The Reckless Orc’s Obsession (Feral Sons MC #4)

Chapter 1

Holly

The pint glass squeaks under my towel, I hate the sound of it. Clean rim, dry cloth, the same circular motion I've done ten thousand times behind this bar. My hands know the work even when the rest of me has checked out, and tonight the rest of me checked out around nine.

January rain hits the Anchor's windows in sheets.

Not the polite coastal drizzle the tourism board puts on the brochures but real Oregon rain, heavy enough to drown a conversation and cold enough to end one.

The neon Scales Sal sees everything and comments on nothing until the moment you need her to—and she moves the towel in slow circles, patient as tide.

"Four hundred years I've tended bars," she says. "Only two kinds of people sit in the same seat every night. The ones who've found their place." She holds the glass up to the light, checks for spots and then sets it on the rack. "And the ones who are afraid to look for it."

I don't respond.

The clock above the register reads eleven.

I run last call, close out the remaining tabs, and Carl and Micky shuffle past with matching nods.

Old Gene wakes up when I touch his shoulder, blinks at me like he's not sure what century it is, and lets Griz steer him toward the exit.

Sal handles the register while I wipe down tables, restock the garnish trays, and flip the chairs.

The Anchor is mine for these last few minutes.

The quiet after close: beer-soaked wood and lemon oil and the ghost of a hundred conversations absorbed into the walls.

I've loved this place since the first night I walked in with a résumé I'd printed at the library and a backpack that held everything I owned.

Sal hired me before I finished my second sentence.

She told me later she hired me because I didn't flinch when Griz opened the door.

I told her I'd been pouring drinks at my mother's fundraisers since I could reach the counter and men like Griz don't scare me.

She laughed—deep and grinding, the whole bar felt it—and said that worked.

I pull on my jacket, grab my keys, and shoulder the back door open.

The cold hits my face and I stand there for a second, blinking into the downpour. The alley behind the Anchor smells like wet asphalt, dumpster and salt from the harbor two blocks south. I throw the deadbolt, test the handle, and walk around to the street.

Rex's motorcycle sits across the road.

Parked under the awning of the hardware store. Engine cold, water pooling on the leather seat, beading in the stitching where his weight has worn the cushion thin. The chrome pipes have gone dull. His helmet hangs from the handlebar, swinging in the wind.

He's been here. Sitting in the dark on a wet bench or standing in a doorway, watching the Anchor through the fogged windows while I poured drinks and cleared tables and said yes to a man who asked me to dinner.

Close enough to walk through the door. Close enough to sit down and order his bourbon and say one single word.

But the bike is empty and Rex is gone.

I stand on the sidewalk staring at that motorcycle, water running down my face, soaking through my clothes, and I don't move or wipe my eyes because the wetness on my cheeks is weather and nothing else.

But the tight knot I've been carrying under my ribs for twenty-three days loosens, and what replaces it is worse. It's clarity.

I'm done waiting for a man who parks outside my life and never comes in.

I turn my back on the bike and walk home.