Chapter 1
Toby
The door handle slips twice before I manage to yank it open.
Heat washes over me—blessed, glorious heat—along with classic rock on a jukebox, the smell of leather and motor oil and something else I can't place. Something warm and wild, almost animal, that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up even as the rest of me melts with relief.
My glasses fog instantly, turning the world into brown and amber blurs.
I stand there in the doorway, dripping, blind, shaking. Water runs off my cardigan onto scuffed wooden floors in a steady patter. I must look like a drowned rat. I definitely smell like one.
The music keeps playing, but conversation stops. I can feel eyes on me—a lot of eyes—even though I can't see anything clearly.
"I—" My voice cracks, rough from cold and disuse. I clear my throat and try again. "I'm sorry. My phone died and I just need—can I charge it? I'll order something. Food, drink, whatever. I just need to call an uber."
Silence. The kind of silence that feels weighted, meaningful. Like I've walked into the middle of something I don't understand.
Then footsteps, careful and measured, approaching from my right.
"Here." A young voice, surprisingly warm. "Sit. You're soaked through."
A hand lands on my elbow—large, hot even through my wet sleeve—and guides me forward. I let myself be led because the alternative is standing in the doorway like an idiot, and atleast this person sounds friendly. We stop at what feels like a booth, the vinyl squeaking obscenely under my wet clothes as I slide in.
"Jason, what are you doing?" Another voice, this one a harsh whisper from somewhere to my left.
"What? He might be hungry." Definitely the same person who guided me here. Jason. His voice has an earnest quality to it, eager and open.
"Don't feed him, for fuck's sake."
"He's shaking."
"He'swet. There's a difference."
"Both can be true," Jason insists, and suddenly there's a basket being set on the table in front of me. Fries, I think—I can smell the salt even if I can't see them clearly. "These just came up. Eat."
Something heavy and warm drapes around my shoulders before I can respond. A blanket, thick and soft, and the smell of it hits me immediately—cedar and woodsmoke and something distinctly masculine that makes me want to burrow into it and never come out. It's the kind of scent that belongs on a cologne ad, or wrapped around me after a long day, or—
I'm delirious. That's the only explanation. I've been walking in the cold rain for too long and now I'm having weird thoughts about how blankets smell.
"Does anyone have a charger?" I ask, fumbling my dead phone out of my pocket with numb fingers. "iPhone?"
"Here." "Got one." "Use mine."
Three voices at once, and suddenly there are multiple cables being pressed into my hands. I blink at the blur of them, overwhelmed, then pick one at random and plug in. My phone buzzes immediately with the charging sound.
Small miracles.
"Here," another voice says—deeper, calmer—and something warm is pressed into my hands. A mug. "Tea. You need to warm up."
I wrap my fingers around it gratefully, letting the heat seep into my frozen joints. It hurts at first, that sharp tingle of circulation returning, but I don't let go. With my other hand, I finally pull off my glasses and wipe them on the edge of the blanket.
The world comes into focus.
Oh.
Oh.
The bar is exactly what you'd expect from a motorcycle club—dark wood paneling, neon beer signs casting pools of colored light, a pool table in the back corner with a Tiffany-style lamp hanging over it. Classic rock plays from an honest-to-god jukebox in the corner, something with a lot of guitar.
