Page 1 of Riding with the President Biker

Chapter 1 — Hansen

The bar smells like old wood, cheap whiskey, and has the particular silence that precedes something breaking.

I have lived inside this silence for fourty-two years. Conversations are happening beneath conversations, and the men holding them have learned to keep their faces neutral regardless of what their hands are about to do.

The place sits two blocks from the frozen river, deep enough into downtown Whitetail Falls that nobody wanders past after dark by accident.

I am at the corner table with Miller to my left and Luke across from me, and the man sitting with us goes by Terran. He supplies components, the ones that go inside something that fires or removes a problem faster than federal investigation ever could.

His logistics ran south through Deadwood routes until three weeks ago. Now he is sitting in a Wolves bar because we are the only operation left standing that can fill the gap.

The trafficking bust gutted Deadwood and dragged law enforcement through Whitetail Falls like a river flooding its banks, disruptive, but incapable of reaching everywhere that needs reaching.

The Feds move at their own pace. The Night Wolves do not wait.

I let Miller handle Terran. He is good at making men feel heard before terms are set. I watch the room instead, four of mine positioned at casual intervals throughout, the tension low but present under every exchange, and I am tracking the weight of it when I decide I need thirty feet of distance from the table.

"Give him the secondary terms," I tell Miller. "I'll be back."

He does not look up, he already knows what they are.

I move toward the bar, and the room adjusts the way it always does. I lean against the far end of the counter and catch the bartender's eye, and he reaches for the bottle without being told.

That is when I see her.

Three stools down, and she is the reason I stop moving.

She is wearing dark jeans and a deep burgundy sweater, the thick fabric following the curve of her waist, pulling across her hips where they fill the stool like she owns it.

And she does own it. She owns the whole three feet of space around her with a settled confidence, and I am aware immediately that I am going to walk over there and I am going to find a reason to do it that sounds better than the actual one.

Her eyes are moving through the room, and when they reach me, they stop.

She does not look away.

There is something in her expression that I cannot immediately place, slightly amused, and completely unimpressed that I have been staring at her for the last ten seconds.

She picks up her glass and takes a slow sip, still holding my gaze, and the gesture is so deliberately unbothered that it works on me immediately.

I pick up my drink and walk the three stools down.

"You've been watching the room since you walked in," I say.

She glances up at me. "You've been doing it longer."

I lean against the bar beside her, close enough to be intentional about it. She turns slightly toward me on the stool, one elbow on the counter, and tips her chin up.

"You just got here," I say.

"Snow on my boots gave it away?"

"That and you're still scanning. People who belong in Whitetail Falls stop looking for the exits eventually."

Her mouth curves. "What does it mean when they don't stop?"

"Means they know something worth being alert to." I pause. "Or they've been trained."

"Trauma nurse, from Portland." she says, then takes another unhurried sip. "You learn to read a room whether you want to or not."