"She's clean," Preacher reports, dropping into the chair across from my desk. "No warrants, no criminal record. But someone's been tracking her. A PI, based out of Ohio."
"Ashworth."
"That the ex?" I nod. "What do you want done?"
"Nothing yet. I want the full picture first."
"And the girl?"
I finally look away from the monitor. Preacher's watching me with that knowing expression that makes him so good at his job. Former military, now my sergeant-at-arms. He's seen things. Done things. He doesn't judge.
"She's under club protection now," I say, my voice flat and final. "Anyone asks, she's mine. My responsibility. My problem to handle."
He doesn't flinch, doesn't blink. "That going to be a problem down the line?"
"For who?"
"For her. If the senator's precious kid comes looking for what he thinks belongs to him."
"Let him look." I let my voice drop to the cold, certain register that's earned me my reputation in this world. The one that makes men twice my size think twice. "Let him find her. Let him walk right up to this clubhouse thinking he's got rights to something that ain't his anymore. I'd love to meet him. Face to face."
Preacher nods once, slow and deliberate, and leaves without another word. He knows when a decision's been made. When the conversation's over.
I turn back to the monitor, my attention snapping back like it's on a leash.
On the screen, Sparrow has stopped at the window overlooking the front lot. She's staring out at the bikes, the gravel, the empty spaces between. She's looking for something out there. Looking for someone.
For me, I realize with a jolt. She's looking for the man who watched her all night from across the kitchen.
When she doesn't find me, her shoulders drop. Just a fraction, just for a second. The smallest shift in her posture. But I see it.
Disappointment.
I make a decision right then, sitting in my dim office watching a woman I barely know search for me through a security camera. She'll never look for me and find me missing again. Wherever she is, I'll be there. Watching. Waiting. Making sure she's safe.
I don't have a word for what this is. Obsession, maybe. The beginning of something dangerous.
But I know one thing for certain: Garrett Ashworth is a dead man walking. He just doesn't know it yet.
That evening, I find her in the storage room behind the bar.
She's got boxes stacked around her, papers spread across the floor, a look of intense concentration on her face. She'sorganized more in one afternoon than we've managed in four years.
"What are you doing?"
She jumps at the sound of my voice, spinning around so fast a stack of papers slides from her grip and scatters across the concrete floor. Her eyes go wide—that same startled-deer look from this morning. But the fear fades when she recognizes me standing in the doorway, replaced by something I can't quite read. Something warm that makes my chest feel too tight.
"Gears mentioned you needed help with inventory. I'm good at organizing things." She gestures at the controlled chaos she's created around her—boxes labeled in her neat handwriting, categories I didn't know we had. "Or I will be, once I figure out your filing system. If you can even call it that."
"We don't have a filing system."
"I noticed." She pushes a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, tucking it carefully, and I track the movement like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever witnessed. Like I'm memorizing the angle of her wrist, the delicate curve of her ear. "So I'm making one from scratch. If that's okay with you."
It's more than okay. It's the first time anyone's actually volunteered to deal with this neglected disaster since Marcus died and left us drowning in paperwork we pretended didn't exist.
"Dinner's in an hour," I say instead of any of that, instead of thanking her. "Don't be late."
I start to leave, my boots heavy on the concrete, then stop with my hand on the doorframe. I can feel her watching me across thedusty room, sense her gaze on my back, waiting for something more.
