Chapter 23 #5
"Good. Meeting adjourned." Anchor pushed back from the table. "Hurricane, with me. Everyone else, back to business."
The brothers filed out, conversations picking up as they scattered toward the garage, the bar, the gravel lot where their bikes waited in the morning sun. Hurricane lingered, falling into step beside Anchor as he headed for the back door.
"You're worried."
"I'm cautious." Anchor grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. "There's a difference."
"Fifteen years is a long time. Guy like that doesn't stay in business that long by being stupid." Hurricane followed him outside, where the smell of salt marsh and motor oil hung heavy in the humid air. "You think he knows about us?"
"He's moving into Harborview. If he doesn't know about us yet, he will soon." Anchor swung onto his bike, feeling the familiar weight settle beneath him. "I'm heading to The Blue Claw for lunch. Been meaning to check on the place anyway."
Hurricane raised an eyebrow. "The seafood shack? Thought old man Bernhard died a while back."
"Two years ago. His daughter runs it now." Anchor kicked the engine to life, letting the rumble fill the silence. "Frank Bernhard was one of the good ones. Never looked down on watermen who traded boats for bikes. I owe his memory a visit now and then."
"Want company?"
"Nah. Just lunch." He pulled on his gloves, settled his sunglasses in place. "Keep digging on Wilcox. I want a full picture by tomorrow."
Hurricane nodded and stepped back. Anchor pulled out of the compound lot, the bike's engine thundering as he hit the coastal highway.
The ride to The Blue Claw took fifteen minutes—past the old cannery, across the low bridge over Miller's Creek, down the waterfront road where faded signs advertised bait and fresh crabs and boat tours that nobody took anymore.
The restaurant sat at the end of the strip, a weathered building with blue shutters and hand-painted signs promising the best seafood in Harborview.
Frank Bernhard had built this place with his own hands. Anchor remembered eating here as a kid, back when his father was still alive and the Tate family still had a boat. Frank had always given the watermen extra hush puppies, no charge. You boys work hard enough, he'd say. Least I can do.
Anchor parked his bike out front and killed the engine. Through the window, he could see the lunch crowd thinning out, a few tables still occupied, a waitress clearing plates.
And Carly Bernhard behind the register, one arm in a cast.
He went still.
He'd seen Carly around over the years—Frank's daughter, pretty in a no-nonsense way, always working too hard.
He'd noticed her the way you noticed any good-looking woman, but he'd kept his distance out of respect for Frank, out of the knowledge that civilians didn't need bikers complicating their lives.
But he'd never seen her like this. Pale beneath her tan, moving carefully like every motion hurt, that cast on her arm like a white flag of surrender she was too stubborn to wave.
And in the booth by the window—two men who had no business being there.
Anchor recognized the type instantly. Muscle. Watchers. The kind of men who got paid to intimidate and enjoyed the work. They sat with untouched coffee, eyes fixed on Carly like she was a mouse they were toying with before the kill.
Something dark and hot uncoiled in Anchor's chest.
He pushed through the front door, and the bell overhead announced his arrival.
Carly's head snapped up, and for a moment, their eyes met—hers wide with barely concealed fear, his steady and assessing.
Then she seemed to recognize him, and something flickered across her face.
Not relief, exactly. More like confusion. What are you doing here?
Good question. He wasn't sure himself. But he walked to the counter like he owned the place, because in a way, he did—this was his territory, his town, and nobody hunted here without his permission.
"Afternoon." He settled onto a stool, positioning himself so he could see the whole room—the exit, the kitchen door, and most importantly, the two men in the booth who'd stopped watching Carly and started watching him. "I'll take a shrimp basket and sweet tea."
"Coming right up." Her voice was steady, but he could see her hand trembling slightly as she wrote down the order. Up close, the damage was worse—dark circles under her eyes, tension in every line of her body, that cast stark white against her tanned skin. "Haven't seen you in a while."
"Been busy." He kept his voice casual, easy, even as his attention tracked the two men in his peripheral vision. They were muttering to each other now, clearly trying to figure out who he was. The Salt Blood patch on his back would give them some answers, but not all of them. "How's the arm?"
"Slipped on a wet floor." The lie came out practiced, automatic. "Clumsy."
"Huh." He didn't push. Not yet. Just watched her walk the order back to the kitchen, watched the way she held herself like a woman waiting for the next blow to fall.
The men in the booth made a decision. The bigger one pulled out his phone, made a call, spoke in low tones Anchor couldn't quite catch.
Then both of them stood, dropped cash on the table, and headed for the door.
The big one paused just long enough to lock eyes with Anchor—a silent who the hell are you?
—before pushing outside into the afternoon sun.
Anchor watched them go. Watched them climb into a black SUV and pull away, heading inland.
He turned back to find Carly staring at him, something raw and desperate flickering behind her carefully constructed calm.
"They're gone," she said. Like she couldn't quite believe it.
"For now." He accepted the sweet tea she set in front of him, letting his fingers brush hers just long enough to feel her pulse racing. "Want to tell me what's really going on?"
Her jaw tightened. That stubbornness he'd always admired, now looking more like a last line of defense.
"It's nothing. Just... business stuff."
"Carly." He said her name like he'd said it a hundred times before, even though he never had. Like it belonged to him already. "I've been reading trouble since before you were born. That wasn't business. That was a threat."
She opened her mouth—to argue, to deflect, to push him away. But something in his eyes must have stopped her, because she just stood there, broken arm cradled against her chest, fear and exhaustion and stubborn pride warring across her face.
"It's complicated," she finally said.
"Uncomplicate it."
The kitchen bell dinged—his order was up. She grabbed the basket, set it in front of him, and for a long moment, neither of them moved. The restaurant was nearly empty now. Just Anchor, Carly, and the weight of whatever she wasn't saying.
"Come back at closing," she said quietly. "I'll... I'll tell you then."
It wasn't trust. Not yet. But it was a crack in the wall, and Anchor would take it.
"I'll be here."
He picked up a shrimp, watching her walk away, and started planning what he was going to do to the men who'd put that fear in her eyes.