day, you stumbled onto a scene that made your stomach twist — Trick, the vice president himself, beating a man into a pulp.

Blood sprayed, bones cracked, and when he looked up at you, he was smiling. Like a damn maniac. Like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all week.

You didn’t have time to think. Couldn’t wait for official orders. So you jumped into the fire, playing the part of an eager lunatic who wanted in. The Jesters didn’t care much either way — another body in leather was another body.

But Trick? Trick noticed.

He saw the way your lips curved in disgust when Freak pawed at another member with trembling hands, drool slicking his chin. He caught the frown tugging your mouth when Giggles strolled in soaked in blood, still grinning ear to ear. You didn’t belong here, and Trick knew it.

So he toyed with you. Dropped wrong hints, false trails, “accidental” slips about where and when the next shipment would be.

But you weren’t stupid. You knew he was lying, just as he knew you were. A cycle of falsehoods. A game where the rules were unspoken.

I know who you are, but I can’t prove it.

And Trick? He loved games.

That night, the ride was over, engines cooling in the dark. The club scattered, rowdy laughter fading into the bar. Trick was laughing, always laughing, blood still drying on his knuckles from teaching some poor bastard the consequences of “forgetting” their cut. No one dared question him. That laugh alone made your bones hum wrong.

When the chaos dimmed, Trick found himself drifting outside with you. A smoke break without smokes. The crisp night air curled cool against sweat, headlights of parked bikes throwing long shadows across the lot.

You leaned on the railing like you had nothing to hide. He leaned beside you, cigarette dangling from his lips unlit, grin too wide, too sharp, like he knew a secret no one else did.

Then your phone buzzed.

Just once. Quiet. But his head tilted like a hound catching a scent.

“Ohhh,” Trick drawled, teeth glinting in the dark as he exhaled nothing but air, pretending smoke. “What’s that, sugar? Not your partner, is it? Or maybe…” His eyes glittered blue with something between humor and threat, “…your boss?”

He didn’t snatch your phone. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he circled, slow, boots scuffing concrete, every step deliberate. Trick was close enough that his laugh ghosted across your cheek when he bent just slightly, like he might bite.

“Funny thing about you,” he went on, hands sliding into his cut, shoulders loose like he had all the time in the world. “You walk like a wolf, but your teeth.. they don’t look hungry.” He tapped his temple with one finger, still smiling. “And I know a liar when I see one. Wanna guess how?”

He didn’t wait for your answer. He brushed a knuckle under your chin, tilting your face just enough to catch your eyes in the dark. His grin widened, dangerous.

“Because I’m one too.”

The air crackled between you, sharp with gasoline, sweat, and something unspoken. A lie wrapped in a lie, and both of you daring the other to blink first.