Too Late For Regret: The Biker Queen

Jazmyne "Raven" Duncan POV:

My hands gripped the cold porcelain edges of the sink until my knuckles turned white.

Under the flickering fluorescent tube of the second-floor bathroom, my eyes stayed fixed on the plastic stick lying on the counter. Two pink lines. Bold, sharp, and undeniable.

A heavy shudder ran through my stomach, pulling every muscle tight.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway outside. The heavy, rhythmic thud of steel-toed combat boots hitting hardwood. It was a tempo I knew in my bones-Bennet Cochran, President of the Iron Cross Motorcycle Club. My husband. The man who wore the Prez patch like a crown and treated everyone beneath him like disposable scrap.

I grabbed the pregnancy test, shoved it into the bottom of the trash can, and buried it under a thick wad of grease-stained paper towels. Nobody could know. Not now. Not in this clubhouse.

The heavy oak door flew open, slamming against the wall with a violent crack.

A wave of stale whiskey, cheap vanilla body spray, and highway exhaust rolled into the room, burning the back of my throat.

Bennet filled the doorway. His leather cut was unbuttoned, the embroidered Iron Cross skull patch gleaming across his broad chest. Right against the worn collar of his black shirt, smeared in plain sight, was a smudge of bright crimson lipstick.

I stepped back, putting physical space between us, my eyes dropping to the faded knife scar cutting across his jawline.

"You're still awake," he muttered, raking a calloused hand through his slicked-back dark brown hair. His hazel eyes were clouded with alcohol and something far colder. "Good. Saves me the trouble of dragging you out of bed."

"What do you want, Bennet?" I kept my voice flat, my thumb rubbing the smooth silver raven ring on my left index finger.

"Tomorrow night, Camisha is moving into the east suite down the hall," he said. He did not ask. He gave an order, the same way he commanded twenty patched outlaws in the meeting room downstairs.

"The east suite is reserved for a full patch's Old Lady," I said, cold bile rising in my throat. "She's a sweetbutt who's been hanging around the bar for three months."

Bennet closed the distance in one stride, his massive shadow swallowing me whole. His fingers locked around my jaw, digging into the bone with brutal force.

"I make the rules in this charter, Jazmyne," he growled, beer breath washing over my face. "I'm giving her a bottom rocker and a property patch at the next Church meeting. You're going to hand over the keys, and you're going to smile while she takes the room."

Pain flared along my jawline, sharp and hot, but I didn't flinch. I stared straight into his bloodshot eyes.

"And if I refuse?"

He sneered, shoving my face aside so hard my shoulder hit the mirror frame. He turned and kicked the plastic laundry basket across the room, sending dirty shop rags scattering across the floor.

"You won't refuse," Bennet sneered, walking toward the bedroom door. "You have nowhere else to go. You can't survive off this road without my cut on your back, Jazmyne. Stop playing hard to get. It's getting pathetic."

The bedroom door slammed shut behind him, rattling the framed motorcycle prints on the drywall.

I pressed my back against the cold tile, letting out a shaky breath, and slowly laid one hand over my flat stomach. Every lingering trace of hesitation, every ghost of the past five years, burned away into cold, clean ash.

I walked over to the nightstand, reached into the bottom drawer, and pulled out a cheap prepaid flip phone with no club tracking software.

My fingers pressed the ten digits I had memorized months ago.

The line clicked twice before a raspy, commanding voice answered.

"Alliance Central." It was Beatrice Foster, the iron-willed matriarch who sat on the supreme governing council of the Nine States MC Coalition.

"It's Jazmyne Duncan," I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on the sliver of light under the hallway door. "I am requesting an immediate, unilateral termination of my Property agreement with Iron Cross."

Silence hung on the line for two seconds.

"You know the law of the charter, girl," Beatrice said, her tone level. "Walking away from a President's colors carries a blood toll unless the table rules otherwise."

"He broke the foundational treaty," I replied, running a finger over the white surgical scar on my left forearm. "He brought an unvetted outsider into the inner sanctum and handed over quartermaster keys. I'm not asking for his permission. I'm taking my freedom."

"Fifteen days," Beatrice said after a short pause. "The Alliance charter requires that a formal release order be delivered at the quarterly circuit court, and the next circuit court is scheduled in exactly fifteen days. The Iron Cross territory falls under the outer jurisdiction belt. The envoy must complete three procedures first-document verification, blood-oath witness, and council filing. The earliest the order can be slapped onto the Iron Cross Church table is that moment."

She paused, her tone turning colder. "Until then, you had best keep your head down."

"Fifteen days. Done."

I snapped the phone shut, popped the battery, snapped the burner SIM card in half, and dropped it into the toilet bowl before flushing.

