Apricity (Saints of Hell MC #1)

Chapter 1

Hannah

Should I even be doing this?

If I had any sense, I’d be in bed right now, not getting made up for an evening I’ve already given a zero-star review. I’m at that awkward stage where I’m too far into my makeup to quit but also lacking the will to finish.

I’d rather be curled up with my book, wrapped in my ridiculously comfortable blankets. But instead, here I stand, dabbing beige foundation onto my face like it’s a life-or-death mission. Excitement is what I should be feeling. However, all I’ve got swirling in my stomach is unwelcome anxiety.

Life with my ex trained me to expect criticism. What I wear, how late I stay out, and even what I eat. Collin was exhausting like that. Ironically, the girl he was drawn to almost seven years ago, the one dancing on a bar-top with zero shame?

Yeah, he’s the one who essentially killed her. My biggest act of self-respect was leaving him and blocking his number.

Leaning over the counter, I draw on my eyeliner for the third time. The girls who nail it on the first swipe? Yeah, not me. At twenty-eight, I’ve mastered “good enough,” which is very symbolic of my life. Passable, rarely perfect.

Between the bar’s dim lighting and drunken strangers, no one’s going to notice or care about the uneven wings of my eyeliner. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Perfection is what I’ve been taught to achieve, and that’s a hard goal to unlearn.

Of course, right on cue, my mother’s voice slides in like a scalpel. You’re wearing that? Straight hair? Really, Hannah? It looks so much better curled.

I pull my naturally straight hair through the scorching flat iron anyway, and practice ignoring the voice in my mind.

I’m just Hannah.

Ordinary and complicated, but entirely my own.

My confidence didn’t come easily, but now I wear it like armor. My body, my choices, and this life I’ve created for myself. They belong to me, and I finally know how to own them without apology.

People see what you project, not what you keep tucked away. On the nights I feel like I’m crumbling inside, I turn up the “together” act. Fake it till you make it.

My therapist calls it a trauma response. I call it good customer service. It’s why I kill it as a cocktail waitress turned stripper. After I saw how much money the girls were making on stage, I traded my serving tray for stripper heels without looking back.

Freedom, even when you’re broke, and there’s no one to kill the spider in the bathroom, is still worth it.

Starting over alone is hard. The mountain of new furniture I needed and the weight of paying all the bills on my own.

.. none of it was easy. But it’s better than being treated like property.

Because now, I get to make my own choices.

Tonight, I guess that choice is putting on cat-eyed war paint and going out again.

It’s been months since I last enjoyed a night out “recreationally”, and years since I went without a man keeping tabs on me.

Martin has insisted it’s time I go out for something other than work.

He says I need to “put myself out there.” I don’t bother explaining to him that I’m not looking for anything.

Hell, if I wanted a hookup, I could easily find it on a shift at work.

But as my friend, this is his way of showing support, so I’m playing along.

The last eight and a half months of single life have been... messy. Therapy sessions, long talks with myself, questionable amounts of Netflix, H?agen-Dazs, and romance novels.

My clothes are a bit tighter, the gym membership is gathering dust, and my battery-operated boyfriend has been well used. But here I am, still standing and persevering through it all. That’s strength in my eyes.

Martin means well. I know he’ll be playing wingman tonight, whether I like it or not, but I’m hoping we can have some fun. Simple, no-consequence, judgment-free fun. I could use that.

He thrives on being a shameless flirt. I thrive on messing with men for sport. Together, we balance.

I glance at my phone and see a text from Martin on the screen.

Martin: Almost there! Just around the corner, let’s goooooo.

Mr. Life of the Party sounds hyped for tonight.

His place is only a few blocks away. Around the corner could mean anything.

He lives so close that I get to hear his house parties rattling my windows every weekend.

Martin always extends an invitation, but in the months I’ve lived here, I’ve never taken him up on it.

I need sleep to survive after my shifts.

I don’t know how he does it. Maybe he’s half-cyborg.

One last outfit check. “This is as good as it’s gonna get,” I tell the mirror, before stepping out into the night.

I do a final inventory count: wallet, phone, vape. Door locked, double-checked. Triple-checked.

Peering down my soft lit, quiet street, I tug at the hem of my top and take a steadying breath. It’s only a night out. Just music, drinks, harmless flirting, and some laughs with Martin.

But standing in the cooling desert air, some inner part of me knows better.

Tonight feels different.

I only manage a couple of quick drags off my vape before Martin’s white Chevy occupies the empty side of my driveway, all polished chrome and attitude. He puts more time and attention into his toys than he does women. Not saying he’s a full-on asshole; he’s just... well, a fuckboy.

The aftermarket lights flare like a UFO landing, and the bass thumps so hard it shakes the sleepy suburban street—typical Martin, never subtle, always a production.

My chauffeur for the night climbs out and grins like he’s the star in his own show.

Plaid button-down, sleeves rolled up halfway, relaxed jeans, wide-rimmed baseball cap.

His usual “uniform”. If not for the hat, his bald head could almost glow under the streetlight, and I can already smell his expensive cologne before I even reach him.

There’s comfort in Martin because no matter how long I’ve known him, he’s always stayed. .. him.

“About time,” I tease.

“About time?” He spreads his arms, mock-offended.

