She leaned back, licking the last of the melting ice cream from her fingertips. A weekend away from Lampsing, away from Tool, away from the Gypsy Kings...
She couldn’t wait.
Her phone buzzed again, a soft vibration against the wood. Without thinking, her gaze flicked to the screen—Tool’s name still sat there, the message unopened, a silent weight.
For a moment, her thumb hovered over it.
Then she flipped the phone over, face down on the bench.
Not tonight.
Tonight was hers.
Chapter Four
Parking his bike,Tool made his way through the open garage attached to the clubhouse. A few brothers milled around, shooting the shit, but it was quiet by their standards. He didn’t stop.
Cutting through the main room, he made his way to the back where Fiddler was holed up. The tech room looked like it always did—dim, cluttered, humming with heat from too many monitors and not enough ventilation.
Tool leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Fiddler hammer away at his keyboard.
“You got anything more on the bastards causing the club problems?”
Fiddler didn’t look up. Just grunted, fingers flying like they were playing a damn piano.
Tool stepped in, drawn to the cascade of green letters and numbers pouring across the screens. To him, it looked like gibberish. A waterfall of code. But to Fiddler, every symbol meant something.
Tool could tear down an engine blindfolded. But this? This was sorcery.
When Fiddler finally stopped typing, Tool leaned off the jamb. The chair spun to face him.
“What’s your damage, and how can I fix it?”
“No damage, brother. I just… can’t get ahold of Brandi. Can you track her phone for me?”
Fiddler rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed, but didn’t argue. He turned back around and started clicking again, fingers tapping out a rhythm Tool couldn’t follow.
“You know,” Fiddler muttered, “if you pulled the damn trigger, you’d know where she was.”
“Don’t worry about me pulling triggers unless it’s for the club,” Tool said coolly. “Just find her.”
Fiddler grumbled something under his breath, but the screen flickered, and he leaned back. “There. She’s there.”
Tool narrowed his eyes at the display. “You know I can’t read that encrypted shit, Fiddler. Just tell me.”
Fiddler sighed. “She’s at The Coffee Bean.”
“Thanks,” was all Tool said as he turned and walked out of the room.
He didn’t slam the door. Didn’t pace. Didn’t say another word. But his jaw was tight. So she was home. Just… refusing to acknowledge him. That told him more than any damn tracker ever could.
He couldn’t blame her. He’d been the one ignoring her, keeping her at arm’s length. They’d been dancing around each other since Christmas—but the truth was, it was him doing the dancing. Brandi, she’d always known what she wanted.
Certain memories stuck with him. He could still see her that night—standing by the fire pit, laughing with the girls, the glow of the flames turning her hair into molten copper.
She had a cup of cider in her hand, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright with whatever story they were telling.
Tool had hung back, staying in the shadows, watching her like a goddamn ghost. She didn’t see him—not at first.
