ONE
Ruin
The party’s loud, the beer’s cold, and my patch feels heavy in the best fucking way.
Vice President of the Wardens of Sin.
I earned the hell out of it.
I lean back on the bar stool, watching my brothers raise hell around the firepit out back, music thumping like it owns the night. A couple of hanger-ons start chanting for one of them to strip. Typical Friday at the clubhouse, only tonight, it’s mine.
Patch-over night.
My night.
My name is etched into this new cut now. Ruin—bold and permanent under the Vice President rocker.
I can’t remember the last time someone called me Theo or Theodore. That name hasn’t existed since I patched in at twenty.
“Prez lookin’ sharp tonight,” Ryder mutters next to me, jerking his chin toward Wolf.
I follow his gaze.
Wolf’s got his arm slung around some redhead and I’m not sure when I saw him around a woman last. He has hardly dropped his focus from the presidency ever since he took over from his father.
Which is probably why I think he isn’t really listening to the girl yapping in his ear. His gaze darting around the room, looking for a distraction.
A rare, full grin escapes him when one of the prospects hands him a whiskey and they exchange a few words.
That twisted smile has always been his thing, even when we were kids stealing bikes and building makeshift gun ranges. But it’s rarer now, and hardly ever reaches his eyes.
So I’m glad it’s made an appearance today.
“You’d think he was the one getting a title,” I say dryly.
“Man’s just proud.” Ryder smirks. “Your girl’s showing up?”
Is she—my girl?
My gut coils uncomfortably at those words. It’s too early for me to decide on something like that.
“Yeah.” I nod, cracking my neck. “Said she’s bringing something sweet for dessert.”
“Please tell me that’s code.”
I shoot him a look. “Shut the fuck up.”
Sarah. Fuck, she’s something else. I met her a month ago at Sinner’s Ink—our tattoo shop that doubles as a laundering front and triple as my therapy. She walked in shy as hell, asking for a delicate little moon tattoo. Barely spoke above a whisper. The type of girl who flushes if you breathe too close.
Didn’t expect her to look up at me with those wide eyes and let me touch her skin for hours. Didn’t expect her to actually give me a chance when I asked her out.
“Be right back.” I shove off the bar, heading toward the clubhouse kitchen where the better booze’s hidden.
I don’t get far.
I see her.
The brat.
