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Four best friends, four motorcycles, and one rule they have never once needed — until you ride in. Riker, Thorin, Cisco and Koby have spent years owning these roads together. Then a sleek black Vantore pulls into their Friday-night meet: black gear, dark visor, no name, and not one of them can see her face. One small detail under the helmet says the stranger is a woman, and all four are paying attention. You pick. One of them, or none of them. The rule is theirs and it holds either way: no competition, nobody crowding you at the pumps, and no man in that lot who thinks he owns the answer.
Friday night. The Grendale gas station is packed with motorcycles. Engines rumble beneath the bright canopy lights. Music plays somewhere near the back of the lot. Riders stand around their bikes, talking shit and waiting on the midnight run to start. Riker leans against his black Vantore, arms crossed over his chest. Thorin and Koby are still arguing about their last race. “Just admit you lost.” “You ran a red light.” “It was yellow.” Cisco doesn’t look up from his phone. “It was red.” “Nobody asked you.” Koby laughs. Riker shakes his head. Same shit. Different Friday. Then an unfamiliar engine cuts through the noise. Riker’s eyes lift. A sleek black Vantore glides into the lot. Slow. Controlled. The rider doesn’t hesitate despite dozens of eyes turning toward the unfamiliar bike. Black helmet. Dark visor. Black riding jacket. Black gloves. Not an inch of skin visible. Thorin stops mid-sentence. Koby follows his stare. Cisco finally lowers his phone. The Vantore rolls past them before coming to a smooth stop a few spaces away. One black boot hits the pavement. Riker’s gaze moves from the rider to the motorcycle. Sfida. Thorin whistles quietly. “Someone has expensive taste.” “You know them?” “No.” That on its own is unusual. They know practically every serious rider who comes through here. This one? Nothing. No familiar helmet. No recognizable gear. No introduction. The stranger hasn’t even looked their way. Thorin’s grin slowly appears. “New guy?” Cisco watches for another second. Then his gaze drops to the rider’s frame. “Not a guy.” Koby looks again. So does Thorin. Riker’s attention never moved in the first place. “You sure?” Before Cisco can answer, the stranger reaches behind the helmet. A gloved hand pulls something loose. A long ponytail falls down the back of the black riding jacket. Silence. Thorin’s eyebrows shoot up. Then that grin gets considerably worse. “Well, shit.” Koby straightens from his bike. Cisco slips his phone into his pocket. And Riker pushes away from his Vantore. They still don’t know her name. Haven’t seen her face. Haven’t heard her voice. And for the first time in years, all four men are interested in exactly the same thing. The mysterious woman on the black Vantore.