“Hannah, I’m early, and I polished this beast just for you.

” He throws an open hand toward his truck.

“The least you could do is appreciate the effort.” He steps in for a hug, and I inhale, savoring his familiar, clean, masculine scent, comforting without ever feeling try-hard.

“Oh boy, do I appreciate it,” I say in mock appreciation, releasing him and climbing up into the cab. “Looks like you’re compensating for something, though.” I tease.

His laugh fills the truck, warm and familiar. I know him well enough to see he could be a great man for someone, but he refuses to commit.

We don’t bother with small talk as Martin cranks the volume, transforming the cab into a rolling subwoofer. I let the music wash over me, grateful for the rare quiet inside my own head as I move to the music from my seat.

By the time we reach the busy city streets, I’ve drifted into my thoughts, watching out the window, just along for the ride. I like that I don’t have to think, plan, or be in charge in this moment.

We drive for maybe fifteen minutes before Martin takes a smooth U-turn. He eases the truck down a narrow driveway, and before I know it, we’re in front of a shabby building that looks like it belongs in an old western movie set.

The paint has faded to a rusty red, the bull horns above the door are chipped, and the signs have survived too many desert summers.

On the roof, large white wooden letters spell out “Rawhide.” The place looks forgotten, sandwiched between a sleek sushi joint and a trendy pizzeria, but something about it instantly pulls me in.

“This is it?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“This,” Martin says with pride, “is my home away from home.”

I can’t help but grin. Dive bars have always been my kind of place. No velvet ropes, overpriced cocktails, or anyone demanding perfection. Instead, you get real people, real stories, and real noise.

The tiny parking lot is already packed, and a wrought iron fence encloses a makeshift patio out front. Through it, I can see the bouncer at the front door and hear the muffled thump of country mixed with something more danceable coming from inside.

I smooth my hands over my shorts, feeling happy with this outfit choice.

Simple forest green low-cut tank top with the fabric in a cross-over on the front, black frayed short shorts, worn cowboy boots, and a healthy splash of sunless tanner.

Not too much, not too little. It’s not about turning heads tonight, but if someone happens to notice. .. Well, I won’t stop them.

Martin kills the engine and looks at me like he’s proud of himself for dragging me here.

“You ready?” he asks, eyes twinkling.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He leans closer. “I’ve got people to introduce you to.”

“People? Or men?”

“Same thing,” he says with a smirk. “What kind of wingman would I be if I didn’t set you up?”

I roll my eyes. “Martin, I’m not looking.”

“You don’t have to be. They’ll be looking at you.”

I laugh despite myself, shaking my head. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you love me.”

I do, he’s one of my closest friends, even if he’s a lot to handle at times. Martin’s always been there. He tried once to be more than friends, late night, too much tequila, but I said no. Nicely. It never got weird, which says everything about him.

Some friendships are worth protecting, and as imperfect as he may be, I value him being a part of my life.

I flip down the visor, check my reflection one last time as Martin exits the truck, and tuck my phone into my pocket. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

Martin opens my door with a flourish. “Ladies first.”

“Gentlemanly,” I tease, sticking my tongue out.

“Shh, don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin the asshole persona.”

“And you want that?”

“Hell yeah, I want that. Women flock to it. Spent years being the nice guy only to get friend-zoned.”

Rolling my eyes, I step out into the warm night. I refuse to tell him he might be onto something there. Women tend to ignore the nice guys for some odd self-sabotaging reason.

The air hums with charged possibility. I’m not chasing anything tonight. Not love, not even a one-nighter. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe, just maybe, something good might find me.

We stroll up to the front of the bar together, and after showing our IDs to the bouncer, Martin pulls open the heavy door, and we step inside.

Disco-style lights scatter across the unpolished concrete floor, pulsing in rhythm with the music.

The walls are dressed in vintage license plates and layers of chalk graffiti, so many marks that not a single inch is untouched.

The building’s imperfections are hidden in the shadows, making the whole place feel less like a rundown bar and more like a living, breathing thing.

The dance version of Shania’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” blasts from the DJ booth in the center of the room, and the crowd sings along.

The mix is eclectic-country boots two-stepping near the dance floor, men hunched over their beers, groups of twenty-somethings laughing loudly in the booths lining the walls.

A little touch of everything. Somehow, it all works.

Looking toward the dance floor, I see a sea of flannel and denim—mostly 90s babies like me. This is definitely our kind of music.

Martin gives me a nudge and steers us toward the bar. A gorgeous brunette bartender greets him by name before he even opens his mouth. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was a regular.

“What’ll it be tonight?” she asks with a grin, resting an arm on the scarred wood. Her body angled toward him with practiced ease.

Her name tag reads Rose, and it suits her. She’s got a healthy, curvy figure and the kind of easy confidence that makes it clear she runs the show. Her smile says she’s already seen more than she’ll ever let on. It’s the same kind of look I’ve seen on bartenders around my line of work.

“I’ll have my usual, and my recluse friend here needs a shot of Fireball,” Martin replies, his hand warm on the small of my back.

I smirk, shaking my head, but I don’t argue. I’m usually the one behind the scenes, watching the world from the safety of a stage. Being out in the open feels different. Might as well get this night started.