I walked to the closet, reached behind the row of heavy coats, and dragged out a thick canvas duffel bag. Inside were the master engine blueprints that Kirby Mullins, the club's founding builder who had poured his life into these machines, left me before he died-the proprietary fuel-injection schematics and cooling modifications that kept this charter running. Beneath the papers lay four vacuum-sealed stacks of hundred-dollar bills, saved dollar by dollar from off-the-books custom bike builds.

Downstairs, heavy bass vibrated through the floorboards as the clubhouse bar raged with drunken laughter and screaming engines.

I slipped five hundred dollars into the hidden lining of my combat boots.

Standing before the mirror, I reached behind my neck, unclasped the heavy silver dog tag engraved with "Bishop's Property," and tossed it into the dust behind the nightstand.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

The soft, deliberate scuff of a sneaker paused right outside my door.

I grabbed the heavy steel adjustable wrench from my work bag, stepped silently behind the doorframe, and watched the brass doorknob slowly begin to turn.

Jazmyne "Raven" Duncan POV:

The doorknob turned halfway, then froze.

From the end of the hall, a drunken roar echoed up the stairwell. "Camisha! Get your ass back down here and pour another round of bourbon!"

The person outside the door let out a sharp gasp. Light footsteps scrambled hurriedly away, scurrying toward the back stairs.

I looked through the cracked jamb and caught the flutter of bleached blonde curls and a tight red halter top. Camisha Wilkerson, the bar sweetbutt who had spent three months climbing toward my place at Bennet's side, had crept upstairs hoping to hear me weeping into a pillow.

I shoved the steel wrench into the deep pocket of my cargo pants, pulled open the door, and took the service stairs straight down into the basement garage.

The underground workshop smelled of used 20W-50 motor oil, solvent, and burnt welding wire. It was the only square footage in this entire compound where the air felt clean enough to breathe.

I walked over to my private workbench at the far corner of the bay. Before I could even lay out my blueprint rolls, the click-clack of plastic high heels echoed off the concrete ramp.

Camisha strutted into the garage, flanked by three giggling sweetbutts from the bar floor. Her face was caked in makeup, her lips painted the exact shade of red I had seen on Bennet's collar ten minutes earlier.

"Look at this mess," Camisha purred, dragging out her syllables in a high-pitched drawl. "Bennet told me to come down and see what kind of scrap metal we can throw out to make room for my new chopper."

She walked over to my custom Harley-Davidson Softail, reaching out a manicured crimson nail toward the polished aluminum gas cap.

"Take your hand off that bike," I said without looking up, adjusting the micrometer in my hand to measure a valve shim. "Your fingers are filthy."

Camisha's smile tightened into an ugly sneer. She took two steps forward and purposely bumped her hip against the edge of my workbench, sending a tray of precision-machined titanium bolts clattering across the oily floor.

"Oops," she gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth while the girls behind her snickered. "My balance is totally off tonight. I guess you'll just have to get on your knees and pick them up, Jazmyne."

I set the micrometer down on the rubber mat.

Before I could move, a heavy metallic clang echoed from the dark storage room behind the dyno room.

Maxine, my master mechanic and the only soul inside these walls I trusted, stepped out into the light.

She stood six feet tall in steel-toe boots, her muscular forearms covered in dark skull tattoos, carrying a solid steel driveshaft across her broad shoulders. She let the heavy metal rod slam onto the concrete with a deafening crack.

"Pick them up," Maxine said, her voice like gravel grinding under a truck tire.

Camisha jumped back, colliding with her friends. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'm Bennet's woman! You're just a hired wrench!"

I picked up a steel torque wrench from the rack, weighed it in my palm, and looked at Maxine.

"Maxine," I said evenly. "Teach her the physical rules of my bay."

"With pleasure," Maxine grunted.

She lunged forward, grabbed a fistful of Camisha's bleached blonde hair, and yanked her forward like a ragdoll.

Camisha let out a piercing shriek as Maxine's right fist drove straight into her cheekbone with a wet, heavy smack.

The impact lifted Camisha off her feet. She crashed hard onto the concrete floor, knocking over a drum of scrap metal. Blood immediately leaked from the split skin at the corner of her mouth, and her right cheek swelled into a dark purple lump.

The three sweetbutts shrieked in terror, turning on their heels and sprinting up the ramp like terrified rabbits.

Camisha scrambled backward on her elbows, weeping hysterically, her eyes wide with shock. "You... you hit me! Bennet is going to kill you for this!"

"Go run to him," I said, looking down at her like roadkill. "Tell him the next time you touch my tools, it won't be your face that breaks. It'll be your kneecaps."

Camisha dragged herself up, lost one of her high heels in an oil puddle, and limped frantically toward the ramp, crying and cursing all the way up the stairs.

