Page 1 of My Enemy Biker

Chapter 1 — Cain

The fence is new.

I pull my bike onto the shoulder and cut the engine. Chain-link, six feet high, professionally installed with an industrial padlock that would take bolt cutters to get through.

She put it up in the last three days, right across the access road Vigil's been using for eight years.

This should be straightforward. Woman alone on rural property needs to understand the situation. I'll explain, she'll accept terms, done.

I've handled this before.

Gravel crunches under my boots as I walk toward the house. Late August heat sits thick, the kind that's been here too long and isn't lifting. Cicadas screaming. Dust hanging still. Her property is three acres backing onto state forest, house small but well-maintained, flower beds recently weeded.

The door opens before I knock.

First problem.

She's standing in her doorway like she owns it, whichshe does, but most people don't act like it when I show up.

She’s five-six maybe, curves that aren't hidden or apologized for. Jeans fitted to her hips and thighs. Tank top showing the weight of her breasts, the line of her stomach. Tanned skin, dark eyes that track me the same way mine track her. Hair pulled back. Bare feet.

She's assessing me with the same precision I'm using on her.

My body responds before my brain catches up.

"Cain." It's the only thing I've got ready.

"I know who you are." Her voice is steady. She doesn't move from the doorway. "You're here about the fence."

"Yes."

"Then come in."

She turns and walks into her kitchen without waiting to see if I follow. No smile, no small talk, no performance. Just expectation that I'll do what I came here to do.

I follow because that was the plan, but my internal script is already wrong. I expected some version of fear or bravado. Not this controlled certainty.

Her kitchen table has a folder open on it. Documents spread out, organized.

She was ready.

She sits, gestures at the chair across from her with one hand while reaching for a pen with the other. "Sit."

I sit. Take the three seconds to adjust my approach.

She taps the first document with her pen. Left-handed, the pen angled steep. "Property records. Survey maps. County boundary documentation. Easement law precedents." Her eyes come to mine and there's challenge in them, controlled and deliberate. "That access road crosses my land for forty feet. Based on the rut depth, you've been using it without permission for years. I have legal standing to block it."

I lean back. The background check said paralegal, Detroit, eighteen months in Bloomfield, clean record. Nothingmentioned she'd be sharp enough to draw blood before I opened my mouth.

"The club needs that road," I say. "Strategic access. Rerouting adds exposure."

"Not my problem."

"I know."

She pauses, pen stilling against the paper. The response surprised her, I can see her recalculating.

"You've got legal right to restrict access," I continue. "We've got operational need for it. Both true. Question is what makes it worth your time to grant an easement."