Chapter Thirty
Riley
The Noble Fir is slammed.
It’s early in the afternoon, but for some reason half the town has decided today is the perfect day to get drunk, loud, or both.
The bar is absolutely blitzed, packed, vibrating with the energy you’d expect from the tailgate party of a championship football team, not a lunch rush in a small town.
My shift feels like it’s been running for twenty hours, even though the clock above the bar says it’s only been a couple.
There are moments, as I’m ferrying drinks and grease-soaked orders in tight orbits around the floor, where I genuinely wonder if I died on my last lunch shift and am currently working off my karmic debt serving the thirsty damned.
I’m balancing three plates in one hand — a short stack of pancakes, a club sandwich, and a steak that, judging by weight alone, is probably most of a cow — and a tray of microbrews in the other.
Someone’s fries, smothered in cheese and jalapenos, ride shotgun in the crook of my elbow.
The fries smell so good I almost ditch the rest and take them for myself.
But I know better. If I started eating off patrons’ orders, I’d wind up in the walk-in freezer with a knife in my back, courtesy of Molly or, more likely, Claire.
Behind the bar, Molly is a red-headed hurricane, working drink shakers with unnecessary violence, muttering curses, and filling beer glasses with a vengeance.
Every other minute she’s shouting for Diesel, who has mastered the art of leaning against any fixed surface like he’s posing for a “Men of the MC” calendar and nothing else.
“Stop leaning like a decorative gargoyle and help me carry something!” she hollers, smacking him on the ass with a dirty dish towel.
Diesel raises his eyebrows, unimpressed, but moves — barely — to stack some clean glasses.
I power-walk past a couple making out in a booth and slide the three plates onto their respective tables, working the steps I learned from the older girls at Applebee’s back in high school.
Pivot. Smile. Thank them, grab an empty basket, move on.
My feet are on autopilot, muscles aching, fingers stinging from the sizzle of too-hot plates.
I’m in a trance, just getting through the next hour, the next round of orders, when I hear voices behind me—Bones and Havoc, that lethal combo of gleeful gossip and utter lack of volume control.
Havoc whispers loudly, which isn’t whispering at all. “Have you heard what happened to Breaker?”
Bones grunts, shaking his head. “Tragic. I can’t believe it’s real.”
I stumble. The tray slips in my hands, and for a split second I think every glass and plate is going to shatter, but I catch it with a little hop and, somehow, no one even notices.
I try to keep moving, but my breath goes tight and shallow as though someone just tied a wire around my lungs and started twisting.
In the past, when something bad happened — when the ground fell out from under me — I’d just run, or hide, or try to swallow my panic and pretend I was fine.
But now it’s like I have all of those instincts fighting at once, and my only anchor is that swelling, terrifying, perfect thing inside me that crackles every time I think of Breaker.
I set my trays down and grab Havoc by the cut. From the reflection I see of myself in Havoc’s pupils, my eyes might be bulging. “Where is he?!”
Havoc blinks. “You mean physically? Like, exactly?”
“Yes, what the heck do you think I meant?”
He nods thoughtfully, and I want to punch him. “I thought maybe you meant his mental state, which I’m not qualified to assess.”
“Havoc!”
“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands. “Physically, and exactly, he’s at…”
He rattles off an address.
I don’t wait for anything; I hurl the tray in the general direction of Diesel — he’s a big boy, he can catch — and sprint for the door, dodging the couple making out and leaping over a spilled beer on the way out.
Behind me, Molly’s shout follows: “Riley! Shift! You’re on shift—HEY!
” But I’m already gone, out into the parking lot.
My car is parked at a diagonal in the lot, and I almost eat gravel twice as I run for it, keys already clenched in my fist like a weapon.
There’s a second, as I slam the door behind me and grip the wheel, where the world blurs a little, the panic so sharp it cuts the edges of everything.
I don’t know what I’m expecting — a hospital, a crime scene, a smoking hole where Breaker used to be — but I punch the address into my phone with trembling hands and peel out.
I don’t stop. Can’t stop. All I can think is: Breaker’s hurt. He’s in danger. Something happened. My heart slams so hard it hurts, and I barely breathe the entire drive, whipping through town toward the address Havoc gave me.
Every corner I take, every second I get closer to my destination, I expect to see the man I love dead.
Except…
When I pull up…
It’s not a crime scene, not a hospital, not a morgue. It’s a craft store.
A craft store with a banner reading: “GIRL SCOUT TROOP 417 — FLOAT PREP TODAY!”
I blink. My brain stutters. This must be some kind of fever dream, or a prank set up by the Devils, or maybe this is what it feels like to pop an aneurysm from pure panic.
Little girls in sashes dart around inside the craft store like caffeinated bees.
Glitter coats the windows like a layer of multicolored snow.
There are streamers hanging from everything and everywhere.
“Breaker?” I whisper to myself as I approach the store, feeling like I physically have to fight against the chorus of cheers, laughter, and shouting that flows from the store like a river.
I push open the door and step inside.
And that’s when I see him.
Conrad “Breaker” James. Former Marine. Twisted Devils biker. Walking embodiment of danger and masculinity. The man I love. The man who shelters me from the monster in my nightmares.
And he is covered.
