The Biker's Obsession: His Ride Or Die

The bell above the door jingled. Lena flinched, heart skipping. Customers at this hour were rare—and usually odd. “Sorry, we’re closed,” she called without turning. But silence greets her then, she turned, brows knitting. No one?. Goosebumps crawled across her arms. Then a sharp engine growl roared from outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of tires screeching. Lena froze. Her shop sat at the edge of a warehouse district—a dead zone after hours. She crept to the front window, peeking through a crack in the blind. Two motorcycles had pulled up across the street. The riders weren’t delivery boys. They were leathered-up giants, tattoos snaking down their necks, one of them dragging a struggling man from a van. Oh God!. They threw him to the pavement, and one pulled a gun. Lena clamped a hand over her mouth. She should look away. She had to. But her feet were nailed to the floor. The man begged. The biker said something—too quiet to hear. Then the gun fired. It was one shot. Clean. Lena stumbled back, a choked cry escaping her lips. Her elbow slammed into a bookshelf, sending a cascade of books crashing to the floor. The noise echoed like a siren. Outside, heads turned immediately. One of the bikers pointed—right at her store window. “Shit.” She bolted after turning the lights off. Locked the door, and followed through he back exit. She ran down the alley, heart hammering against her ribs. Her flats slipped on damp concrete. She didn’t stop until she hit the edge of Main Street, her breath ragged, lungs burning from fear, and exhaustion. Quickly, she flagged down the first cab she saw and dove inside. “Anywhere. Just drive.” But she didn’t see the black motorcycle slide into traffic behind them. The cab reeked of cigarettes and desperation, but Lena didn’t care. She sat hunched in the backseat, arms wrapped around herself, mind spinning like a broken record. A man had been murdered!. Right across the street from her shop!. And she’d seen it. “Ma’am?” the cab driver glanced at her through the mirror. “You okay?” She shook her head, still breathless. “Just… take me to the 9th precinct. Police station.” “You sure? You look like you—” “I said drive!”.The cab jolted into motion. Lena’s hands trembled as she pulled her phone from her bag. No signal?. Of course!. The cell tower always dropped out in that district at night. She tucked the phone away, teeth pressing into her lip so hard she tasted blood. By the time the precinct came into view, she’d convinced herself it was the right move. She wasn’t going to be that girl who said nothing. Who pretended she hadn’t seen a life stolen in cold blood. Someone had to say something. She stepped into the fluorescent-lit lobby, her knees still shaking. An officer at the desk barely looked up. “I—I witnessed a murder,” Lena said, voice cracking. Now that got his attention. But it took two hours.... Two damned hours of questions, repeating her story to three different officers, and trying to describe the killers. She couldn’t name the gang, didn’t know much about bikes or ink, but when she described the Reaper symbol on one man’s jacket—bones coiled in smoke with a flaming scythe—the room shifted. The officers exchanged a look. “Dead Reapers,” one of them muttered. “Or the Fangs framing them again,” the other replied. “That turf war’s still hot.” Lena frowned. “What does that mean?” The older detective leaned forward. “Miss… it’s best if you forget what you saw.” “What? Why?” “Look, we’ll file the report, but these guys don’t leave witnesses. And if what you’re saying is true—if they saw you? You might want to think about leaving town.” Her stomach dropped. “I came to you for protection.” The detective sighed, rubbing his eyes. “And we’ll do what we can. But they have eyes everywhere. If I were you, I’d stay inside, don’t talk to anyone, and for God’s sake, don’t go back to that bookstore.” And just like that, she hurried out of the station, watching her back as she walked away. She crashed at her friend Harper’s place on the north side—tiny apartment, leaky faucet, and a roommate who wasn’t home. She curled up on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest, staring at the window. Lena didn't dare to sleep that night. And when a single motorcycle sound passed by around 3:00 a.m. She held her breath, when It did stop to what looked like right the front of the apartment. And in the shadows outside, parked just out of view, a man watched her window through the smoke of a cigarette. Jax Callahan had finally found her. And the girl who’d just walked into his world was about to learn—there’s no such thing as innocent in a war between devils. Because the next thing she heard was a knock on Harper’s apartment door. It was heavy—almost like a warning. Lena flinched on hearing the sound, heart pounding as she peeked through the peephole. Standing there was a man who didn’t belong in her world: broad-shouldered, tattoos sprawling up his neck, a black leather jacket that looked like it had survived a war. His dark eyes caught the dim hallway light and pinned her like a target. "s**t! What the hell! What am I going to do now?"