Page 12 of Ride or Die

Saint’s gaze flickered once more to the dark booth and then away. Ryan raised a finger, and a server was already crossing the floor with the beer on her tray.

Ryan surveyed the bar, clocking the construction guys and the rest of the crowd. He caught the bartender’s eye, and she shook her head.

The biker’s shoulders relaxed.

“Quiet night?” Ryan glanced at Saint, and he jerked a nod, hands tightening on the back of the chair. He hadn’t realized Ryan had picked this place to meet because his club owned it. And he should have.

He was getting complacent. Wasn’t that the point of retirement?

“How’s my ride?” Ryan asked, sipping the foam off his beer.

“Your bike needs a priest,” Saint said, forcing himself to sit. Relax. The woman kept pulling his gaze back.

“And that’s why we pay you.” Ryan clapped him on the shoulder, leaning across the table. “To keep the engines running smooth and fast.”

The blonde and the brunette got up to leave.

“Your bike is going to need an exorcism if you want it smooth. And I don’t do those,” Saint said.

Ryan’s laugh boomed. “I have faith in you.”

Saint didn’t respond, watching the women leave their booth. Ryan quieted and followed Saint’s gaze across the bar. “So it’s like that, huh?”

Saint shook his head. He knew where he’d seen her before.

She’d hidden under her hood and oversized clothes, drenched in rain. Here she was professional. Completely self-contained.

The women walked out, shoulder to shoulder. The brunette cast one last look back, eyes barely touching them with carefully practiced avoidance.

He didn’t hear a word Ryan said the rest of the night.

Riley’s eyes were the same soft grey as the rain.

Chapter 4

Riley

Riley rubbed at her shoulders where tension sank hooks into her brain after another boring and somehow exhausting day at Attivia. Her phone judged her from the counter for what she was considering.

The apartment next door vibrated with the bass from a blown speaker, and the stink of weed filtered down the hallway. She’d put a rolled-up towel down at the bottom of her door, but it hadn’t helped. Her apartment stank like a frat party. The lavender candle was nothing against the power of nineteen-year-olds on a Friday night.

She’d asked them to quiet down, polite and everything. The skinny kid who’d opened the door had offered her a half-smoked joint and invited her in.

She was too old for this shit.

She took a breath and pressed send.

The line connected—yelling, cheering, and a game in the background. She pulled the phone away from her ear.

“Just give me a sec.”

She waited, and the noise retreated until a door clicked shut.

“Hey,” Andrew said softly.

This was a mistake.

“Hi.” Riley pushed her fingers through her hair.