“Be careful,” East murmurs, his eyes holding mine for a beat too long, a silent promise in their depths.
He glances at Rider, who is standing by the door, and gives him a look so quick I almost miss it, but the meaning is clear. Watch her. Then he disappears into the war room with the other patched members, the door clicking shut with a finality that leaves me feeling stranded on the wrong side of a wall.
I’m here, but I’m not in. The club’s “no Old Ladies in a meeting” rule is an invisible barrier, and this is the first time I feel the sting of it. I’m an outsider again.
The quiet lasts for all of thirty seconds before Ruby hops to her feet, jingling her keys. “Okay, ladies, that’s our cue! While the men are in there talking about tactical bullshit, we’re on a vital supply run. Darla can’t live in East’s T-shirts forever. Let’s go!”
The T-shirt I’m currently wearing is his—soft, worn, and it smells faintly of his cedar soap. A hot blush creeps up my neck. “I kind of like East’s T-shirts,” I mutter, the confession so quiet I’m not sure I meant for them to hear it.
They all hear it.
Ruby stops dead and spins toward me, her grin a mile wide. “Oh, yeah? I bet you do.”
“Ooooh,” Candace chimes in, her own smile knowing and full of mischief. “She likes his T-shirts.”
“I just mean they’re comfortable,” I say, feeling my face get even hotter.
“Mhmm. Comfortable,” Sloane says, her voice dry. The look she and Frankie exchange is full of so much unspoken, feminine understanding that I want to disappear.
“Okay, fine!” Ruby says, laughing. “You can wear his T-shirts, but you still need actual clothes. Let’s go.”
She grabs my arm, then Candace and Sloane stand up, a shared, resigned smile passing between them. We pile into Frankie’s old convertible, the top down. As we pull out, I see Rider start his bike in the side mirror, just as East said he would. He stays a few car lengths behind us, ever the loyal, leather-clad shadow.
“Okay, Darla. Spill. We’ve been waiting.”
I raise an eyebrow, shouting over the wind. “Spill what?”
“What it’s like living with Pretty Boy,” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “We need details. Does he leave the toilet seat up? Does he alphabetize his record collection? Is he a secret slob or is that whole house a cry for help?”
Sloane snorts from her corner of the back seat. “I’ve been in his place. It’s cleaner than the surgical wing at the hospital.”
“The man has a designated coaster for his water glass on the nightstand,” I say, and a dry smile touches my lips. “It’s terrifying.”
The girls erupt. Ruby squeals, “I knew it! He’s a secret neat freak! Oh, the blackmail material is glorious.”
“It’s not a secret,” Frankie chimes in from the driver’s seat. “Last year for his birthday, we all pitched in and got him a label maker. He almost cried.”
The image of East getting emotional over a label maker is so absurd that a real, genuine laugh bursts out of me. It’s a sharp, rusty sound that makes my bruised ribs twinge. It feels good.
“So his entire house is a color-coded, alphabetized cry for help. Got it,” Ruby says, taking a mental note. Her gaze then slides to Sloane with a wicked glint in her eye. “Okay, what about your grumpy husband? Is Knox a secret neat freak too, or does he just leave his emotional baggage all over the floor where you can trip on it?”
The easy laughter in the car falters. Sloane’s smile tightens, becoming something brittle and practiced. “Knox is… Knox,” she says, her voice a little too bright. She looks down at her hands, suddenly fascinated by her own cuticles. A beat of awkward silence hangs in the air. The topic of Knox, I realize, is a landmine.
It’s Candace who, mercifully, breaks the tension, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Okay, my turn,” she says, her expression serious as she looks back at me. “Does he sleep naked?”
My face flames. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Liar,” Ruby, Candace, and Sloane all sing-song in unison.
I grab a stray napkin from the dash and throw it at Ruby, laughing despite myself as it’s ripped away by the wind. The easy camaraderie is a balm on the raw wounds of the last few days, a reminder that I’m not just a project to be protected. I’m a friend.
We arrive at Ansley’s, her boutique downtown, and Rider parks his bike across the street, his posture a relaxed, watchful guard. The bell over the door chimes, and Ansley looks up with a familiar smile. We’ve crossed paths plenty of times at the country club, but this is the first time I’ve seen her in her element. She greets Frankie, Candace, Ruby, and me with warm hugs.
“Ansley, this is our friend, Sloane,” Frankie says.
Ansley’s smile is immediate and all-encompassing, a wave of pure, undiluted warmth. “Sloane. It’s so good to meet you.Welcome.” She doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t pry. She just accepts.
The next hour is a blur of laughter, soft fabrics, and a chaotic, joyful energy I haven’t felt in years. I’m running my hand over a soft cashmere sweater, the first truly delicate thing I’ve allowed myself to touch in a long time, when I reach up to a higher rack. A sharp, sudden pain makes me flinch, my breath hissing through my teeth. My ribs. The reminder of Trent’s attack is a sudden, cold shock.
