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Knox rubs his hand over his face. “So, what do you think of the place, Della?”

I shrug. “I’m beginning to realize motorcycle clubs involve considerably more structure and spreadsheets than I’d otherwise been led to believe.”

Lock’s eyes light up. “You like spreadsheets?”

“When built properly, they are a masterclass in data organization and insight.”

Lock laughs. “Finally, a woman who understands.”

The conversation fractures as more people drift over and we finally shift from behind the bar. Each person is curious about the woman Sunny rescued. And each time I get the once-over from them, I can see the things they’re not saying.

Like, Okay, she’s basic.

Like I’m lacking in some way.

Like I’m not pretty enough, or my boobs aren’t perky enough, or my waist isn’t nipped in enough.

North finally makes his way to us and tells me he was only messing with Sunny. Reaper appears and disappears almost as quickly, to stitch up a cut above some guy named Rainbow’s eye.

Every person shakes my hand.

Every single one teases Sunny, and I wonder why they can’t see what I can. That he doesn’t like it, but he grits his teeth and bears it.

“So, this is your archaeologist?” a man called Havoc says.

“Wetland ecologist,” I correct automatically.

Havoc shrugs. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“Not even close. It’s a bit like me calling you a trapeze artist.”

Havoc raises an eyebrow. “For all you know, I could be.”

I shrug as if indifferent. “You could, but it also strikes me that being a trapeze artist takes years of consistency and dedication to it. And it also strikes me that you’re in this motorcycle club because acrobatics and dedication to one thing is not your strength.”

Sunny laughs. “Well, that’s certainly true.”

“I like her,” Havoc says. He attempts to boop the end of my nose, but Sunny bats his arm away.

“I’m still undecided if I like you,” I say, more because it’s a pithy comeback than actually believing it.

“Yeah, I definitely like you. Even if you came to a clubhouse party in an outfit you’d do yard work in.”

He’s gone before I can reply, but I look down at my jeans. They’re a comfortable fit. And my sneakers were my only other choice of footwear outside of my hiking boots and the flip-flops I use in the shower because no one wants gross verrucae from a nasty shower floor.

“You look fine, Indy,” Sunny says.

I glance around the room at women who all seem to carry themselves with so much more confidence than I have. “He’s right. You could do yard work in this outfit. I should probably go.”

Sunny reaches for me, looping his fingers around my wrist. “Don’t let an asshole, even a loveable one like Havoc, decide whether you fit in here or not. You fit if you want to fit.”

Pool balls crack behind me, glass bottles clink together at the bar, and someone is playfully yelling about cheating at darts. Every sensory input is arriving with an urgency that makes me want to leave. Or at least find a bathroom for a quiet moment so I can regulate.

“You okay?” Sunny asks.

“I…” I search for the best way to explain what I’m feeling but come up blank. “This is a lot. And my brain is struggling to filter.”

“Do you want to step outside for a little bit?”