Maxine wiped a smear of blood off her knuckles with a rag and walked over. "You know Bennet is gonna come down here ready to tear the walls down."

"Let him come," I said, picking up my calipers again. "I need an excuse to make him draw lines in front of the crew anyway."

A sharp, stabbing cramp ripped through my lower abdomen without warning. My stomach flipped violently, and a bead of cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I had to lean against the steel workbench to keep my legs from folding.

Maxine's sharp eyes caught the shift immediately. She reached out, steadying my elbow. "Jazmyne? You're white as a sheet. You want me to get Doc down here with some pills?"

"I'm fine," I lied, pulling my arm back and swallowing the sour taste in my mouth. "Just haven't slept in two days. Go check the rear yard inventory. Count the spare cylinder heads."

"Jazmyne-"

"Go, Maxine."

The heavy steel fire door at the top of the ramp slammed open against the wall, shaking the metal railings.

Jazmyne "Raven" Duncan POV:

Bennet stormed down the concrete ramp like a rabid animal, his heavy boots pounding the iron steps. Camisha trailed behind him, clutching his arm, sobbing loudly into his shoulder while pointing a trembling finger at us.

He didn't say a word. He drew the black Glock 19 from his hip holster, crossed the bay in three strides, and pressed the cold muzzle directly against Maxine's forehead.

"Get on your knees and apologize to her," Bennet roared, veins bulging along his thick neck. "Or I'll blow your brains across this fucking floor!"

Maxine didn't flinch. She leaned her forehead harder against the steel barrel, her jaw set like iron, her knuckles white around the heavy driveshaft resting against her leg.

I picked up the twenty-inch breaker bar from the metal rack, stepped forward, and swung the heavy steel rod sideways.

Clang.

The bar struck the side of Bennet's slide, knocking the gun two inches off course. I stepped directly between the muzzle and Maxine's chest.

"Put the gun away, Bennet," I said, my voice cutting through his shouting like a frozen blade. "You shoot my master mechanic, and you can push your fleet to the regional rally on foot."

Bennet's bloodshot eyes locked onto mine. "She put hands on my girl! You think your Old Lady patch protects your people from Church law?"

"Your girl broke club code by messing with active race builds," I replied, staring down the barrel of his gun without blinking. "The regional Nine States Rally is in three weeks. The timing on your six lead bikes is customized to Maxine's dyno maps. Shoot her, and Iron Cross eats dust while every other charter laughs at your broken engines on Interstate 40."

Camisha tugged at Bennet's leather cut, whining, "Bennet, she's lying! She just wants to humiliate me! Make them pay!"

"Shut up," I snapped at her without breaking eye contact with Bennet.

Bennet stood frozen. I could see the wheels turning behind his angry eyes. He cared about one thing above all else: his image as an invincible leader. Breaking down on the highway during the biggest rally of the year would destroy his standing with the national board.

Slowly, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles twitched, Bennet lowered the Glock and shoved it back into the leather holster.

"You think you're indispensable, Jazmyne?" he spat, leaning in close. "You're just a mechanic who got lucky. You don't run this club."

"I never claimed to run your club," I said, turning my back on him and walking over to my tool cart. "Now get out of my bay."

Bennet's face flushed dark red with humiliation. To salvage his pride in front of Camisha, he wrapped an arm around her waist and raised his voice so it echoed off the concrete ceiling.

"Starting right now, you're off the books," Bennet announced loudly. "The clubhouse logistics ledger, the bail bond safe keys, and the supply contracts go to Camisha. You don't touch club money ever again."

Camisha looked over his shoulder, her swollen face twisting into a smug, venomous grin.

"Take them," I said, not even turning around. "Just try not to spend the bail fund on counterfeit perfume."

Bennet slammed his hand against a steel locker, cursed under his breath, and dragged Camisha back up the ramp.

The heavy door slammed shut.

Maxine let out a long breath and spat on the floor. "He was ready to pull that trigger, Jazmyne. You pushed him right to the edge."

"He's a coward who cares more about his reputation than his threats," I said, but my hands were shaking as I gripped the edge of the tool drawer.

Another sharp, tearing cramp seized my pelvis, deeper and more violent than the last. A cold wave of nausea hit me so hard my vision blurred for a split second.

"Jazmyne?" Maxine stepped closer, her brow furrowing. "You're bleeding through your shirt? No... what's wrong with you?"

"Low blood sugar," I gasped, keeping my back turned as I shoved a rag into my pocket. "Go out to the south shed and load the spare carburetors into the transport van. Now."

Maxine hesitated, then nodded and walked toward the back exit.

As soon as her footsteps faded, I sank down onto a wooden stool, pulled out my personal phone, and dialed Doc's private emergency line.