Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

AVAILABLE ON WATTPAD TOO: BURN IT DOWN

This fic contains mature themes and content, including sex, violence, death, grief, smoking, alcohol consumption, and strong language.

Don't play with fire.

June, 2026

Maud Kerrigan

My tire blew with a sound that made me jerk the wheel, heart pounding hard against my ribs as I lurched to the right, gravel spitting beneath the hot, ripped rubber, easing my foot off the gas.

The car shuddered as it rolled to a final stop.

I let my forehead fall against the steering wheel, my hands gripping it.

"Fuckkk," I groaned.

Of course, this happens on my day off.

I lifted my head and sat there for a second before I pushed the door open and stepped into the scorching Texas afternoon heat.

As my black boots hit the sand, I let the creaky door fall shut. I walked to the back of my light-blue pick-up truck where I saw the unfortunate reality of my damn life.

Angrily I kicked the flat tire, as if that would "fix" the problem.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to meet my best friend, Sadie.

I reached for my phone to check if I could call her, but there was no signal.

Nothing.

As if I hadn't been punished enough, I couldn't call for help.

I slipped my phone back in the pocket of my denim shorts and looked at the flat tire, disappointment etched on my brows because my problem hadn't magically fixed itself.

I sighed knowing my truck would only get back on the road if the flat tire got replaced with a working one. But as I got farther away and saw a car coming this way, I figured I wouldn't have to do this on my own after all. I'm sure there was someone kind enough to help me.

I stepped closer to the road and started waving, hoping the driver would notice me and stop.

But it just drove right past me, accelerating like a big fuck you.

I couldn't help but raise my middle finger to the person who drove the red sedan – my graceful way of thanking them for leaving me to fend for myself.

I looked around. I knew the area like the back of my hand – I had grown up in this town. The first gas station would be miles away, about a thirty-minute walk.

There I could ask for help, call Sadie, or a cheap tow truck. My problem would be solved and my day could move forward.

But to get to the gas station, I had to walk through the blazing heat with no water and no hat to protect me. My skin would blister and I'd collapse from dehydration.

It wasn't an option.

So, it was time to get my hands dirty on the side of the road.

My friend Sadie once had a flat tire and I had been there when she changed it, so I bet I could use my memory to make it work. I could go through the steps again, right?

"You got this, Maud," I told myself before I popped the trunk open with a dull click.

I lifted the spare out of it and rolled it to the back of my truck. Then I returned to get the tools I needed, including the rusty, never-used-before car jack.

I put my chestnut hair in a bun and crouched down to position the car jack, hoping it wouldn't fail me like my tire.

I didn't want to solve two problems at once.

I watched my truck go up, and a wave of pride surged through me as I realized I wasn't as helpless as I had thought. A newfound confidence filled me, and I rubbed my hands together, eager to loosen the bolts and take control of the situation.

But when I got the wrench on the first one, it didn't budge at all.

Not an inch. Not even a fraction.

"Come on," I whined, using more power.

Still, nothing.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" I groaned and held the wrench tighter, ready to get blisters if that was what it would take.

But it didn't matter how much I tried; it wasn't moving.

My body was heating up as I persistently kept trying, and trying in the brutal Texas sun.

I pressed the back of my hand against my forehead and pushed a loose strand of hair away from my face – it was already starting to cling to my damp skin.

Deciding to let go, I flexed my aching fingers, feeling the soreness radiate up from my stubborn, tired grip on the wrench.

While my hands tried to recover, a low, thunderous rumble vibrated through the ground before it fully hit the air.

It was growing. Getting louder and louder.

I covered the sun with my hand so I could see what was coming across this stretched road framed by dry grass and the occasional crooked fence post.

Motorcycles.

A pack of them.

I counted eight, maybe more, as they cut through the quiet and the heatwave like a life-threatening storm rolling in.

All I saw was black, leather, and speed.

They passed fast, and the wind from them whipped around my face and hair as my hazel eyes followed them.

None of them slowed down, though.

None of them cared to shoot a glance my way, wondering if I was doing okay on the side of the road.

They passed me as fast as they had come into view.

I huffed.

Did people want to leave me here to die? It seemed they did.

I turned back to the tire, still flat, still bolted tightly.

Even so, I crouched again, grabbing the wrench with renewed determination and aching hands.

Them passing me by, not caring to help, must be a sign: I could do it on my own. I didn't need anyone to stop and offer their stupid help.

But even if I found new courage, it didn't make any fucking difference.

So, I dropped the wrench again.

This is how I die.

Maybe that was the sign.

The heat simmered off the asphalt, thick and swallowing. For a second, I pictured myself fossilized here beside my useless tire. A gravestone with my name: Maud Kerrigan – too dumb to fix a flat tire.

I almost laughed at the absurdity of it all, but what came out was a shaky breath of resignation, humor, and the lonely twinge that no one was coming to save me.

Then a rumble came back.

Still loud, still vibrating through the ground, still making me look up.

One motorcycle.

It slowed as it approached, engine dropping to a growl before the rider pulled up in front of my stilled blue pick-up truck.

