"We should head in. Malachi's expecting us."
She shifts. "You told him?"
"I texted him while you were finishing your last chart. He's gathering everyone. Phoenix and McKenzie are on their way."
She goes quiet for a beat. Nods. "Okay."
She helps me adjust clothes. As she tucks me back into my jeans, her touch lingers just enough to make me suck air through my teeth.
"Careful," I warn. "Don't get me started again."
She bites her lip. "Can't a girl help her man?"
"Ready?"
She nods. I fit my helmet on, then hers. She squeezes my sides with her thighs.
"You good back there?"
"Yeah." A beat. "Drive, husband."
I tighten my hands on the bars. I start the engine, feel her settle against me, and roll us back out onto the road. Her arms lock around my waist. My eyes find the mirrors out of habit. The road behind us is empty. For now.
Chapter 44
Knox
We'relate.Thedetourcost us forty minutes, and by the time we roll through the gates, the lot is full. Phoenix's black SUV is parked near the entrance. Malachi's bike is at the front. East's truck. Nash's ride. Everyone's inside.
I kill the engine and swing off. Sloane pulls her helmet free, shakes her hair loose, and slides off the bike.
She's in her scrubs from the shift and no jacket. The night air raises goosebumps along her arms. I pull a flannel from the saddlebag and drape it over her shoulders before she can argue.
"I'm fine."
"You're cold." I tug the collar up. "Wear it."
She draws the flannel tighter, rolls the sleeves once. It swallows her. My hand settles on her lower back as we walk.
The door shuts, and the clubhouse breathes in around my spine.
Layered sound hits. Chairs scrape. Someone laughs too hard at the bar. Glass on wood. Boots on concrete. A cue ball cracks,followed by groans and a barked "Bullshit" from someone who just lost ten bucks.
They've been here a while. Drinks half-finished. Jackets off. The room has that settled weight of people who stopped checking the door an hour ago.
Until we walk in.
Sloane steps with me, close enough that the flannel sleeve brushes my arm. My hand stays on her lower back.
"Easy," I murmur.
"I'm walking," she answers, dry, mouth twitching.
My eyes jump from one anchor to the next. Bar. Pool table. Stairs. Hallway. Windows. I clock who's standing. Who's seated. Who's angled toward the entrance.
Malachi is at the bar with his weight braced on one forearm. Candace stands beside him, posture loose, eyes sharp. East is leaning against a post, arms crossed. Frankie's near the back table with a mug, attention fixed on Sloane. Nash stands by the pool table, one hand on the felt, marking angles. Ruby is sitting at the bar with her phone and water. Darla's beside her, cup cradled in both palms, tracking Sloane the moment we enter. Arden is against the far wall near the stairs, arms folded, watchful and still.
"Door's loud tonight," East says.
