“You heard him,” Mason said, leading everyone else away.
Steele stood, arms folded. I wouldn’t say I had one shot, but I sure didn’t have a ton of opportunities if I fucked this one up.
“Listen, man,” I said. “I just want you to know that I want you as a part of this club. I want you to play a major role. I don’t know what Cole will do as far as roles go, but I want you to be in it. I know we have a major difference. But you’re my brother.”
“And what about Tara?” Steele said. “Are you still trying to make it with her?”
I bit my lip. I knew I could only answer one way.
“If the opportunity presents itself, yes.”
Honestly.
“But right now, there’s nothing to it. Steele, we’ve got to grow up, man. We can’t be fighting over a woman like this. We are both too handsome and too good to get caught up over one woman.”
Steele laughed, but judging by how quickly he made himself stop laughing, it was obvious he saw it as a mistake.
“Fuck, man,” he said. “I’ll help you with the club stuff. I’d like to live in a world where I don’t fear getting jumped by a bunch of fucking buffoons. But…”
“That’s all I ask for right now.”
I held out my hand. Steele hesitated, but he shook it.
No, I didn’t think we were brothers again. In fact, I put the odds of us fighting as much higher than us reconciling in full again soon.
But at least I knew that with the larger purpose, we were on the same page.
Tara
Two Weeks Later
It had been a full month since Brock and I had seen each other in person.
So why the hell could I not get him out of my head? Why was it that every time I started to create an online dating profile or download one of the many dating apps, I felt like I would only wind up with someone subpar?
Other men were smarter, sure. Other men were at least as attractive, though Brock was mighty hot. Other men had more money.
But no one understood me and cherished me like Brock did.
No one had ever stayed up until the crack of dawn like Brock had many times over, with no sexual or romantic intention. No one had protected me from violence multiple times—men might say they would, but in the face of real danger, too many became cowards and retreated. And no one…
Well, I would never say this one out loud, but no one had had sex with me like Brock had that one night.
I probably had to erase that night from my memory if I ever wanted to move forward, because heavens, that was a night to remember.
But being one of three people now at the Santa Maria office—along with Elizabeth and an architect of sorts that NME Services had recently sent over—made it difficult for me to concentrate. At least today, we would begin interviewing and possibly hiring new people.
I stood at the front of the building about two minutes before ten a.m., waiting for our first interviewee to show up. It was a guy by the name of Derek Chavez, a man who hadn’t had a job in a few months but had answered our online questionnaire so well and provided references so glowing it merited a risk in interviewing.
I heard a motorcycle approaching. Even though there was no way it was Brock, I would associate bikes with him for quite some time. Who could ever forget that initial ride, the one where I thought I would die multiple times, the one where I felt the thrill of a lifetime, the one where I almost got off before getting off multiple…
I cleared my throat. It was not Brock approaching. In fact, it wasn’t anyone I recognized. The man was not dressed like I would have expected a biker to be, either—he had on a button-down shirt. This had to be Derek.
“Tara Rogers?” he said.
Something in his eyes registered recognition—and I, too, felt like I had seen this man before. But from where?
“Yes, you must be Derek,” I said, extending my hand.