In.
Glitter.
It’s not just some glitter, either — I mean, we’re talking full-body, nuclear-load, holiday-parade-level detonation.
His beard has gone from lumberjack to Liberace.
His eyebrows twinkle. There’s so much pink and gold on his face, I can barely see his actual skin.
There’s a boa around his neck, and the boa is a shade of Pepto-pink that I’m certain isn’t found in nature, and it’s wrapped around him like some kind of sparkly python.
It occurs to me, as I stand there dumbstruck in the entrance, that I’m witnessing the collapse of a dangerous man's dignity, one sequin at a time. He’s seated on a chair surrounded by a bevy of Girl Scouts who attend to him like a flock of hyper-caffeinated hummingbirds; one is carefully painting his fingernails a shade of neon teal; another is applying heart-shaped temporary tattoos up and down his forearms; a third is clipping tiny, sparkly barrettes into the tangles of his hair; and another is brushing blush onto his cheekbones.
I freeze. For a minute I just stand there, jaw slack, taking it all in. I’m not even sure if I should laugh, run, or call for backup.
“Breaker, what in the world is going on here?”
He startles, as if coming out of a coma.
“Oh shi—pwreck,” he sputters, catching himself in front of the crowd of young witnesses.
“Watch yourself, Mr. James.” Officer Maya Alvarado stands nearby with her arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it might fly off her face.
“What is all this?” I ask, covering my mouth, torn between shock and uncontrollable laughter.
One of the Girl Scouts beams up at me. “Mr. James is helping us build our parade float! And we needed to test our outfits! And our makeup! He’s helping us with all that, too.”
“Mr. James?” I choke out. “Helping with… makeup?”
Breaker glares at the child, who has absolutely zero fear and sticks her tongue out at him. “I agreed to fix the float’s structural frame. The rest was not part of the contract.”
“You never asked about the contract,” the girl says sweetly, brushing more glitter on him. “You just said you were here to help. That was your mistake, and it’s too late to back out now. Besides, why are you mad? You look pretty.”
I lose it, doubling over, my hands holding my stomach. “You do look so pretty.”
Breaker glares at me, even though there’s pink shimmer on his nose. “Sparrow. Don’t. You. Dare.”
I straighten, wiping tears. “This is adorable. You know I really love you, right? Especially when you’re so pretty.”
The girls erupt collectively. “Ooooooohhhhhhhhhhh!”
Breaker blushes — actually blushes, which is surprising to see beneath the glitter and makeup on his cheeks — and says, “I love you too, but if you tell anyone in the club about this, I’ll…” He stops, looking at the girls’ expectant little faces. “I’ll… tickle you.”
One girl turns to another and whispers loudly. “He doesn’t really mean tickling. He’s talking about something else.”
The second girl whispers back. “What is it?”
The first girl shrugs, her sash saying “TROOP COOKIE BOSS” moving up and down with her shoulders. “I dunno. I’ve heard my mom and dad doing it. He always calls her a bad girl. They keep the door closed, but it sounds like my mom likes it.”
“Oh, that sounds fun. I want to be tickled, too.”
I clap a hand over my mouth. “Girls, behave yourselves.”
I walk toward Breaker, stepping over sequins and glue sticks, and loop my arms around his glittery, boa-wrapped neck.
“You really don’t mean it about the club,” he says.
“It’s too late,” I say. “Your worst nightmare has come true. Everyone in the MC already knows. How do you think I found you? Havoc and Bones were talking.”
A Girl Scout nearby gasps. “Bones? I hope he comes here! He’s handsome.”
Another girl snorts. “No way, his face looks like a butt. Hammer though… I want to tickle him.”
Breaker gives me a searching look. “Everyone knows? Oh…” He stops himself, a heroic effort playing out behind his eyes. “…poop.”
Officer Alvarado frowns. “Language.”
“Are you serious?” Breaker says.
“I’m serious enough that I’ll tell your president to add another day to volunteering time. How would you like that?”
“Not at all… ma’am,” Breaker says.
I brush aside some of the glitter, move the boa, and shift the ruins of his dignity, then I slide my arms around his sparkly neck and kiss him — slow and sweet — getting glitter all over my lips, my cheeks, probably my soul.
“I love you,” I murmur, breathless. “Even when you’re covered in glitter.” I kiss him again. “No, let me correct that: especially when you’re covered in glitter.”
Breaker groans like a dying warrior, which makes the Girl Scouts squeal with delight.
I turn toward them with a grin, my hand still resting on Breaker’s glitter-coated chest.
“You know what?” I say brightly. “What do you say we get back to work, girls? Maybe I can show you some other makeup tricks I learned.”
The entire troop gasps as if I just announced free ponies, while Breaker’s eyes widen in slow horror. “No, wait. Riley, you don’t want to do this.”
But it’s too late. The Girl Scouts swarm him like sparkly, hyperactive piranhas, shrieking with joy.
Officer Alvarado laughs. “Congratulations, Riley. You’re officially the troop’s new beauty consultant.”
Breaker shoots me a look that promises retribution — warm, loving retribution, and probably a thorough tickling — and I just laugh, lifting my shoulders.
Because this man is mine. Even in glitter.
Especially in glitter.