She laughs, twirling her hair, eating it up exactly the way I need her to. From the corner of my eye I see Brittany glance over once. Her gaze flicks from me to the girl at the desk and then away just as fast.
Good. Let her think I’m here for something meaningless.
I make a show of flirting, of leaning too close, of asking the desk girl about her class schedule and acting like I give a shit. I don’t look back at Brittany again, even when I feel her presence shift off the treadmill. When she moves to the weight machines, I adjust my routine without making it obvious. When she heads to the locker room, I stay put.
I leave before she does.
I park two blocks down from her house and sit with the engine off until I see her porch light flick on. Only then do I ride back to the clubhouse.
It becomes a pattern. Gas station. Gym. Diner at off-hours. I never approach her. I never speak. But I know who sits near her. I know which trucks linger too long in parking lots. I know that Elijah’s clean-cut politeness don’t stop him from scanning exits when he thinks no one’s watching.
The club notices.
Bethany notices more.
One night at the Lockup, she corners me near the bar again, fingers sliding along my vest like she’s claiming something.
“You’re obvious,” she murmurs.
“About what?”
“That girl.”
I sip my drink slow. “Which one?”
Her nails dig into my shoulder just enough to hurt. “You think I don’t see it? You working out where she works out. Showing up places she just happens to be.”
I shrug. “Let ’em think it.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re not even fucking her.”
“No.”
That infuriates her more than if I were.
“Then why?” she demands.
“Because I can.”
She studies me a long moment, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m lying or just stupid. “You’re going to get her killed,” she says softly.
“No,” I answer. “I’m going to make them focus on me.”
And that’s the truth.
If Bethany wants to rage, let her rage at me. If Pearly Gates wants to test boundaries, let them test mine. If Hell wants a scandal, I’ll give it one that keeps Brittany’s door unopened at night.
Later, in the quiet of the office, Royal looks at me over a stack of run manifests tied to everything spiraling lately. Depraved Sinners MC tension. Freight shifts. Whispers about Pearly Gates. The kind of pressure that pops seams if you pretend it ain’t there.
“You can’t keep splitting yourself like this,” he says.
“I ain’t splitting,” I reply.
“You are,” he counters. “The club in public, guard dog in private, and neither side gets what they think they do.”
Maybe he’s right.
But every time I see Brittany laugh with Elijah like the world ain’t circling her, something in my chest tightens in a way I don’t recognize. I don’t approach her. I don’t claim her. I don’t cross the line.
