Chapter 5
Hannah
Who’s The Hoe?
Hand in hand, we walk beside the long bar counter toward the door. Embarrassed by how much I enjoy him holding my hand, I keep my eyes down while I let him guide me.
Plus, I have the overwhelming feeling that everyone is looking at us. I fix my gaze on my feet and tell myself it’s just him they’re staring at. He does look delicious with a sprinkle of intimidating.
Are people scared of him? Who exactly is he, anyway?
The moment I step over the threshold, the cool night air shocks my skin.
It’s a noticeable contrast to the stale, beer-soaked warmth of the bar.
Shoulder to shoulder, we move toward the patio, still joined at the hands.
I spot the group of girls from the restroom earlier, every one of them looking like they’ve seen a ghost.
Since I just saw them a few minutes ago, I know that look isn’t for me. They’re staring at him in shock and utter disbelief.
He was respectful to me inside, but my mind immediately goes to the dark places it’s been trained to live. I’m not a fool; men are experts at maintaining a front.
The looks on these girls’ faces tell me they know something I don’t, and I find myself wishing I was let in on the secret. Is this a warning? Am I walking straight into a lion’s den?
The heavy weight of his hand in mine suddenly feels less like comfort and more like a claim. I look away and try to ignore the way they’re tracking our every move, but the knot in my stomach is tightening by the second.
“Hey, Sarge! Who’s the hoe?” The red-head from the bathroom calls out. She still looks shaken, but she’s covering it well with a mean-girl sneer.
I immediately drop his hand and step away. My skin prickles as my inner skeptic screams I told you so. I never should have walked out that door with him.
Sarge’s face shifts at my action, flickering with something between sadness and annoyance.
His head turns towards the girl. “Go home, Scarlett. I’m sure your mom’s wondering where you are.” His tone is clipped.
Scarlett. Who the hell is Scarlett, and what did I ever do to her?
“I’m gonna to go ahead and order a Lyft home. Thank you for the water. It was so nice to meet you, Sarge,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket and opening the app.
“You don’t need to get a ride from them.
They’re strangers—you never know who’s behind that wheel or what their intentions may be.
Please, let me give you a ride,” Sarge says softly, almost pleading.
His eyes catch the moonlight, and I see kindness and worry.
Tough on the outside, but kind underneath.
Men can often seem that way, though.
“You’re a stranger. What’s the difference?” I shoot back.
“The difference is that we both know Martin, and I know my own intentions. I can tell you they’re nothing but good.” He pauses, his gaze raking me from head to toe. “Okay, mostly good.”
The last part is muttered, but I still catch it.
Mostly good, huh?
“I know I can get you home safely, Hannah. That much I can promise you.” He adds.
“Mhmm...” I hum in response, right as my bladder reminds me of its existence. “Well, I have to use the restroom... again.”
“Alright,” Sarge says, leveling me with a stern look. “But don’t try to fly off, Butterfly. There’s only one way in and one way out of here.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn toward the bathroom. I’m not going to run away—I need to pee. Jeez.
“I’ll be right over there by my bike when you get back.” He points towards a barely illuminated parking spot. “Let me know if you need anything.”
The parking lot is darker than I’d like. It doesn’t exactly scream safe, but the lot where I work is just as dim, and I’ve never had any issues.
Here, the only real light comes from the neon sign glowing over the front door, casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to find his parking spot when I get back.
Why is this guy being so protective? Most men who only want to sleep with me don’t bother putting in this much effort. At least, not the “nice” kind.
Usually, they lead with sleazy compliments and cheap pickup lines, looking for the fast lane into my pants. Sarge is playing a different game entirely, and that’s exactly what makes him dangerous.
He’s careful, steady, and way too attentive for a stranger. It’s got me wondering... did Martin ask him to look after me? Is this a favor for a friend, or is Sarge simply the kind of man who can’t help but protect others?
After finishing up in the bathroom and returning outside, the staff is already locking the doors behind me.
Looks like it’s time to choose either a Lyft or Sarge. Most people have cleared out, meaning the parking lot will be deserted in no time.
Right as I’m considering taking Sarge up on his offer for a free ride home, I hear a woman’s voice drifting from the shadows. It’s coming from the same direction Sarge said he’d be waiting for me.
