She sighed into his mouth, and he slid his hands around her, struggling with the need to crush her against him, make them one instead of two. Sensation overwhelmed him: the minty taste of her lips, her scent of jasmine and the warm summer breeze, the softness of her body. His knees trembled and he pulled the present from his pocket, now less of a gesture and more of a distraction to give him a chance to regain some semblance of control.
“Is this for me?” She stroked a finger over the pink tissue paper, now crumpled and torn.
“It’s stupid. I’m sure what Jagger got you—”
“Jagger got me Devastation Planet Three,” she said. “He has his PlayStation all set up and ready for us to kick some alien butt tonight. So unless you got me the same thing, I’ll love it. And even if it is, I’ll love it, because it came from you.”
She tore off the paper and stared at the photograph in the handmade frame. Jagger’s dad had taken the picture of him, Evie, and Jagger on the couch one afternoon as they were celebrating the successful completion of yet another video game. Although both he and Jagger had placed an arm around Evie, sitting between them, she leaned into Zane, her body tucked against him as if that was where she belonged.
Zane had hoped on that picture, dreamed on that picture; it was his most treasured possession. And when he’d made the frame after work, carved it with their names, lacquered and polished it until it shone, he prayed she would understand the message.
“It’s beautiful, Zane. I love it. It’ll be the first thing I put in my room at college.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and Zane caught it on his finger, wishing he could keep it forever—keep her forever.
I love you. The words stuck in his throat, held back by fear, a profound lack of self-worth, and a lifetime of rejection.
Gently, he drew her down to the forest floor. He didn’t mean for things to go as far as they did, but he couldn’t deny the emotion that spilled from his chest.
And he lost his heart under the setting sun on the last day of summer in Stanton.
TWO
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
—SINNER’S TRIBE MOTORCYCLE REPAIR MANUAL
“Axle’s gotta die.”
Zane “Tracker” Colton drew his weapon from beneath his cut, the leather vest worn by all outlaw bikers, in response to the words uttered from the shadows. His eyes fixed on the lean, dark-haired man across the street, the object of a hunt that had taken far too long and covered too many miles. Zane preferred silence in the moment before an attack—time to reflect and consider the ramifications of his actions—but Jagger had always been a yapper, and as president of the Conundrum Chapter of the Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club (MC), Jagger had the prerogative to yap even if his vice president disagreed.
“You got nothin’ to say?” Jagger dismounted his motorcycle and motioned for their biker brothers to do the same. “How long have we been chasing him? How many times did he slip through our fingers? You could show a little excitement that our MC will finally be avenged.”
“One year. Three escapes. And yeah, I’m fucking thrilled we’re finally gonna off the bastard who hurt your girl,” Zane replied. “But I keep it inside.”
Once a senior patch member of the Sinner’s Tribe MC, Axle had betrayed the club and threatened to kill Jagger’s old lady, the biker equivalent of a civilian wife. Even after the Sinners had forcibly removed Axle’s Sinner’s Tribe tattoo and left him for dead, Axle not only lived to tell the tale, but joined the Black Jacks, the Sinners’ biggest rival for outlaw biker dominance in the state of Montana.
“You keep everything inside,” Jagger said. “One day it’s all gonna become too much and you’ll explode. Man like you needs an outlet.”
Man like you needs to mind his own business.
If they’d been alone, Zane would have said the words that burned on the tip of his tongue. Friends since they were five years old, he and Jagger were brothers in all but name. But Jagger was president of one of the most powerful outlaw MCs in the state, and any public display of disrespect could erode his power base if it wasn’t immediately addressed. And right now, before a hit, the last thing Zane needed was a broken nose.
“Gimme thirty seconds with Axle and I’ll dance a fucking jig.” Zane nodded toward Big Bill’s Custom Motorcycles, Paint, and Artwork shop, still brightly lit and open for business, although the sun had almost set. “He’s inside now. Ready to move?”
Jagger signaled to the four Sinner brothers who had accompanied them on their road trip. Axle had too much information on the Sinners to be allowed to run free, especially now that he’d patched over to the Jacks.
Hunting him down hadn’t been easy, but Zane, a.k.a. Tracker, hadn’t earned his road name by letting weasels like Axle get away. They had followed him all over the state, ending up almost where they started, only one mile outside the border of the town of Conundrum, the base for the Sinner’s Tribe.