The scent of bread baking wakes me out of a dead sleep, and it takes me a second to remember that I’m in Smoke and Quinn’s apartment above the bakery, protecting Wren, who arrived at the clubhouse yesterday.
A position I volunteered for, given I suspect there’s an additional reason why Wren is here. I’m not usually one for fatalist thinking, but then King, our national president, showed up with some of the Jersey Outlaws yesterday, the day after we told them we’d been hacked.
On my fucking watch as treasurer and club secretary.
I wince and put an arm over my eyes.
It’s clear King doesn’t trust me to fix it, and I don’t blame him, because I can’t.
So, do I believe that Wren truly is in trouble and needs our protection? Maybe.
Do I think they’re here to spy on me, to spy on us, and report back to King what the hell is going on out here? Also, maybe.
Did I also wake up with a boner because I’d spent half of last night dreaming about Wren? About that thick dark hair with green ends? About that smart mouth? About those haunted grayeyes and how every time Wren looked down at their keyboard, I missed seeing them? About how they helped us save Lucy from being killed? Okay, so there’s no maybe on all that. It’s definite. But there’s no way I’m reaching for my cock and jerking one out over a person I barely know and who’s asleep in the room next door.
The person I’m convinced is here to report back to King on my role in the missing money and possibly make recommendations to him that I should be removed from my role.
Panic wipes out arousal, leaving me feeling sick to my stomach.
The bank was less than helpful when I called them, and I’ve barely slept. The idea I let my brothers and my club down in some way doesn’t sit well. Rage bubbles again, like an untamed volcano about to erupt.
Just breathe.
Another breath.
Then another.
Until the wave of fury and panic recedes.
I try to reassure myself that my brothers trust me, won’t blame me, and know it isn’t my fault.
But your national president wouldn’t fly out here on a private jet for shits and giggles.
I force myself out of bed and pull on some clothes. Soft and well-worn jeans, a thermal long sleeve, and a plaid shirt. When I look out the window, toward the dentist on Main Street, I can see snow has fallen. I grab my phone and call my sister, Willa, as I walk to the kitchen.
When her face appears on my screen, she’s stirring the oatmeal gloop she makes her three-year-old twins—my niece, Maddie, and nephew, Mason—every day. “Morning, River.You’re up early. Everything okay?” There’s worry etched in her eyes.
“No, all good. There’s just some stuff happening at the club, and so I’m not home to plow the drive for you.”
I live in a small but warm apartment above her garage. Her douchebag of an ex-husband insisted on building it to hold his fleet of cars and to create a large home office, before the predictable asshole slept with his assistant.
Now, I stand watch over them all because, at first, the asshole wouldn’t leave her alone, begging for a second chance.
When she said no, he threatened her.
In front of those two precious babies.
Currently, a legal document says he’s not allowed within two hundred feet of this place. I’m insurance, in case he ever tries his luck.
In return for paying a pitiful rent, I take care of shit like plowing their drive so she can get the kids into their car seats before daycare without a fuss. And I hang out with them on the rare occasion Willa has plans with friends or has to stay late at the school where she’s the principal.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I already called it a snow day and sent the email out to parents. Willyoube okay?”
“Yeah. Fine,” I say, shaking off my initial reaction, to pack a bag and run, which would be fucking ridiculous because I haven’t done anything wrong. And I trust Grudge, my president, to know I didn’t steal the money.
“Uncle River,” Mason says, coming into view on the screen. “You make a snowman with me?”
“Aww, bud. I wish I could. But I gotta go to work.”
