Evan’s gaze drops to my wrist. There’s a red mark, already blooming. It’ll become a bruise later; a reminder of a man I’d rather forget. His jaw ticks.
“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”
I want to tell him to fuck off, but I can’t. Not when he’s looking at me like I’m made of glass, not when he just staked his claim in the middle of the goddamn room. So I grab a towel and start wiping down the bar, furious at the stickiness, at the memory of the guy’s hand, at Evan’s protectiveness. Furious that I need my hands busy with a towel, or else they’ll be taken over by the thoughts of grabbing him and pulling him close enough to kiss.
“You’re supposed to be outside,” I say. “On the roof.”
“I was,” he says. “Then I looked through the window and saw that asshole touch you.”
Of course he did.
I finally look at him fully. He’s close—too close for my rules, too close for the secret I’m trying to keep. His body blocks the worst of the room’s gaze, as if he’s creating a pocket of space just for me.
“Go back out there,” I say. My voice has a burr in it, a rasp that surprises both of us. “Before people start talking.”
Evan holds my gaze like he’s reading every lie I’m telling myself. He hesitates a beat. “You sure that’s what you want?”
I open my mouth, ready to cut him off, but what comes out is softer than I mean. “Please, Evan.”
Evan’s eyes drop to my mouth, then back up, like he’s memorizing the shape of the word. For a second, I think he’s going to say something else, some stupid apology or a line about how he couldn’t help himself. But he just nods, once, and then heads for the back, moving through the crowd like he owns every inch between him and the exit.
The bar noise rushes in around me again.
But my wrist still burns where that man grabbed me.
And my chest feels full in a way that scares the hell out of me.
Because the worst part isn’t that Evan stepped in, it’s that — god help me — I wanted him to. And that, in front of everyone in the clubhouse, he just marked me as his.
Chapter Thirty-One
Evan
I keep my tool belt on, my eyes down, and my hands focused.
That’s the trick — look like you belong, like you’ve done this a thousand times, like the only thing you care about is getting paid and getting out.
The garage smells of hot metal and old oil. The roof work is done for today, I should’ve left an hour ago, but I stay late, wiping down my saw, stacking scrap, making it look like I’m a contractor who takes pride in clean edges and tidy lines, and occasionally staking his damn claim to the club bartender in front of everyone when a customer steps out of line.
That’s a mistake I never should’ve made; I’m supposed to keep my head down, infiltrate, and get inside the clubhouse to get the information Midnight needs to take on the Twisted Devils. But the second I looked through the window and saw that asshole in the bar approach Molly, I stopped thinking about the job the second I saw his hand on her wrist.
Goldie and Mayhem have already drifted into the clubhouse. Tank’s in the bay with a bike up on a stand and a wrench in hand and a string of curses drifting from his mouth. From the looks of things, he’ll be done soon — either with the job, or just done enough to call it good and go get a beer. Bishop is somewhere in the building; he moves quietly, mostly so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone.
I wait until the clubhouse settles into its late-hour rhythm. Fewer voices. Fewer footsteps. People lulled into laziness after dinner and a few drinks. People who think they’re safe and secure, surrounded by nothing but friends.
Eventually, Tank sets down his tools and drifts inside, giving me a friendly nod as he leaves.
I get to work. It doesn’t take much to trigger a circuit breaker if you know what you’re doing — load a couple of heavy-draw machines, run one, then fire up another, and wait for the lights to shut off.
Then I unplug the machines, grab my flashlight from my tool belt, assume a confused look on my face, and walk into the back hallway. To the parts of the building regular people don’t wander into.
I pass a door marked STORAGE. Another marked PRIVATE. The corridor lighting is nearly pitch-dark back here. I clock the surroundings and security fast: deadbolts, the way the doorframes are reinforced, and the cameras — two obvious ones, one aimed down the main hall and another that catches the corner by an office.
My phone sits in my pocket like a live round, but I don’t take it out yet.
I drift to the office. The door’s half-cracked. I pause, listening.
Nothing.
