010 Detective Ramirez

Ashley didn’t sleep that night.

Even after Ace swaggered off with a fresh bandage wrapped over his ribs, after Nolan vanished into whatever corner of the clubhouse swallowed him whole, after the laughter in the bar dulled into drunken murmurs—she lay awake on a thin couch in one of the back rooms, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the hum of the fridge and the occasional sound of a bike out front. Her body still buzzed with adrenaline. Her fingers tingled, as if the tattoo gun were still in her hand.

She hadn’t expected the work to come back to her so easily. The moment the needle had touched skin, she’d remembered everything—the rhythm, the patience, the way breathing had to steady before the line did. For a few minutes she hadn’t been a girl running for her life or a hostage in enemy territory. She’d just been an artist again. It shook her more than the gunfire had.

By morning, her decision was already made.

If she was going to survive here, if she was going to matter at all in this world of steel and leather and blood, she needed to carve out a space of her own. Not just exist on the sidelines, waiting to be shuffled from one man’s protection to another. She needed something that tied her. Something that was hers.

The Vipers gave her that answer without meaning to.

When she wandered back into the main room, the jukebox dead quiet and sunlight bleeding in through grimy blinds, she found Nolan and Cole arguing low over a map on the bar. Ace was passed out in a chair, boots up on the table, smoke still curling from an ashtray beside him. Jax—who slept less than anyone she’d ever seen, was sharpening a blade in the corner, gaze never leaving her.

Nolan didn’t look up when he spoke. “We’re giving you a shop.”

Ashley blinked. “A…shop?”

Cole’s gaze flicked to her, softer than Nolan’s but no less sharp. “Tattooing. You proved you’ve got skill last night. Might as well use it. It’ll keep you busy, and keep questions off us. Cover story, if anyone asks why you’re here.”

Ace snorted without opening his eyes. “More than a cover. The girl has got talent. You fix memorial ink, you’ve bought yourself loyalty.”

Ashley’s mouth went dry. Her pulse quickened. They weren’t just letting her play at tattoos, they were staking something on her. And that was dangerous.

Still, she heard her own voice answer before her nerves could catch up. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

The space they gave her was a crumbling little storefront three blocks off the main road. Dust coated the windows. A faded OPEN sign dangled from a crooked chain. Inside, the smell of mildew and old smoke hit her first.

But when she ran her hand over the empty counter, when she stepped behind it and glanced at the bare walls, something flared hot and sharp in her chest.

It wasn’t pretty or safe. But it could be hers, and that was enough.

The Vipers hauled in equipment—an old chair, bottles of ink, a machine that buzzed when Cole tested the cord. Jax set a box of gloves on the counter without a word, then vanished. Nolan stood at the door, watching her with that unreadable weight in his eyes.

“Don’t make us regret this,” he said finally, and left.

Ashley’s hands shook as she opened the first drawer, organizing needles the way she’d been taught years ago. For a moment she felt alive again. Like maybe she hadn’t lost herself completely.

It was barely noon when the bell over the door jingled.

Ashley looked up from sketching over a stencil pad, her heart kicking hard. She half expected a Viper—or worse, a Fang. Instead, a man stepped in who didn’t belong to either world.

Detective Ramirez.

She knew it without him saying a word. The badge clipped at his hip caught the light, but it was the way he carried himself—alert, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all, that gave him away. His jacket looked plain, but his eyes were fixed on her like he was already dissecting every move she made.

Ashley’s throat tightened. She forced herself to set the pencil down. “Can I help you?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ashley, right?”

Her pulse spiked. “Who’s asking?”

“Detective Ramirez. City PD.” He flipped his badge open just long enough to prove it before tucking it away. He stepped closer, gaze skating across the empty shop, the half-open boxes, the hum of the tattoo machine still warming on the counter. “Heard you were new in town. Heard you were working with the Vipers.”

Her stomach dropped. “I’m not—”

“Relax.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not here to cuff you. Just curious. You’ve had a hell of a couple weeks, haven’t you?”

Ashley gripped the counter until her knuckles whitened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do.” His voice softened, coaxing. “We know about the ambush on Highway 9. We know about the Fangs. Hell, we even know about you walking out of the desert with blood on your boots and landing right here, in Viper territory. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

Her skin prickled cold. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Ramirez studied her, head tilted. “No, you don’t. But I’ll tell you what it looks like from where I’m standing. It looks like maybe you’re in over your head. Or maybe you’re something else entirely.” He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice. “Informants usually get better cover stories than a tattoo shop.”

Her chest seized. “I’m not—”

“Not what? Not working with them? Not working with us?” His eyes bored into hers. “You’re either bait or leverage. Which is it?”

Ashley’s hands trembled where they gripped the counter. She forced herself not to look away. “I’m just trying to stay alive.”

For a long moment, Ramirez studied her like he could peel the truth straight out of her skin. Then, finally, he leaned back.

“Then I guess you’d better stay alive, Ashley. Because sooner or later, somebody is going to cash in on whatever side you’re playing.”

He turned toward the door, pausing only once to glance back at her. “I’ll be around. In case you decide you want out.”

The bell jingled as he left, the door swinging shut behind him.

Ashley’s knees buckled. She sank into the chair behind the counter, her pulse roaring in her ears. She couldn’t breathe.

Did Nolan know the cops were watching her? Did the Vipers suspect her already? The thought hit hard; it didn’t matter what was true. What mattered was what they believed. And Detective Ramirez had just planted a seed of doubt that could kill her faster than any bullet.

The tattoo machine still hummed quietly beside her. She pressed her palms against the counter, forcing herself upright.

If she wanted to survive this world, she had to do more than lay ink. She had to play the game—better than anyone else.

And right now, she didn’t know which side was more dangerous: the men outside wearing cuts, or the one who’d just walked out wearing a badge.