"Get on the bike."
She didn't argue. Didn't ask where we were going. Just climbed on behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist like she'd been doing it her whole life.
The ride to the clubhouse was twenty minutes. She didn't talk. Just held on, her body pressed against my back, her grip tightening every time I took a turn. I could feel her shivering even through the hoodie. Could feel the press of her breasts against my spine, the warmth of her thighs bracketing mine.
I kept my eyes on the road. Tried not to think about how right she felt behind me.
Didn't work.
The clubhouse looms out of the dark like a fortress—concrete and steel, no windows on the ground floor, built to keep people out and secrets in. I pull into the lot and cut the engine. The sudden silence feels heavy. Loaded.
She doesn't move right away. Just sits there, arms still around me, like she's not sure what happens next. Like maybe she's afraid to let go.
"We're here," I say.
She lets go slowly. Reluctantly. Climbs off the bike on legs that aren't quite steady, and I watch her take in the building. The row of bikes parked outside. The prospect smoking by the door who's trying very hard not to stare. The general air ofthis is not a place for someone like you.
I get off the bike and head for the door without looking back. Her heels click on the concrete behind me. Those ridiculous, ruined, delicate heels that have no business being anywhere near this place.
Inside, the main room is half-full. Knox is behind the bar, cleaning glasses with the focused intensity he brings to everything. Looks up when the door opens, and his hands go still. Wolf and a couple others are playing cards in the corner—at least they were, until they saw what walked in behind me. Vice is sprawled on one of the couches, beer in hand, and his eyebrows climb so high they nearly hit his hairline.
Every head turns.
Every head stays turned.
A woman. In a torn wedding dress. Following me into the clubhouse like a stray I picked up on the side of the road. Which, I guess, is exactly what happened.
Silence. The kind that's thick with questions no one's going to ask out loud.
I don't explain. Don't justify. Just put my hand on the small of her back—light, barely touching, but I feel the warmth of her through the thin silk—and steer her toward the hallway.
"She's staying here."
Vice opens his mouth. I give him a look that could curdle milk. He closes it again.
Knox and Wolf exchange a glance. The prospect by the door is staring like he's never seen a woman before. Nobody says a word.
They know better.
The room I take her to is one of the empty ones at the end of the hall. Nothing fancy—a bed, a dresser, a door that locks from the inside. Clean sheets, at least. I make sure of that.
She stands in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, taking it in. My hoodie hangs past her hips. The ruined dresstrails beneath it like a ghost of whoever she was supposed to be tonight. There's dirt on her cheek and dried tear tracks cutting through her makeup and she looks exhausted, wrecked, like she's been running on fumes and sheer will for hours.
She's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Wait here."
I find clothes in my room—a t-shirt that will hang to her knees, sweatpants with a drawstring she can cinch tight. Grab the first aid kit from the bathroom. When I come back, she hasn't moved from the doorway. Still standing there like she's waiting for permission.
"Sit." I nod toward the bed. "Let me see your feet."
She hesitates. Something flickers across her face—uncertainty, vulnerability, the realization that she's about to let a stranger touch her. Then she moves to the bed, lowering herself onto the edge like she's not entirely sure it won't swallow her whole.
I crouch down in front of her. Reach for one of those stupid heels.
Her feet are a mess. Worse than I expected. Blisters burst and bleeding, skin rubbed raw, angry red welts where the delicate straps cut in and didn't let go. She walked miles like this. Through the desert. In the dark. Running from something that scared her more than the pain.
I've seen men handle knife wounds with more complaining.
