Riding the line

Chapter 1: Whiskey and Secrets

The dim glow of the bar lights reflected off the half-empty glass in front of me, casting ripples of amber through the whiskey as I swirled it in slow circles. The bar was quiet—just a couple of locals scattered in the corners, their low murmurs blending into the soft hum of the jukebox in the background. It was the kind of place people came to forget. For tonight, I was no different.

I'd spent all day unpacking boxes and arranging furniture in that tiny, bare-bones house they'd assigned me. Maverick was supposed to be a fresh start. No one here knew who I was, what I'd left behind, or the mistakes I'd made that had led me to this small, dusty town in the middle of nowhere. It was a place to disappear. A place to hide. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

But even as I sat there, the weight of it all still pressed down on me like a storm cloud that had followed me all the way from L.A. I took another sip, letting the burn of the whiskey remind me I was still here, still trying to hold it all together. Tomorrow, I'd step into my new role as Maverick's sheriff, and the real work would begin. For tonight, though, I was just another nameless face at the bar, drowning my thoughts in cheap alcohol.

I should've been excited, or at least relieved. This was what I wanted, wasn't it? A new life, away from the chaos and the politics of the big city. But there was a bitterness lodged deep in my chest that I couldn't shake, and no amount of whiskey was loosening it.

I wasn't running from anything. That's what I kept telling myself, even if deep down, I knew better.

The truth was, I'd been driven here by more than just a desire for change. There were reasons—ones I didn't like to think about. Things I couldn't escape no matter how many miles I put between myself and L.A. The mistakes I'd made in the past had a way of sticking to me like tar. Every time I thought I'd scraped the last bit off, something new would resurface, reminding me that you couldn't outrun your own shadow.

I closed my eyes for a second, exhaling slowly. The bar smelled of old wood, stale beer, and cigarette smoke—comforting in a way. The kind of place where no one asked questions, and that was exactly what I needed right now.

My badge was tucked away in my bag, out of sight. I wasn't Sheriff Cassandra Hayes tonight. I was just...me. Or at least, the version of me I hadn't figured out yet. A stranger in a strange town, alone at a bar with too many thoughts and not enough whiskey.

I'd done my research before I got here. Maverick wasn't the kind of small town that took kindly to strangers poking their noses in where they didn't belong. And then there was the Maverick Motorcycle Club, the reason this town wasn't on any maps you'd want to follow. They practically ran the place from the shadows, their influence stretching far beyond the rusty sign that welcomed you to town. The leader, Reed Thompson, had a reputation that preceded him. The kind of reputation that made a sheriff's job a hell of a lot harder.

And tomorrow, I'd be staring him down from across a very different kind of line.

I sighed, tapping the rim of my glass with my fingertip. This wasn't the peace I'd been looking for. It was something else entirely—a different kind of storm brewing on the horizon. But it didn't matter. I was here now. I'd deal with Reed Thompson and his crew when the time came. Tonight, I just needed a moment of quiet, a pause before everything kicked off.

That was when I heard the door swing open.

It was subtle at first, the kind of sound that should've blended into the background. But there was something in the air that changed instantly, like the whole room had shifted. I felt it before I saw him—the presence. The kind of energy that demanded attention the second it entered the room.

I didn't even need to look up to know who it was. But I did anyway.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, scanning the room as if he owned it. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a leather jacket that clung to his frame with the kind of ease that only came from years of being worn in all the right places. The light from the bar's neon sign cast a faint red glow over him, making him look even more dangerous than the files had suggested. His dark hair was slightly tousled, a little longer than it should've been, adding to the careless, rugged charm that seemed to come naturally to him.