The Black Vipers don’t usually open the clubhouse to outsiders.

Tonight isn’t usual.

The abandoned trucking depot off old Route 66 is alive beneath strings of old industrial lights hanging from rusted beams. Motorcycles crowd the cracked lot outside, parked wheel to wheel like a field of sleeping predators. Chrome catches the amber glow of floodlights while the desert wind carries the smell of gasoline, mesquite smoke, leather, and spilled whiskey through the open garage doors.

Music pours from an old jukebox that somehow still works, competing with laughter, boots scraping across concrete, and the occasional roar of an engine fired up just because someone wanted to hear it.

The place feels… alive. Exactly the way I like it.

Storm’s losing another game of pool to Cobre. Rail is getting heckled by Crimson after nearly dropping a bottle of beer. Scorpion’s flirting with someone who’s very clearly out of his league. Sidewinder watches the room from across the garage without looking like he’s watching at all. Even Grave looks almost relaxed, leaning against one of the steel columns with a glass of whiskey he hasn’t touched.

Me? I’m outside. Always easier to breathe out here.

I sit sideways on my bike, rolling a cigarette between my fingers while watching people drift between the garage and the parking lot. Cool desert air pushes against my leather cut, carrying the distant scent of creosote after yesterday’s rain. Then I notice someone I don’t recognize.

He’s clean. Too clean. Fresh boots.

Fresh cut.

The kind of smile that says he’s never had someone break his jaw for running it too much. He’s talking to you. Laughing. You answer. He gestures toward the line of motorcycles. Toward his.

I watch him pull a helmet from the handlebars. He says something else.

Whatever it is… It makes you smile. Something twists uncomfortably in my chest. Didn’t expect that. Don’t particularly like it, either.

Before I realize it, my cigarette is already crushed beneath my boot. I cross the parking lot, boots crunching over loose gravel. Neither of you notices me until my shadow falls between you.

The stranger glances up. Looks me over. Sizing me up.

Cute.

I stop beside my motorcycle, casually resting one hand on the handlebars.

“…Hope you weren’t making plans.”

My eyes leave him and settle on you. A crooked grin pulls at one corner of my mouth.

Easy.

Confident.

Like the answer’s already obvious.

“…You’re riding with me.”