Chapter 7 #2
“Relax, city mouse. All our prospects get vetted. I had to ask.” Laughter followed. “But Bronc? Man hasn’t brought a woman to the compound since… hell, since Bush was president. Which one? That would be W, but still a long damn time, girlfriend.”
“Honestly, will anyone think it’s weird?
Won’t they think I’m too young? I mean, I don’t care.
He’s amazing in every way. What am I even talking about?
Look, Maddie, there is no way your brother would have the slightest interest in a girl like me.
He’s so… and I’m just…” I looked down at myself.
All the shortcomings my mother had ever pointed out came to my mind.
“He’s just being nice. Trying to help me make friends. ”
“Uh huh. Keep thinkin’ that little mouse. You’re a sweetheart. Girl with a light around you like you got, you don’t need help makin’ friends.”
The stylist, Tina, winced when she examined my roots. “Honey, who hurt you?”
Layers of black rinsed away in a sink stained coral from decades of rinse cycles. She massaged my temples, calluses catching on baby hairs. “Your natural gold’s gorgeous. Like honey on toast.”
Foils were folded across my scalp by the dozens. Maddie sprawled on the pedicure throne, scrolling through Grindr. “Blue eyes, six-two, tribal tats—swipe left. Ooh, bearded bear in the wife-beater…”
Mirrors told pretty lies here. The woman staring back at me wore borrowed confidence—golden balayage framing cheekbones I’d forgotten existed. Maddy wolf-whistled. “Fuck me sideways. Bronc’s gonna swallow his tongue.”
He was leaning against his King Ranch when we emerged. The dying sun caught silver strands in his close-trimmed beard as his gaze traveled from my restored highlights to the artfully torn jeans and a black tank top Maddy had produced from her backseat.
“Well?” I twirled, heart jackhammering. “Still look like I rob graves?”
Bronc’s fingers ran through my golden beach waves that thank goodness didn’t need more than a trim, bangs and all. His voice was just above a whisper. “Ma was right. An angel in the flesh.” His hand traced over my neck as he turned to open the door for me.
The clubhouse throbbed with bass notes and body heat.
Neon beer signs baptized strangers in cerulean and crimson light.
A redhead with neck tattoos handed me a mason jar of something that smelled like rocket fuel and good times.
“Prospect special. Drink three and you’ll let Doc here pierce anything.
” I looked over at the handsome giant with horn-rimmed glasses, looking a bit like Clark Kent who gave me a small head nod.
Bronc’s hand settled between my shoulder blades as names and faces blurred.
Some guy named Jester showed off his new nipple rings, Chainsaw debated barbecue techniques with a woman breastfeeding twins, Gator arm-wrestled a teenager by the pool table.
My laugh sounded foreign, buoyant. Every man was brawny, tatted, and had muscles for days.
It was a far cry from every gala and charity ball I’d attended in New York. But it was honest.
Maddie materialized with tequila shots. “To fresh starts!”
The burn down my throat kindled something reckless. I licked salt from my knuckles as Bronc’s ringed fingers tightened around his own glass. His gaze lingered where citrus juice glistened on my lower lip.
“Easy, boss.” Maddie elbowed him. “She’s gotta work tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“True story! I forgot. Drink up, Julia!”
The room tilted just enough to make me clutch Bronc’s forearm. Muscled. Strong. Heat radiating through cotton. My hand slid to his wrist. His pulse jumped beneath my fingertips—a wild thing caged.
Somewhere beyond the compound walls, wolves began singing. My skin prickled like static before lightning strikes.
Bronc leaned close, whiskey and mint washing over me. “Still think they’re scary?”
I watched his throat work as he swallowed. “I’m starting to like dangerous things.”
Across the crowded room, a woman with electric-blue braids balanced twin toddlers on her hips while arguing with Chainsaw about the merits of mesquite versus hickory wood chips.
Her laugh boomed through the chatter. “Sugar, if you can’t smoke a brisket proper, just admit you’re better at changing diapers. ”
Maddie pressed another drink into my hand—something fruity this time, condensation bleeding through the napkin. “That’s T-Bone’s old lady, Roxy. Don’t let the mom act fool you. She once stabbed a guy through the hand with a meat thermometer.”
“Overcooked steak?”
“Improper use of dry rub.”
A snort escaped me before I could swallow it down. Bronc’s low chuckle vibrated against my shoulder blade where he stood guard behind me. His pinky brushed the nape of neck, just once. Static crackled in the wake of his touch.
Jester sauntered over, silver hoops glinting beneath his open cut. “President’s pet projects always get the good shampoo, huh?” He sniffed loudly near my hair. “Cherry blossoms and bullshit.”
