Piston (Iron Reapers MC #2)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

JENNIFER “JENNY” PRESTON

The roar of the party fades to a low hum as I sidle up to the bar, the clink of bottles and raucous laughter creating a backdrop to my own restless thoughts. The air is thick with smoke and the tang of spilled whiskey, but it's the sight of a lone figure at the end of the counter that snags my attention—a mystery wrapped in black leather, with a Iron Reapers patch marking him as one of our own, yet unknown to me.

"Hey," I call to the bartender, leaning in to snag a cold beer from his grip. "Who's the new guy?"

He shrugs, pouring another round for a rowdy table by the window. "Ask him yourself."

I take a deep swig, feeling the chill of the bottle against my lips, and steel myself. Curiosity's got its claws in deep, and I'm not one to back down from a challenge. Pushing off from the bar, I saunter toward the stranger, noting the tension coiled in his broad shoulders, the way his eyes track every movement without turning his head.

"Mind if I join you?" My voice cuts through the noise easily enough, but he doesn't respond—doesn't even acknowledge me. His silence piques my interest further, and before I can think better of it, I'm sliding onto the stool beside him, close enough to catch the scent of leather and motor oil that clings to him.

"Who are you?" I ask, tilting my head to get a better look at his profile—sharp, shadowed, every bit as dangerous as the vibe he's giving off.

His head turns slowly, those dark eyes fixing on mine with an intensity that feels like a punch to the gut. "Name's not important," he rumbles, his voice gravel and smoke.

"Everything's important at some point." I quip, undeterred. "You're wearing our colors. Gotta have a name."

There's something about him that screams trouble, and normally I'd be wary, but tonight, there's a thrill in the unknown, a siren call I can't ignore. He seems to consider me for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be amusement—or a warning.

"Call me what you want." He finally says, taking a long drink from his glass.

"Alright then," I say, flashing a grin as reckless as I feel. "Welcome to the chaos, 'Mystery Man.'"

He grunts noncommittal, but I catch the flicker of curiosity in his gaze. Maybe he's just another drifter passing through, maybe he's trouble... or maybe he's a story waiting to be told. Whatever it is, I've got a feeling I'm about to find out.

I lean against the worn wood of the bar, the amber glow of the neon lights flickering in my peripheral vision. He's still next to me, this enigma with a Iron Reapers patch that marks him as one of us, yet he's as familiar as a ghost story.

"Name's not on the guest list," I prod again, refusing to let his silence be the end of it.

The man turns, his glare sharp enough to cut. "What fucking business is it of yours?" The menace rolls off him like smoke from a burning tire, thick and suffocating. "I don't need no whore messing with me. Get lost, slut."

The sting hits hard, deeper than I expected. I’m tough as they come, but damn if his words don’t twist a knife in places I keep hidden. My mouth gapes for a half second before I snap it shut, pride swallowing the hurt.

"Real charmer," I mutter to myself, reaching for my drink with a hand that shakes just a little.

"Hey, what's going on here?" The familiar rumble of Mason's voice cuts through the tension. There's an edge to it, a protective growl that doesn't need raising to command attention.

"Nothing, just making friends," I say, but my sarcasm is brittle.

Mason steps up beside me, laying a heavy hand on the stranger's shoulder. "Piston, you being a dick again?"

The man—Piston—looks up at Mason, something unspoken passing between them. A glance over at Carlie, her hand still unconsciously cradling her stomach over the fabric of her dress, tells me she's caught in the middle of figuring out whether to be pissed or amused.

"Jenny, meet my cousin, Piston," Mason says, his gaze shifting to me, a silent apology written in the lines around his eyes. "He's got all the charm of a rattlesnake, but he's family."

"Family or not," I shoot back, my voice steady now, "he's gotta learn some manners."

"Got that right," Mason agrees, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-grin. Carlie reaches out, squeezing my arm gently, a silent show of solidarity.

"Welcome to the party, Piston," I say, not bothering to hide the ice in my tone. "Try not to bite the hand that pours your drinks."

Piston's face goes slack, the harsh lines around his mouth softening. He rubs a hand over his buzzed head, suddenly all sheepish and shit. "Shit," he mutters under his breath. The name 'Jenny' seems to click something in his brain—recognition sparking behind those steel-gray eyes.

Carlie and Mason are pulled away by another brother congratulating them on their exciting news.

"Mason talks 'bout you," he says, voice losing some of its bite. The words feel like gravel being turned over, rough but rolling towards something smoother. "Didn't realize... Fuck."

I stare him down, arms crossed. His apology hangs between us, feeble and unwanted. I don't need his regrets. Don't need his words.

"Save it," I spit out.

Piston looks like he's been slapped, regret etched into the hard lines of his jaw. He knows he screwed up, but his sorry isn't changing a damn thing.

"Look, Jenny—" he starts, but I'm not here for it.

"Talk to the hand, 'cause the face ain't listening," I say, cutting him off mid-apology with a flick of my wrist.

Dagger's at the edge of the bar, watching the scene unfold. I catch his eye, and there's an unspoken agreement in that split second. I push through the crowd, grab Dagger by the hand, and jerk my head toward the makeshift dance floor.

"Let's dance," I tell him, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

"Lead the way, Darlin'," Dagger grunts, voice a low rumble that somehow smooths the jagged edge inside me.

We leave Piston standing there, his mouth open like he's got more to say, but I'm done listening. The music swallows us as we move away, the thumping bass a welcome distraction from the bullshit.

We hit the floor, bodies pressed close in the sea of leather and denim. No words now, just movement and heat. And for a moment, just a brief goddamn moment, I forget about Piston and his poisonous tongue.