I can’t wait for her to see this. Paul and I had been working our asses off for months for this. Perhaps this will finally change her mind and see me, actually see me.
Instead of Thomas fucking Ackley. He started something called “prospecting”, and I found Sandra’s attention pulled away from me in an instant. The bastard is club royalty or something. And I can’t understand what she sees in him.
At least some good came out of it. Paul and I spent the last six months researching everything there was to know about motorcycle clubs. Our town—Whiterun—was blissfully unaware of the biker gangs that surrounded our county.
And now, I had created one.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t just do this because Sandra likes her men in cuts.
The more Paul and I discovered the world of clubs, the more excited we got. We were simply a couple of nineteen-year-olds mucking about.
Now we’re President and VP of our brand new club. A club that’s basically in my parents garage as of now.
The bell above the door rings and I clumsily shoot up from my chair. Sandra walks in with her innate charm.
I still can’t believe I did something so drastic for her. Never really had any concrete career plans anyway. At least this club shit will help me learn all aspects of any business we choose to indulge in.
The moment her gaze lands on me—my newly ordered cut—her soft, controlled smile morphs into a wide grin.
I feel like a king when she saunters over to me. Her ample hips swaying with a confidence that I’m all she sees.
I’m reveling in her attention until she’s close enough to study my cut. Her eyes narrow in confusion as she inspects it. “What… what club is this?” she purrs, running her fingers over the patch.
“Mine,” I breathe out, my voice rough with need.
God. She’s fuel to the fiery, primal hunger I possess. We’ve been dancing around each other since we were dumb and sixteen. I’ve endured Paul’s teasing for years, and I’m hoping it’s all coming to an end—giving way to this new beginning.
She smiles sweetly, her eyes wide with excitement. “Yours? You… you created a club?”
I nod, my jaw aching with a too-wide grin. “Wardens. Wardens of Sin. You like it?”
She lets out a joyous laugh. “Oh God, James! I can’t believe you did that.”
In a blink, she’s in my arms. I hold her close, breathing in her delicious scent. Something I thought I’d lost to fucking Thomas.
An hour passes by with our usual chatter. She talks animatedly about everything she knows about clubs and club business. I hide a satisfied smile, because most of what she’s saying is just superficial, exciting byproduct of what clubs are about. But I don’t interrupt.
“Oh—oh!” She almost shrieks with joy. “What’s your… erm—shit, what’s that called? Yes! What’s your road name?”
I throw my head back, laughing. Then I grab her hand across the tiny table. “I haven’t decided. I’ve got a few options, though. Whatever I land on, I’ll just…” I gesture at my chest, underneath the ‘President’ sign, “…patch it here.”
“Wow,” she breathes out, mesmerized. Then she straightens quickly. “Tell me. I’ll help. I’m great with brainstorming road names. Thomas said—”
She stops herself immediately, biting her lower lip. Her face starts to lose all color. And that’s when I realize I’ve tightened my grip on her hand, my expression thunderous.
Christ. I don’t want her to feel guilty. We’re barely even together and I’m acting like a jealous asshole.
“It’s okay. I know you and him… well. Anyway,” I say softly before a smug smile escapes me. “Tommy is a prospect. You’re talking to a Prez, sweetheart. Let’s find a name worthy of that, yeah?”
A shy smile finally comes out of her and I feel victorious. “So… what are the options?”
I clear my throat. “Well, there’s Tank. Because—”
“You’re built like one?” She deadpans.
I roll my eyes, smiling. “No, because you keep painting the tank of my bike yellow. You know how many times I’ve had to redo it?”
She hides her answer with a cough. “Seven.”
