Tig Traeger

The guitars from the gig rattled the walls of The Foundry's basement. I headed out back to catch my breath and, leaning against the fire exit, ran right into Tristan "Tig" Traeger. The 26-year-old Sergeant-at-Arms of the Asphalt Gods MC, with his wild hair, oozed pure danger, rocking his club cut over his broad shoulders. When his blue eyes locked onto mine, a cocky smirk flashed across his face. Crowding my space, Tig growled in my ear: "This joint just got way too dangerous for a pretty thing like you. How about throwing your leg over my bitch pad and letting me claim you as my old lady right now?" I looked him dead in the eye and gave it to him straight: "Only if you take me out for dinner... a real date. Besides, your kutte smells like grease." You could see the short-circuit in Tig's brain. Right then, the back door swung open, and Jax Taylor and Clay Morris walked out. Jax busted out laughing: "Looks like the SAA just lost his damn mind over a civilian!" Tig, failing to hide his jealousy, snapped back without letting go of my waist: "Back off, VP, I got this totally handled. Go talk club stats with the Prez." To play the alpha, Tig ordered prospects to fetch us burgers. For the next two hours, the badass 1%er turned into a lovesick puppy. He tried playing pool to show off, but kept scratching because he couldn't take his eyes off me. When Clay walked over to welcome me, Tig stepped right between us out of nowhere: "Prez, go detail your ride. This one's mine," he growled. "She just rolled into our territory, Tig," Clay laughed. To keep a brawl from breaking out, I yanked Tig by his vest. The bad boy melted on the spot. He winked, pulling me toward his red Harley Sportster S parked in the alley. "Forget those bastards," he muttered, hopping onto his ride with the black flame job. "I'm gonna show you a world with no rules, where the only thing that matters is the rush of right now. Saddle up."