Gareth showed up at her house two more nights after that, and on the third night, Layla finally climbed down her trellis to join him.

She knew it was risky. If her parents caught her—hell, if they even suspected—she was done for. She wouldn’t put it past them to commit her to some kind of rehab facility or report her to the cops and force her to snitch on what she knew about the Marauders. Thankfully, she hadn’t been stupid enough to tell them everything that had happened that night, but it had been enough to get Jesse arrested if she was ever forced to confess.

As she walked with Gareth to the end of the neighborhood, Layla thought about what Officer Maddock had said about county lockup. She imagined Jesse confined to a tiny, stifling cell in the middle of a sweltering summer, sweat pouring down his body, choking on the dryness of his mouth as he begged for water.

She shuddered at the image. If you treated a dog that badly, they put you away for animal cruelty, but it was funny how human beings didn’t seem to deserve the same basic rights once they were branded as criminals.

But he is a criminal, she reminded herself as Gareth straddled his bike. He set a whole warehouse on fire. And if Gareth has his way, he’ll do a lot worse than that.

She looked into his fiery copper eyes as he held out a helmet for her to wear. His helmet.

“But—” she started to say.

“It’s cool,” he told her, thrusting the helmet at her again. “Go on.”

Layla frowned and closed her fingers over the cool, smooth surface of Gareth’s helmet. Why is he being so nice to me?

“Get on,” he ordered, starting his engine once he knew they were out of earshot of her parents.

Layla hopped up onto the back of his bike and encircled his waist with her arms. She was glad that she’d chosen to wear jeans this evening. She’d practically frozen to death the last time when she’d stupidly worn her short-shorts.

Gareth pulled out of her neighborhood and then onto the main road, high-tailing it in the direction of the painted rocks, now clothed in distant shadows. The helmet kept her hair from whipping around her face like stinging, golden tendrils, and it buffered the wind rushing past her ears as they raced toward the horizon.

He worked the throttle a little, sending a charge of vibrations between her legs, and Layla blushed profusely. Had Jesse told him about that, or was that just a common trick shared amongst the Marauders club members?

Whatever it was, it was sinfully good. Remembering what had happened the last time she’d given into her urges with a Marauder, however, she tried not to show that she enjoyed it too much.

When they veered off the dusty road through a field of cacti and Joshua trees, Layla began to wonder where Gareth was taking her. She had only been there twice, but she sure as hell knew this wasn’t the way to the clubhouse.

“Where are we going?” she cried, but the howling wind seemed to steal the words from her mouth as soon as she spoke them. She gave Gareth’s sides a little squeeze instead and bit her lip as she felt the firmness of his flesh beneath his shirt.

“Just a little detour,” he assured her as she idly explored his abs with the tips of her fingers. She felt him give way a little beneath her tough, his stomach quivering with a shuddering breath. “We’ll be there soon.”

They spurred on into the night, past the flat-topped mesas looming in the distance, moving so quickly that the stars above them blurred and streaked like a thousand meteors racing across the ink-stained sky. Layla pressed her face into Gareth’s jacket to combat the sting of the wind on her face and inhaled his scent: leather; oil; fire. She breathed in again and felt warm despite the desert chill.

She looked up when Gareth slowed his pace and saw the flicker of cheap neon not far ahead of them. It was the Desert Rose Motel, one of the seediest temporary-stay facilities in the whole county, and the Bottle Cap was right next to it.

He pulled into the parking lot populated by almost nothing but bikes, squeezed into a space, and cut the engine. Then he turned, unbuckled Layla’s helmet strap, and hung it from his handlebar as he swung off the bike and ran his fingers through his tangled, windswept locks. It looked like a lion’s mane, so soft and gilt in the dim streetlights.

As Layla watched him work his hands through it, she couldn’t help but imagine herself doing the same. Was it as sleek and downy as it looked?

She slid off the seat and landed beside him. He was so tall, so powerful, and the way his fierce eyes sought her out in the darkness reminded her of some kind of predator stalking its prey. She recalled the vehemence with which his fingers had sank into her skin in the clubhouse bathroom and glanced again at the Desert Rose Motel. Was he planning to bring her there?

“C’mon,” Gareth said as he headed for the Bottle Cap doors. “Camel’s waitin’.”

“Camel?” Layla asked, frowning as she hurried to catch up.

“Yeah.” He stopped, his hand wrapped around the handle. “Why? Were you expectin’ someone else?”

Jesse, she thought. He thinks I mean Jesse.

“No,” she lied. “I expected the clubhouse. But when you brought me here, I thought…” She bit into her lip and looked up at him through her long, dark lashes. “I thought it would be just the two of us.”

Gareth narrowed his eyes. She could see him running his tongue over his teeth just behind his pale, chapped lips—the result of the cold and the air, dry as salt, eroding his skin.

“I don’t do dates,” he said finally before yanking open the door to the Bottle Cap and stepping inside.

The first thing that struck Layla was how warm it was, a welcome relief from the temperature outside. The next was how much it smelled like leather and men. The musky scent of sweat, liquor, and leather wafted over her like an expensive cologne, heady but not pungent, and as she approached the bar in Gareth’s wake, she stole a glance at its source.

The Bottle Cap was filled to the brim with what looked like a mostly male clientele. They sauntered between pool tables, leather chaps brushing noisily as they walked; they laughed raucously at each other near the back of the bar, huddled around tables that seemed far too small for their stocky frames.