Deep black sunglasses shielded his eyes, his dark brown hair pushed back, and a black hoodie fit loosely around his big, tall frame.

A black-and-white dusty paisley shawl covered his face, obscuring his features. But I could tell he was somewhere in his thirties.

His jeans were rugged and gray, with one knee torn, bold tattoo lines peeking through.

With a fluid motion, he swung a leg off the bike and straightened to his full height. I watched him when he pulled the shawl down from his face, making me see more of him: a jaw that could cut glass, a mouth that was set in a strict, unreadable line.

"Tire's not going to fix itself, huh?"

His voice was deep. Heavenly so.

"I was handling it," I stated confidently.

He looked at the wrench on the ground, then back at me. The silence stretched a beat too long.

"The wrench on the ground says otherwise."

He walked past me without waiting for a response – close enough that I caught the smell of him, something that had no business being that distracting, that good.

I pushed strands of hair back from my sweaty face and followed.

"I said I was handling it," I said.

My reminder fell on deaf ears.

"Mm." Was all I got.

He picked up the wrench. He still didn't look at me.

I crossed my arms. "You can pretend I didn't need help."

"Can." He turned the wrench over in his hand. "Won't."

I bit on the inside of my cheek, swallowing every comment I wanted to make.

"The bolts are stuck," I voiced, talking anyway.

He crouched beside the tire without waiting for permission, putting the wrench on the first bolt.

It broke loose immediately.

He didn't even have to try.

I rolled my eyes and kicked at a stone on the ground. So unfair.

"Angle," he said, not looking up.

"What?"

"You had the wrong angle." He moved to the next bolt.

I stood with my arms crossed, watching him work his way around the tire with an ease that made me feel useless.

He could've given me the wrench after loosening the first bolt, but he did not, so I felt the need to talk. To make myself do something.

"You always come back for strangers?" I asked.

"Depends on the stranger."

He glanced up then – just for a second, not longer.

The dark lenses caught the sun and gave nothing back, but his chin tilted slightly in my direction, like he was taking me in.

I suddenly became aware of the heat in my cheeks and of staring back for too long.

Luckily, he focused back on the task at hand. He pulled the flat tire free, set it aside, and lifted the spare, expertly lining it up.

I watched his hands. Steady, fast, and powerful. He threaded each bolt back on with confidence.

"You've done this before," I noted.

"Once or twice."

"On the road a lot?"

He gave the last bolt a final turn, dropped the wrench on the ground, and stood back up. He wiped his hands against his jeans.

"Enough," he said.

He stood to his full height, and I remembered, again, how tall he was. The kind of height that made him look down on me. The kind of height that's awfully attractive.

And as he stood so close, without the wrench in his hand or the tire to focus on, there was nothing to look at but him.

The paisley shawl still hung loose around his neck, and I could see the tail end of a tattoo curling up from his collar. Dark ink.

I cleared my throat softly and told myself to stop noticing things.

"Thank you for helping me," I said.

"It's nothing," he replied nonchalantly. "Now you can go back to work."

"It's my day off, actually." I paused.

Why did I say that? It's not like he cares about it.

He kept looking at me.

"That was completely irrele–"

"What do you do?" he cut me off.

"Bartender."

The corner of his mouth moved. Almost a smile.

"Interesting."

"Why's that?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

The moments of silence he dropped made me want to fill the gaps.

"So where are you headed?" I shifted my weight.

He glanced down the road in the direction the others had gone, removing his stare from my face. I somehow preferred it when he looked at me.

"Nowhere you'd want to follow," he said.

I pressed my lips together. There was nothing to say to that, and we both knew it.

He looked back at me. This moment a beat longer than necessary.

I didn't look away. Neither did he. Thankfully

Then he reached up and pulled the shawl back over his face, and just like that, most of him was covered again.

"Stay out of trouble, angel," he voiced.

It didn't sound like advice. It sounded like an order.

But I had the idea he already knew I wasn't one to listen to orders.

I liked trouble. I always had. Even if it could turn my life upside down.

He swung back onto the bike in one easy motion and kicked it to life. The engine roared, low and rolling, and I felt it in my chest.

I opened my mouth, but he was already gone.

***

Later that afternoon, I parked my truck in front of Sadie's place – showing off my fixed tire.

Just as I was getting out, she stepped onto the porch of her parents' house, smiling broadly, wearing cut-off shorts, a butter yellow top, slippers, and her blonde hair loosely braided over one shoulder. She was a little sunburnt after floating in her parents' pool for too long.

A place where I should've been, too, if it hadn't been for my tire giving up on me.

We sat on her front porch with cold drinks, the afternoon sun dipping low enough to be pleasant rather than punishing.

"You're telling me that a mysterious biker fixed your tire and then just disappeared?"

"You're about right," I said.

"That's so hot and mysterious!" Sadie claimed. "I can picture it all happening. What did he look like?"

"I don't know."

"You don't...know?" She eyed me.

"It's hard to say. He wore sunglasses and a shawl. Hard to get a full read." I turned my glass in my hand. "But he had this energy. And his voice..."

