I wiped down the counter with smooth, practiced motions, my mind still on the golden-eyed kid who'd vanished into the shadows. The kitchen gleamed around me—stainless steel surfaces reflecting the overhead lights, everything in its place.
I'd learned early in my cooking career that a clean kitchen was non-negotiable, especially when feeding a bunch of rowdy bikers who'd eat just about anything. The guys joked that you could perform surgery in my kitchen.
They weren't wrong.
With the lunch hour approaching, I pulled out ingredients for the club's favorite sandwiches. Thick-cut bread, three types of meat, cheese that didn't come pre-sliced in plastic. TheSoldiers of Fortune MC might be rough around the edges, but they ate well. I made sure of that.
The kitchen was my zone, the one place in the clubhouse where I felt completely at home. Well, that and astride my Harley on the open road, wind whipping past, nothing ahead but possibilities. But that was different—a freedom that existed in motion. The kitchen was my anchor, my territory.
I moved with practiced efficiency, muscle memory taking over as I sliced meats and cheeses, toasted bread, and prepared condiments. My hands knew what to do without conscious direction, leaving my mind free to wander.
Today, it kept circling back to that kid, those strange golden eyes. A lynx shifter, I was almost certain, though I'd never encountered one personally. They were uncommon in these parts.
My tablet chimed with a reminder about inventory. If I was going to shop tomorrow, I needed to know what we were low on. The pantry was a walk-in affair at the back of the kitchen, meticulously organized with shelves of ingredients and supplies. I grabbed my tablet and headed in, ready to count cans and measure flour levels.
"Mr. Rooster? You here?"
Bug's voice pulled me back to the present. Only he could get away with calling me that. Anyone else would get a wooden spoon to the back of the head or worse.
I stepped out of the pantry to find him standing in the doorway, his head tilted at that adorable angle that made him look like a curious puppy. Not that I'd ever admit noticing such a thing.
"What's up, kid?" I asked, setting my tablet on the counter.
Bug had been with us for nearly a year now, ever since Bear had found him—or rather, Bug had found Bear wounded and helped him. The kid was still skittish sometimes, his braindamaged from the bullet that had nearly killed him years ago. His speech came out fragmented, but there was nothing wrong with his intelligence.
He shuffled from foot to foot, a sure sign he wanted something but wasn't sure how to ask. His oversized sweater hung off his thin frame, sleeves rolled up several times to free his hands. Despite regular meals, he still looked underfed.
"You make cupcakes?" he finally blurted, eyes darting around the kitchen before landing back on me. "Bear say... say you make good ones. With frosting?"
I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. For all his street toughness and survival skills, Bug sometimes wanted the simplest things—things any kid should have had growing up.
"I could," I replied, leaning against the counter. "Any particular kind you're hoping for?"
Bug's eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn't expected to get this far. "Chocolate? With... with the swirly stuff?" He made a gesture with his hand for frosting.
"Buttercream frosting," I supplied. "Sure, I can do that. Tell you what—I'm making a grocery run tomorrow. Help me shop and I'll pick up what we need for cupcakes. That work for you?"
The transformation on Bug's face was immediate—pure joy breaking through his usual wariness. It was moments like these that reminded us all that despite everything he'd been through, there was still a young man underneath who just wanted normal things.
"Yes! I help good. Carry bags. Remember lists." His excitement made his speech pattern even more choppy than usual, words tumbling out in his eagerness.
I nodded, already mentally adding cocoa powder and confectioners' sugar to my shopping list. "Be ready after breakfast. We'll take the truck."
Bug bounced slightly on his toes—actually bounced—and turned to go. I called after him, "Hey, make sure you tell Bear where you'll be tomorrow. He worries."
Bug paused, turning back. "I tell. Bear growly when worried."
"That he is," I agreed, thinking of the massive Sergeant-at-Arms who'd become fiercely protective of Bug since claiming him as his mate. "Growly" was putting it mildly.
With a quick nod, Bug disappeared from the doorway, his footsteps fading down the hall. I returned to my inventory, but my mind wandered again.
Bug had found his place here, against all odds. The damaged street kid and the club enforcer—nobody would have put those two together, but their bond was unquestionable. The claiming bite on Bug's neck had healed into a silvery scar that he displayed proudly, never covering it with his collars.
A small pang hit me somewhere in the vicinity of my chest. I was happy for them—for all the mated pairs in our club. Butch and Treat, Gunner and Henry, Gearhead and Percy. Each finding their other half, that connection that went beyond the physical.
At forty-two, I'd begun to wonder if my mate was out there at all. The club accepted without question that I was gay—females simply did not attract me, never had—but finding another gay shifter who was also my destined mate? Those odds seemed increasingly slim.
I shook off the melancholy. Self-pity wasn't my style. If a mate was in my future, they'd show up when the time was right. If not, I had my kitchen, my Harley, and a family of sorts in the club.
