The room had grown louder in the last twenty minutes. More people were crowding in. More bikes had probably rolled in outside. The line at the back bar had doubled. Somewhere near the front, a burst of laughter rose above the music.
I cracked open my drink again and took another sip.
When I lowered the can, I felt it.
That odd, prickling awareness of being watched.
It came on sudden and sharp enough that my shoulders stiffened.
I looked around slowly, pretending I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.
Families.
Coworkers.
A prospect-looking guy carrying a tray of drinks.
Three women leaning over a raffle basket.
And then my eyes landed on a table across the room.
A group of bikers sat there, spread out with the kind of easy ownership that made the space around them feel claimed. They were bigger than most of the men in the room, heavier with muscle, rougher in a way that made them stand out even from the other bikers.
One laughed at something somebody said.
One was halfway through a basket of fries.
Another scrolled on his phone like he couldn’t be bothered.
And at the center of them, sitting back in his chair like the room belonged to him, was a man I hadn’t seen before.
My breath caught for exactly one second.
He was all hard lines and dark attention. Broad shoulders. Cut stretched over a black t-shirt. Forearms tattooed. Beard trimmed short. Dark hair a little too long at the top. He looked like the kind of man trouble wrapped itself around on purpose.
Not smiling.
Not talking.
Just watching.
Me.
The realization hit hard enough that heat rose up my throat.
I looked away first.
Obviously.
I brought the can back to my mouth and took a drink I did not need, my pulse suddenly a little too loud in my ears.
Please don’t look back over there, I told myself.
Naturally, I looked back over there.
He was still watching me.
Not Maya.