“Come on, Sarge,” she purrs. “You know you want to take me home. You give me a ride, and I’ll give you the ride of your life.”
The closer I get, the clearer it is: Scarlett. Inches from his face, head tilted, lips pouty.
Something in my stomach twists.
“I’ve told you no, Scarlett. It was a no last weekend, the weekend before that, and it’s still a no tonight. Now, please, back up,” Sarge commands, his tone firm.
Against my better judgment, I feel giddy. Seeing him shut her down is like a small victory.
Petty? Maybe, but I’ll take it. I shouldn’t care who he says yes or no to, but my stomach does a little flip anyway.
I’m about five feet from them when Scarlett notices me. She turns back to him and hooks a thumb in my direction, her top lip curled.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re not taking that skank home, are you? I know you’ve been out of the game for a minute, Sarge, but come on. She looks like Hannah Montana—Millennial edition.” With a flip of her hair, she does nothing to hide the disgust on her face. “You can do better.”
Wow. Solid burn, Scarlett. Even got my name right, not that she knows it.
“Oh. Um, no. I was only coming to say bye. I’m gonna order a Lyft. Not that it should really matter to you...”
I distance myself from her, moving toward the front patio where there’s better lighting. Pulling my vape from my pocket, I inhale deeply while pretending to scroll on my phone.
Seriously, why does she hate me so much? This is literally my first time here. I don’t even know her. Or him, for that matter.
I roll my eyes at the screen, debating whether to go through with the Lyft or just say fuck it and go with Sarge.
Honestly, the fact that Scarlett doesn’t want me to go with him makes me want to do it even more. She seems like a total bitch, and I’d like to put a dent in that ego of hers.
Sarge’s voice cuts through the night, stern, followed by the jagged stomp of heels. I don’t know what was said, but she looks pissed.
Scarlett storms past me with a hiss. “I hope you have fun with him. I wouldn’t get too attached, though.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Before I can wrap my brain around it, I look back to see Sarge stalking toward me.
“I’m sorry about her,” he says, stopping just close enough to make me tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “We’ve known each other a long time. She gets... persistent when she’s drunk.”
Noticing the phone in my hand, he says, “You don’t need a Lyft.
I already told you, strangers’ intentions can’t be trusted.
My offer still stands.” He leans in barely a fraction, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous territory.
“Come on, Butterfly. Tell me you don’t want to go on a ride with me. ”
He tips his head toward me as a grin spreads across his face, small but convincing. Damn him.
I wish I could say he’s wrong, but he’s not. It’s been so long since I’ve been on a motorcycle, and I honestly do miss it. I lower my chin toward my feet, trying to hide the smile tugging at my lips.
“Okay, fine,” I say, pointing a firm finger as our eyes meet. “But just a ride home. That’s all.”
Sarge’s grin widens in victory. Damn, he’s handsome. It’s the kind of smile that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed.
“Just a ride home,” he says, raising both hands, palms out in a mock surrender. “Promise.”
He adds a wink before turning toward his bike, the movement fluid and confident. I find myself floating along behind him, my pulse doing that stupid, frantic dance again.
The dance is cut short when I get a glimpse of the patch on his back.
It’s bold, demanding attention even in the dim lights of the lot. A large circle featuring a skull surrounded by fire stares back at me. The words across his back are like a warning: SAINTS OF HELL on the top rocker, ARIZONA on the bottom, with the MC square to the side.
Suddenly, the “guarding” and the “respect” take on a different weight. He’s more than a guy with a bike; he’s part of a brotherhood. One of The Saints. I swallow hard, eyes locked on the patch as he reaches for his helmet.
My mom’s riding friends had mentioned them one morning when we were all at AZ Bike Week. From what they were saying, other charters respect them and don’t cross them.
They aren’t “bad” people from what I understand, but they aren’t the type you provoke, either. They’re the law in a world that doesn’t follow the rules.
How the hell did I not know Martin knew these guys?
“You okay?” Sarge asks, pausing mid-motion.
“Yeah,” I lie, my fingers fiddling nervously with my vape. “I just, um... I don’t think I can go with you.”
“Why not?” His voice comes out laced with immediate concern. He takes a half-step toward me, searching my face.
“You only have one helmet,” I improvise, pointing at the one in his hand. “My mom would kill me if she knew I rode without one.”