Goosebumps rose on my arms just thinking about it.

Honestly, that low, gravelly rumble had vibrated right through the soles of my boots, weakening my knees and tingling my thighs.

"He must be hot then," Sadie declared.

I chuckled lightly as I looked down at my boots, dusty from the roadside.

"Do you know anything about him?" Sadie asked.

I turned back to her, swirling the ice in my drink. "I know he's older than me."

"How much older?"

"Thirties for sure. I think thirty-three?" I said, cocking my head.

Sadie's brows shot up so high they practically disappeared. She let out a low whistle.

"Okay, Maud."

She enjoyed this.

"Stop it, Dee."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were about to. I can hear your brain from here! It's very loud."

"I was only going to say," Sadie began, holding her hands up in defense, "that you finally admitted you have a type."

"I do not have a type."

"Maud, you always go for the older guys. Remember when you told me you were seventeen and were crushing on this twenty-five-year-old? What's his name again, Jordan?"

"Something like that," I said, laughing. "We used to sneak behind Marshall's and make out – Gosh, Bob hated it."

"And what about when you turned twenty-one, and you ended up sleeping with that guy who had the same birthday as you? He turned thirty-one, remember?"

"Vaguely," I said.

"You've got a type, Maud. Men. Older men."

"I'm sure it was a phase," I stated.

"Believe what you want to believe," Sadie said, rolling her blue eyes.

My mind drifted back to the side of the road. I thought about the way he'd looked at me before he left – the covered yet penetrating eye contact combined with the shawl wrapped around his jaw.

Stay out of trouble, angel, he'd said.

Not have a nice day.

Only an order.

"He didn't have a patch," I said. Sadie's expression shifted. "None of them did. That's strange, right? For a group that size?"

"Definitely," Sadie said. "Usually, if they're in a pack that big they're proudly wearing their cuts. You see one guy from Dark Gallows or Rapture, you see another one."

A curious feeling crept into my veins. "Your uncle used to be a member of a Rapture charter, right?" I asked gently.

"Yeah, somewhere up north, but he went Nomad before it all escalated."

"Does he know what happened between the clubs years ago?"

Sadie leaned back in her rocking chair, slowly swirling her drink in her hand.

"Dark Gallows and Rapture have been at each other's throats since they both started. I don't know why. He never said. They don't snitch," Sadie said. "But the rumor was always drugs and territory. And with that comes a kind of inhumane violence that no one wants in the papers."

I bit the inside of my cheek. There had been stories – well, mostly vague articles that said a lot without saying anything.

Sheriff Sterling had tried to get involved more than once to shut everything down. But the clubs were disobedient and ruthless.

"Seven years ago, a Rapture member was coldly murdered on the street in a drive-by," Sadie said quietly.

I understood why she kept her voice low. The weight of it sat somewhere in the town's memory, even after years had passed.

I didn't know much of it, seeing as it wasn't talked about often, but I knew it was a tragic event that had been buried deep in the ground.

"Dark Gallows?" I wondered.

"Presumably. There'd been a nasty shooting at the clubhouse of the Dark Gallows prior to it. People said a member of Rapture killed someone's family member, so they wanted to retaliate. But those are just speculations. There wasn't a body found on the Gallows turf."

"What happened after the murder? What did Rapture do?" I asked, getting invested in it all.

"I don't know, Maud. I know they were gone soon after the shooting," Sadie replied sincerely. "They burned their clubhouse down and disappeared. No one's seen a patch, heard a name, nothing. It's like Rapture stopped existing overnight."

I let that settle, tugging at my bottom lip with two fingers.

"That makes a group of unpatched riders coming through town after years of nothing–"

"Suspicious." Sadie finished.

I nodded once, letting go of my lip, thinking about the bikes that had roared past me on the street – a blur of black and glistening chrome, deafeningly loud pipes, but not a patch in sight.

Something about it didn't sit right.

"Maybe they are not part of either club," Sadie suggested, taking a long sip of her drink. "It happens."

"Sure," I responded.

I didn't know if I believed that.

I gazed down the quiet street when Sadie stood up, holding her empty glass. "Another drink?"

"Just one. I still have to get back home."

"You can crash here tonight. My parents aren't coming back until tomorrow night."

"Thanks, Dee, but if I stay, I'll end up drinking more and risk working at Marshall's with a crushing hangover," I said. Serving drinks with a pounding headache was brutal. "It's only an option when I know you're working the same shift. Then we can suffer together. I'm not doing it on my own."

"Fair enough, honey," she said, shooting me a wink before she disappeared inside.

I stayed outside to watch the street go dark at the edges.

I relaxed in my chair. And before I knew it, I found myself thinking of him again.

His face. His body. His voice.

Stay out of trouble, angel.

I replayed the words in my mind – dangerous ones that would echo in my ear until I drifted off to sleep later tonight.

🔥🔥🔥

hii! okay, that's the first chapter of BURN IT DOWN.

I'm so excited to share more of this fic with you all. It's unlike anything I have ever written! it's gonna be one hell of a ride and I hope you're ready for it 😏

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