Page 1 of Claimed By Lock

CHAPTER 1

LOCK

Too many people. Too much noise. Too many faces I don't know.

I've never been good at rallies. There's too much happening, too many variables, and my brain won't stop cataloging all of it — the clusters of patches, who's talking to who, which guys are drinking too much and might start something stupid later. Can't turn it off. Never could. Probably why I ended up as Sergeant-at-Arms — the club needed someone who notices shit, and I can't stop noticing shit. It worked out for everyone.

Rogue calls it my superpower. I call it exhausting.

Tonight's supposed to be easy. Neutral ground, all the clubs playing nice, pretending we don't have history with half the patches here. My brothers are scattered around drinking and bullshitting and having a good time, and I'm sitting here watching the crowd like I'm expecting something to go wrong.

It's an old habit. I can't quite shake it.

The Ironwood Rally sprawls out around us — bikes gleaming under string lights, music too loud from the stage, the smell of smoke and grilled meat and spilled beer hanging thick in the air. Must be three hundred people here tonight. Maybe more.Lost Angels near the beer tent, Iron Hands by the food trucks, a cluster of Diablos keeping to themselves near the tree line. Patches everywhere I look, colors that would mean war on any other night.

But not tonight. Tonight we're all friends.

What a fucking joke.

"You're doing that thing again." Rogue drops onto the bench across from me, two beers in hand. Slides one over without asking if I want it.

I take it anyway. "What thing?"

"That thing where you look like you're calculating how to kill everyone here and get away with it."

"Not everyone." I scan the crowd again. Old habit. "Just the ones who'd cause problems."

"And how many is that?"

"Fourteen." I take a drink. "Fifteen if you count the prospect with the Diablos who keeps touching his waistband like he's got something to prove."

Rogue laughs, shaking his head. "You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"

"I've been told."

"Seriously, brother. You ever think about relaxing? Just for one night?" He stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankle, the picture of casual ease. "We're at a rally. Cold beer. Good music. This is supposed to be fun."

"Fun."

"Yeah. You know — that thing normal people have when they're not sizing up everyone in sight."

I don't answer. Just take another drink and let my gaze sweep the crowd.

Rogue sighs. "You're impossible."

"Yeah."

He's not wrong, though. About any of it. I don't know how to turn it off — the watchfulness, the constant assessment. Even here, surrounded by my brothers, I can't stop scanning for threats. It's wired into me now. Years of being the one who handles the shit nobody else wants to handle will do that to a man.

Speaking of brothers — King's over by the fire pit with Demi tucked against his side, her head on his shoulder, both of them lit gold by the flames. He's laughing at something she said, and the sound carries across the noise. I've known King for eight years now. Seen him in every situation you can imagine — bar fights, standoffs, deals gone wrong. I've never seen him look like that. Like something that was wound tight for years finally loosened.

Marriage suits him. Softened some of those hard edges, even if he'd never admit it.

Rogue catches me looking and grins. "Nauseating, isn't it?"

"What?"

"The two of them. All that domestic bliss." He takes a long pull of his beer. "Makes me sick."