Bronc’s growl shook the floorboards. “Eyes. Hands. Teeth. Keep ‘em to yourself.”
“Relax, Grandpa. Just welcoming committee business.” Jester winked at me, all smiles and mischief. “Word of advice, princess? Never play poker with Gator. Dude’s got a tell involving his—”
A teenage girl vaulted over the couch, combat boots spraying sawdust. “Tell Jester he owes me twenty bucks!”
Jester’s laughter carried over the noise. “Now, Scar, I beat you fair and square!”
I blinked at the jagged line bisecting her left eyebrow. “Your name’s Scar?”
“Birth certificate says Charlotte. Life says otherwise.” She jerked her chin toward the pool table where Gator was teaching a preteen to chalk a cue. “Bet him I could outrun his Harley in wolf form. Short circuit took out his ignition coil at mile three.”
Maddie’s eyes got big and she shook her head at the gorgeous teen, then cut her eyes toward me. “We talked about that, Charlotte.” She told her in a low voice.
“Sorry, Auntie.”
I must have misunderstood what they were saying.
Wolf form must be some kind of motorcycle talk.
The room went a little sideways as someone cranked the stereo.
A Lynyrd Skynyrd riff collided with the clack of billiard balls.
Scar dragged me into a chaotic lesson on Texas Hold ’em, her friends dealing cards onto a grease-stained toolbox by the bar.
My third whiskey sour burned through residual nerves, leaving flushed cheeks and loosened syllables in its wake.
“Pair of queens!” I announced, fanning my cards with mock solemnity.
Scar’s friend slammed his fist on the makeshift table. “Bullshit! She’s bluffing!”
Bronc’s shadow fell across our circle. “Wouldn’t bet on it. Lady’s got a forensic accounting degree.”
Eighteen eyes swiveled toward me. Scar whistled. “You keeping books for the club now?”
“I’m working on the shop's ledgers right now. Trying to make heads or tails of the inventory and all..” The words slipped out smoother than I’d intended, edged with a smirk I didn’t recognize.
Laughter erupted like gunfire. Someone tossed a pretzel at my head. Bronc caught it midair, his smirk mirroring mine. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the flecks of gold in his irises—molten, primal, approving.
Maddie materialized with a platter of smoked ribs, sauce smeared across her leather vest. “Move your felony-in-training ass, Scar. Grown folk talking.” She hip-checked her niece aside, lowering her voice as she handed me a napkin. “Heard you spotted some discrepancies.”
The rib grease turned acrid on my tongue. “Minor ledger issues. Probably input errors.”
“Uh-huh.” She licked sauce off her thumb. “Bronc, tell you we had three bookkeepers quit this year?”
Ice slid down my spine despite the room’s feverish warmth. “That happens sometimes. People move around until they find the right fit.”
I noticed Skeeter hovering in the shadows, listening to our conversation.
“Let’s call it creative differences.” Her gaze drifted to where Jester was arm-wrestling a prospect. “Thing about motorcycle clubs? We prefer problems that can be solved with torque wrenches or tire irons. Spreadsheets…” She shrugged. “Tend to combust.”
Fireworks of pain exploded behind my eyes—memory fragments of shattered laptops, shredded bank statements, Harrison’s polished loafers grinding glass into carpet. My fingers found the small scar on the inside of my arm, raised tissue mapping old punishments.
Bronc’s boot nudged mine under the table. When I glanced up, his gaze locked on me. Safe, his eyes promised. Protected.
The back door crashed open, wind hauling in the scent of rain and distant musk. Wolves harmonized beyond the tree line—a sound that no longer sparked fear, but recognition. My pulse answered in double-time, blood singing with secrets I couldn’t name.
The woman named Roxy appeared at my elbow, one baby gnawing a teething ring shaped like a skull. “They’re calling you, honey.”
“The wolves?”
“Nah. The parts of yourself you’ve been starving.” She adjusted the sleeping toddler on her shoulder. “They ain’t ever wrong.”
Bronc’s hand closed over mine beneath the table. Calluses snagged on my knuckles, anchor and spark combined. Around us, the pack laughed and brawled and lived in Technicolor chaos. For the first time since fleeing New York, I craved rather than cowered.
The realization tasted like freedom and folly. Like tequila and terminal velocity.
Somewhere beyond the compound lights, another wolf howled—longing given sound. Strangely, my throat ached to answer. I took another drink.
Wrecker appeared to my left and tapped Bronc on the shoulder. “Hey boss. Can you meet me in the office for just a minute?”
Hesitation colored his movements. “Only a minute.” He rubbed the back of my neck. “You ok for me to step away?”
Won’t lie. I didn’t want him to. But I’d put on my big-girl panties today. “No worries. Go ahead.” I put on my best ‘I got this’ smile.