It’s not a lie. Even though helmets are optional here in Arizona, she would always remind me that only idiots ride without one.
“You can wear mine. We’re not going far.”
Welp. Guess that makes him the idiot. But... wait. How does he know that?
“Hold on, do you know where I live?” I ask, my voice coming out a pitch higher than intended.
He lets out a short, dry laugh. “No. Martin mentioned you two live in the same development, though. The club’s been to his parties, so I’ve got a general idea of the area. Not the exacts. I’m trusting you’re sober enough to direct me?”
“Yeah...” I nod absently and close my eyes for a second, trying to settle the spinning in my head. “Wait, were you asking Martin about me?”
Sarge straightens, clearing his throat. “When I was out here with Booker, making sure he didn’t collapse in his own puke, I saw Martin with his hands all over some blonde.
Once Booker’s Uber left, I confronted him.
Told him I knew he’d come here with you, and how it looked like he was planning to leave without you. ”
I may not know Sarge well, but I know anger when I see it. Right now, he looks pissed.
“He said you were playing pool, meeting people, and that you wouldn’t miss him. Instead of letting him know what a shitty person he is, I asked how you two know each other. Didn’t get much out of him before he climbed into the car with the blonde.”
Great. So, Martin knew damn well he was leaving me and didn’t even care to tell me. Love that for me.
On the other hand... Martin already has no filter. Mix that with alcohol? Total disaster.
“So... what exactly did Martin say?”
“Not a lot. Only that you were in a bad relationship, finally got out, and you haven’t been out much since. Oh, and something about you needing to ‘hoe it up,’ whatever that means.” His mouth quirks. “I think I get it, though.”
My face burns hot beneath my makeup.
“Yeah, well, Martin says a lot of things. He’s got his own ideas about what I should or shouldn’t do.”
“Oh?” Sarge playfully leans in closer. “And you have different ideas, I gather?”
“I do,” I retort defensively.
“Gotcha.” He swings a leg over his bike. Ending that conversation without prying further.
His bike is so beautiful. Not shiny, but instead a sleek satin finish. Hard to tell the exact color in the dark, but possibly a deep burgundy or black. An older Electra Glide, early 2000s, I’d guess.
I’m not great at guessing all bikes, but Harleys I know fairly well.
“I can give you my helmet,” Sarge says, “but I don’t have rear pegs. You’ll have to wrap your legs around me.”
He holds the helmet out.
I place it on my head and take a step back when he tries to help, opting to fasten the loop myself. His eyebrows lift, like he’s impressed.
“So... your club,” I begin, hesitating before swinging my leg onto the bike. “They don’t, like... kill people, do they?”
Without missing a beat, he responds, “Not if we don’t have to. Hell of a mess. Why do you ask?”
Shocked at his bluntness, I stare at him for a beat. “I’ve heard... things. Not much really, just that your club is quite the force to be reckoned with.”
“Well,” he says, a slow smile tugging at his lips, “I’d be lying if I said I dislike the fact that we have that reputation. We don’t exactly take shit from anyone, but we don’t set out to cause problems either. We stay as neutral as possible, and for the most part, it works.”
“...and when it’s not possible?” I ask, unsure, I want that answer.
Sarge pats the seat behind him. “You don’t have to worry about that tonight. Come on, let’s get you home.”
I drop the subject and swing my leg wide to straddle the seat. Without pegs to help me up, it’s an awkward climb, but I manage.
He shifts in front of me, a wall of solid, steady warmth. It’s grounding. His presence brings me a quiet, comforting calm that I’m not used to.
Adjusting so we’re both settled in our seats, I meet the stare of none other than Scarlett. Slack-jawed, eyes like daggers.
A quick, unexpected rush of victory swells in my chest. She wanted to hurt me with her words, so I’m more than happy to give her a show.
Holding her stare, I move slowly, purposefully, lifting my legs and wrapping them snugly around Sarge, rocking my hips to press myself tightly against him. The motion feels like a claim—one he hasn’t asked me to make, but one I want her to see.
Firing up the bike, he asks, “You ready, Butterfly?” his voice comes out casual, like we’ve done this a hundred times.
“Yeah,” I say into his ear over the rumbling pipes, “Ready.”