“She’s with Havoc,” he said simply. And that was that.
People nodded, offered quiet smiles, then went back to whatever they were doing. No lingering stares. No side comments.
Now I sit on a stool at the edge of the bar, fingers twisting in my lap. Roy, who goes by Mercenary in the club, is a mountain of a man with a calm presence and quiet weight. He introduced himself and handed me a glass.
“Beer’s in the fridge if you want,” he said. “But if you want to keep your wits about you around these idiots, lemonade’s the safer bet.”
I took the lemonade.
“He’s coming,” Roy murmurs now, eyes on the hallway.
Sure enough, Havoc strides in, shedding his cut and slinging it over a chair. His black T-shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, and when his gaze lands on me, something shifts in his expression. Like he’s just spotted a campfire after walking through a storm.
“You came,” he says, voice low and rough, part relief, part possession.
“You told me to,” I reply, aiming for sass but sounding breathless.
He stops in front of me, one hand braced on the bar beside my hip. He leans in until his beard brushes my cheek. I shiver.
“You keep giving me that look,” he murmurs, “and I’ll take it as permission to ruin your whole night.”
A sound escapes me, half laugh, half plea. “Maybe I want my night ruined.”
He growls softly. “Sweetheart, if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll take you in the back and make you forget your name.”
It doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a promise. And God help me, Iwantit.
“Show me around?” I ask, my voice thinner than I’d like. “I don’t know anything about this.” I gesture at the open space around us.
His expression softens. “You don’t need to. You only need to know about me. But yeah. I’ll show you.”
He extends his hand. I slip mine into it, and he laces our fingers like it’s the easiest thing in the world. As if we’ve done it a hundred times. His callused palm is rough against mine. It makes something inside me flutter.
He walks me through the clubhouse, pointing things out as we go. The bar. The kitchen. The long wooden table where club meetings happen. Each stop comes with a story.
“Viper cheats at pool. Don’t bet against him.”
“Roy’s got the driest sense of humor in three counties.”
“If you tell Ghost a secret, he’ll take it to the grave.”
At the back, he opens a steel door that leads into a courtyard. Strings of lights hang overhead. There’s a firepit, picnic tables, and rows of bikes parked on gravel. The air smells faintly of exhaust and cooling engines. It’s gritty, but it’s beautiful.
“This is where we hold cookouts,” he says. “Plan rides. Handle club business. Or just sit around and talk shit.”
I take it all in. The warmth of the lights. The laughter spilling from inside. The quiet hum of something that feels like family.
“I didn’t expect this,” I say.
“What did you expect?” he asks, not offended, just curious.
“Bars and strippers,” I admit, then slap a hand over my mouth.
He barks out a laugh. “We’ve got a bar. No strippers. This is home. This is where we keep the things we care about safe.”
He steps in closer, until his chest almost brushes mine.
“You are something I care about.”
