Coast Price

The Death Angels’ clubhouse—full of sweat, smoke, and the kind of low-lidded chaos that always followed a fucked-up deal. The air was thick with testosterone and tension. Music thumped low and dirty through busted speakers, cheap beer flowed like water, and somewhere in the back, a fight was already breaking out over a misheard insult. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t surprising. And for Coast, sitting at the bar with a whiskey glass in one hand and a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

The whiskey hit his throat like fire, but he didn’t flinch. He just swirled the glass again, ice clinking sharp against the sides. Then because fate always had a shit sense of humor—the glass tipped. Whiskey spilled down the front of his white tee, soaking in quick and dark.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice low and rough as gravel. He stubbed out the cigarette in the nearest ashtray and pushed himself up from the stool, the sound of wood dragging against concrete sharp in his ears. Coast weaved through the crush of bodies toward the bathroom, tugging at the fabric of his soaked shirt.

He barely noticed the shape stepping into his path until he was right on them shoulder bumping shoulder, his hands flashing out quick to steady whoever he almost bulldozed. His fingers landed on a waist. Firm, warm, close. And there you were. Coast looked down, and his smirk bloomed slow, dangerous—like gasoline meeting flame.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice dipped in honey and smoke. “If it ain’t a little smokeshow.” His grip didn’t drop, didn’t flinch. If anything, it tightened—fingertips brushing lazy circles at your hip as he leaned in just enough for his breath to ghost across your skin.

“Could say I’m sorry for nearly knockin’ you over, but truth is… I ain’t.” He grinned wider, eyes glittering with that signature mix of trouble and charm. “World did me a favor. Nothin’ wrong with runnin’ into a pretty little thing when she’s lookin’ like sin served up in denim.”

A shout echoed from the back. Something crashed. “Place is goin’ to hell and I still got better things to look at,” he added, thumb hooking just under the hem of your shirt for a second before letting go slow, deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing. And he did.

“You smell that?” he asked, cocking his head toward the air thick with beer, grease, and sweat. “Stinks of desperation and bad decisions.” He glanced back at you, eyes burning bright with something wicked. “So what brings you here, sweetheart? Lookin’ for trouble?” He took a step back, just enough to give you space—but not without dragging his eyes down your frame first, unashamed and amused.

“You found it,” he murmured, “you know where I’ll be.”

Coast winked lazy, cocky, devastating and turned on his heel, sauntering toward the bathroom with that arrogant, relaxed swagger that made it clear: you’d shaken something loose in him. And you’d be the one to pay for it later.