Layla was a little disappointed at how much older many of them were. Graying beards, tangled and knotted like Spanish moss, dripped from most of their battle-weary jaws. She supposed Bear might feel right at home here.

Which was why she was surprised that Camel had chosen to come, instead.

The dark-haired, scrawny-by-comparison Marauder was perched upon a stool at the bar proper, spinning an empty bottle of beer between his nimble hands. As though he knew him by his heavy gait alone, he turned and smiled lazily as Gareth approached.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he slurred, grinning wide as he saw Layla trailing behind him. Then Gareth clapped him roughly on the shoulder and he bowed beneath the force.

“Thanks for comin’, Camel,” he said, throwing himself down onto the stool next to him. He leaned over and nodded at the bartender, then held up the number two on his fingers.

The swarthy man frowned. “She legit?”

“Sure as shit,” Gareth replied. “I vouch.”

The bartender nodded, then grabbed two beers from a tub of ice, wiped them with a dirty rag, and tore the caps off of each with his bare hands. He slid them down the bar to Gareth, who caught both and offered one to Layla.

“Drink up.”

She sat down on the other side of Camel, putting some distance between herself and Gareth. She got the feeling that he wasn’t above taking advantage of her while she was drunk—especially since he’d done it once before while she was high.

“So, what’s this about takin’ over the Los Muertos supply line?” Camel asked, relinquishing his empty bottle in favor of a full one.

“Simple,” Gareth said as he sipped from his own. “The Marauders need cash to survive. What we make from the chop shop ain’t shit. We all know it, but Jesse’s too chicken shit to do anything about it.”

“Watch it,” Camel warned. “Jesse’s a friend.”

“Just hear me out,” Gareth snapped. “With Los Muertos held responsible for losin’ so much product, the Marauders are in a prime position to take the reins. The only reason we haven’t before is ‘cause we were all too young, and Jesse was worried about credibility. But we’re all men now, and it’s time we started actin’ like it instead of some pissant bunch’a kids. If we wanna be taken seriously, then we gotta be ready to do some serious shit.”

Camel sighed through his nose. He twisted his fingers around the condensation dripping from his bottle, leaving clear streaks across it where the heat of his hands had melted it away.

“It ain’t that easy,” he said after a time. “You’re talkin’ about movin’ in on established territory. Los Muertos speak the cartel language—hell, some of ‘em got direct ties.”

“We’ve got Gordo,” Gareth interrupted over the lip of his beer.

“Yeah, but Gordo ain’t family to them, and in their eyes, we’re still all just a bunch’a gringos.” He shook his head. “Right now, they think Los Muertos fucked up, sure. But you’re askin’ ‘em to pick us over their cousins, brothers, nephews—they’re never gonna go for that.”

“Not unless we prove our worth,” Gareth said, leaning in just a little closer and lowering his voice. “We’ll claim responsibility for the raid on their warehouse. Once the cartels see that we’re a force to be reckoned with, they’ll—”

“Are you outta your goddamn mind?!” Camel hissed, stealing a furtive glance at the patrons around them. “They’ll fuckin’ kill us, dude! We’re lucky Los Muertos haven’t come after us themselves!”

“Yet,” Gareth said softly. “Haven’t come after us yet. But they will. And when they do, don’t you want the cartels on your side?”

“Fat lotta good that did Los Muertos,” Camel muttered, though his brow furrowed.

Layla didn’t blame him. It was a lot to think about. Los Muertos would almost certainly retaliate, which made it a question of when—not if—they would strike the Marauders, possibly on their own turf. Gareth was smart to want to bolster their ranks.

“And with drugs come arms deals,” Gareth continued. “We get enough firepower behind us, we won’t have to worry about Los Muertos anymore. Hell, we could just take ‘em all out in one fell swoop. We could take over the goddamn county.”

“That doesn’t solve the problem of us bein’ dead before any of this happens if we tell the fuckin’ cartels,” Camel said, shaking his head. “I’m tellin’ you, Gareth, all they’re gonna see is a bunch’a white dudes who fucked up their ops. They’re not gonna give two shits about it bein’ a ‘bold move.’ They’re not gonna commend our cajones. They’re just gonna murder us right there on the spot. We fucked with Los Muertos, and that means we fucked with the cartels, too.”

Gareth clenched his jaw. “I thought you agreed to meet me here because you had an open mind, Camel. Why bother showin’ up if all you’re gonna do is side with Jesse?”

“It ain’t about Jesse,” Camel protested. “It’s about what’s right for the club. And this ain’t it.”

“Fuck do you know, anyway?” Gareth snarled. He stood up from his stool and slammed it into the bar, turning a few heads in the process. “You ain’t no leader. You don’t know shit about makin’ tough calls and takin’ risks. You’re nobody. And that ain’t never gonna change.”

Layla shrunk back as Gareth stepped around Camel to grab her roughly by the arm.

“I’m gonna go take a piss,” he told her. “Then we’re leavin’.” He looked her up and down, eyes flicking quickly over her slim, tender body. “Better finish your beer.”

Then he released her and disappeared into the crowd of bikers, making his way toward the men’s room on the other side of the bar.

“C’mon,” Camel said gently, flashing her a slow, rueful smile. “Let’s get some air.”