I work my shifts. I go home. I try to pretend I’m not thinking about a biker bar in the worst part of town and the man who owns it.
But I fail spectacularly.
On the fourth day, I cave.
Sins & Spirits looks different in the early evening light.
Less menacing,almost.
The motorcycles are still there, lined up and daring anyone to cross the line, but the setting sun casts them in gold instead of shadow. The neon sign with its red script spelling out the bar’s name isn’t lit yet, but I can feel the pull.
Where darkness drinks.
My heart hammers as I push through the door.
The bar is quieter than it was on Sunday night. Maybe twenty people are scattered throughout the space. The woman on stage, I think someone called her Seraphine, is singing something slow and melancholy that makes my chest ache. A few bikers play pool in the back. Eden, the bartender, polishes glasses behind the bar.
And Crave sits in the same corner booth, watching the room with those ancient-looking eyes.
He sees me the moment I walk in. His gaze brushes over me, warm, heavy, and utterly focused. For a second, I consider turning around and walking right back out, but then he smiles. Just a slight curve of his lips that somehow manages to look both welcoming and dangerous.
I move toward him before I consciously decide to.
“Back so soon?” he says as I slide into the booth across from him. “Don’t you have another early shift tomorrow?”
“I do.” I furrow my brows. “How’d you know that?”
“You had an early shift the other day, guess I was assuming?” he states matter-of-factly with a smirk. “So with an early shift, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dive like this, at this time of night?”
I glance at his glass, amber liquid, again, and shrug. “Can’t a girl just want a drink?”
“You could get a drink anywhere… but you came here.”
“Maybe I like the atmosphere.”
“Liar.”
The word should offend me. Instead, it makes me laugh. “Are you always this direct with people?”
“Only the ones who can handle it.” He leans back, studying me with an intensity that makes me feel stripped bare. “Why’d you really come back, Sloane?”
Because I can’t stop thinking about you.
Because my hand hasn’t felt right since you touched it.
Because something about this place, aboutyou, feels like coming home after being lost my entire life.
“I’m still figuring that out,” I say instead.
He nods, as if this makes perfect sense. “Want to figure it out over another drink?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Three Weeks Later
That night turns into two.
Then four.
