My brain keeps replaying the same thing. Dark eyes.
Calm voice.Sit, Cole.I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “Not thinking about the biker,” I tell Daisy firmly. She looks out the window like she knows I’m lying. And honestly? So do I.
SEVEN
GHOST
I don’t usually wakeup thinking about bartenders. Most mornings are simple. My alarm goes off, I take a shower, drink coffee black enough to strip paint, and then head out to deal with work, club business, or whatever problem needs handling that day. My life runs better when it stays in straight lines that are predictable, quiet, and clean.
This morning I wake up already irritated because the first thing that hits me isn’t the list of shit I need to do.
It’s her. Rae is standing behind that worn bar in my head with her glasses sliding down her nose and that mouth of hers running half a second ahead of common sense.
I stare at the ceiling for a minute with one arm behind my head and the other resting over my stomach. The apartment is still dim, with early light pushing weakly through the blinds. Somewhere outside, a car door slams and the pipes groan in the wall. They are normal sounds for a normal morning.
It doesn’t help.
My brain decides to be helpful and starts replaying every little detail from last night.
I remember the way she leaned into that conversation with those three idiots like she had no intention of backing down.
I remember the way she said,You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who walked into the wrong bar.
I remember the way she looked at me out in the parking lot after I handled them.
Her expression was curious and amused, but it wasn’t scared. That last part sticks with me. Most people are at least a little wary when they look at me. I’m used to that reaction. I’m a big guy wearing a club cut, and I have a face that doesn’t exactly invite strangers over for coffee and polite conversation. I don’t take it personally, and if anything the reaction is useful.
Rae didn’t seem wary. She looked interested. That right there is a problem.
I sit up with a curse and swing my legs off the bed. “Get it together,” I mutter to myself.
There is no answer. There is only silence and my own bad judgment staring back at me from inside my skull.
The shower helps a little. Cold tile presses under my feet while hot water beats against my shoulders, and the routine is enough to drag me back into my own head. By the time I get dressed and pour coffee into a travel mug, I have myself mostly under control again.
Mostly.
The garage is already alive when I get there.
Metal clanks somewhere near the back and a compressor kicks on. Country music hums low from an old radio perched on a shelf that looks one good shove away from collapsing. The place smells like oil, hot steel, and grease baked so deep into the concrete that it will probably outlive all of us.
Blade is bent over a bike frame when I walk in. One boot is hooked against a stand while he works a wrench loose. He has a toothpick in his mouth and tattoos crawling up his forearms. He glances up once when he hears me come in, and then he goes right back to what he’s doing.
“You look annoyed,” he says.
“I just got here.”
“Exactly.”
I grunt and head for the coffee pot in the corner even though I already have a mug in my hand. It’s a habit. The coffee in the garage tastes like burnt regret and old pennies, but it’s there and that counts for something.
Rev is leaning against a workbench while talking to Jax about something involving a delivery that apparently went sideways because one of the prospects can’t follow directions without turning it into a group project. Rev notices me and lifts his chin.
“Heard you had a fun night.”
That would be Riot.
I look over at him. “You hear everything fast.”
