I ride with the cold slicing through my cut and the church conversation replaying in pieces that matter. Brynn’s calls. Background voices. Questions in town. RICO still present. Someone searching. The details stack wrong in my head, not enough to break shape yet, but enough that the feeling won’t leave. Most men try to reason instinct into something cleaner. Something explainable. They don’t trust what comes without words.
I do.
I learned a long fucking time ago that the body notices before the brain catches up. A shift in air. A tone that doesn’t fit. A silence that’s too deliberate. A man’s eyes landing one second too long where they shouldn’t. That kind of knowing keeps you alive.
By the time Ambrosia comes into view, the streets are darker and the town’s evening noise has thinned into something leaner. The club sits where it always does, lit in red and gold, looking like exactly what it is to the people who know and like harmless sin to the ones who don’t. The parking lot’s got a few cars left, less traffic this early in the evening than later when the place fills with noise and perfume and bad decisions.
I pull in and cut the engine, then sit still for one breath while the night settles around me. Nothing obvious. No movement out of place. No car idling where it shouldn’t be. No figure lingering too long in the shadows. Still, the feeling doesn’t go.
I get off the bike and head inside.
Heat hits first, then music, then the layered scent of liquor, expensive perfume, sweat, and money passing hands. Ambrosia runs smoother than most places because Allison knows exactly what the fuck she’s doing. Even early, the girls move easy, the staff stays sharp, and nobody in here mistakes softness for weakness.
I scan the room once because that’s what I do. Exits. Faces. Hands. Posture. Nothing catches hard enough to stop me.
Allison spots me from behind the bar and lifts her chin. She’s working, not sitting back like some decorative queen on a throne. That’s another reason the place runs right. She expects things done properly because she does them properly. I cross to the bar. She already has the deposit bag ready under the counter by the time I reach her. “You’re early,” she says.
“Church ended.”
Her mouth flattens just slightly. “That good, huh?”
“Not really.”
She slides the bag across and lowers her voice. “Anything I need to worry about here?”
I look around once more, slower this time. Still nothing immediate. Still nothing I can point at and say there. That. That’s the problem. “Keep the girls alert,” I tell her.
Her expression sharpens at once. No panic. Just focus. “Specific?”
“Not yet.”
That answer doesn’t please her, but she doesn’t waste time bitching about it. She nods once. “I can do that.”
I take the deposit bag and tuck it secure. “Landon may adjust some things.”
“Because of church?”I meet her eyes. That tells her enough. She curses softly under her breath. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
One of the girls calls for her from the other end of the bar, and she glances that way before looking back at me. “You heading straight back?”
“That’s the plan.” Same words I gave Logan. Same problem with them. Plans only matter until they don’t.
Allison studies me for half a second longer, maybe seeing something in my face, maybe just knowing me well enough to understand when I’m listening to something that hasn’t shown itself yet. “Be careful.”
I don’t answer that. Never do. I turn and head back toward the door, the pulse of music following me out into the cold. The dark feels different now. Not louder. Not more dangerous in any obvious way.
Just wrong.
Subtle enough that most people would miss it. The parking lot looks the same. The road looks the same. Streetlights still buzz overhead, and a car passes on the far end of the block without slowing. But the feeling crawls up my spine anyway, hard and certain.
Something’s off.
I stand beside my bike, helmet hanging from one hand, and let my gaze sweep the street one more time. No visible threat. No clear target. Nothing I can hand to another man and have him agree with immediately. Doesn’t matter. Instinct doesn’t ask permission from proof. It just tells you when to pay attention.
I put the helmet on slow, eyes still moving, mind already shifting away from church, away from RICO, away from the room full of smoke and men trying to map danger they couldn’t yet see. Because whatever’s out here tonight feels closer. And I’ve learned the hard way that when the dark starts pressing in like this, it’s usually because something is about to step out of it.
I listen.
