Chapter 7 Lee
LEE
The night air bites through my leather as I ride, the wind doing nothing to cool the anger still simmering under my skin. Hours after storming out of Devil’s, my knuckles still ache from gripping the handlebars too tight, my jaw sore from clenching.
Stubborn. Infuriating. Impossible woman.
I’d spent the afternoon at the clubhouse, going over security plans with Stone and Axel, trying to focus on club business instead of replaying that argument in my head. But Kya’s words kept echoing, sharp and defensive.
I don’t need your protection.
Yes, she fucking does. The whole damn town needs the MC’s protection right now. And maybe she doesn’t want it, but that’s just too bad. I’m not willing to see her hurt again.
The roads are quiet at this hour, most of Stoneheart already tucked in for the night. I take the long way home, letting the engine’s rumble work through some of my frustration. The cold helps clear my head, and with each mile, my anger cools into something closer to regret.
I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Shouldn’t have pushed so hard.
But damn it, doesn’t she understand what she’s up against? Summit isn’t some small-time operation she can face down with that sharp tongue and stubborn pride. They’re dangerous—connected—and they don’t take kindly to people standing in their way.
People like Kya.
I slow as I approach the familiar intersection, automatically glancing toward Devil’s. The place should be dark—it’s well past closing—but light spills from the windows, warm against the night’s chill. Her car sits alone in the lot, the dented Subaru yet another relic she’d bought off Devil.
Before I can think better of it, I’m pulling in, killing the engine in front of the bar.
Just checking, I tell myself. Making sure everything’s locked up tight. That’s all.
The front door is locked when I try it, but I can hear music drifting faintly from inside, something old and bluesy that I can’t quite place. I move around to the back entrance and find it unlocked, a sliver of light visible beneath.
Not smart, Kya. Not with Summit circling.
I push the door open carefully, alert for any sign of trouble. The music grows louder—Etta James, I realize—along with the distinctive smell of fresh paint.
I follow the scent down the back hallway, where I find her.
Kya stands on a stepladder, painting the upper portion of the wall a deep forest green.
She’s traded her usual jeans and top for paint-splattered overalls rolled up at the cuffs, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun.
There’s a smudge of paint on her cheek, and her bare feet peek out from beneath the frayed denim.
She looks younger like this, softer somehow. Less the defiant bar owner and more the girl I remember—the one who used to sit cross-legged on our porch swing with Emma, sharing secrets and laughter.
Something tightens in my chest at the sight.
I must make some noise because she turns, startled, nearly dropping her brush.
“Jesus!” She presses a hand to her chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Door was unlocked,” I say by way of explanation. “Not exactly smart with Summit sniffing around.”
Her expression closes off, walls going up so fast I can almost hear them slam into place. “I’m fine.”
“Painting at midnight is your definition of ‘fine’?”
“It’s therapeutic.” She turns back to her work, pointedly ignoring me. “What do you want, Lee?”
Good question. What am I doing here? Checking on her? Picking another fight?
Apologizing?
“Your car was the only one in the lot,” I say, which isn’t really an answer. “Wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“Everything’s perfect.” Her tone suggests the opposite.
I watch her paint for a moment, her movements precise despite the tension I can see in her shoulders. “You’re doing the whole hallway yourself?”
“That was the plan.” She doesn’t look at me. “Unless the painting police are here to stop me.”
I bite back a retort, remembering how well that approach worked earlier. Instead, I shrug out of my cut, folding it carefully and setting it on a nearby chair where it won’t get splattered. “You got another brush?”
That gets her attention. She glances over her shoulder, surprise evident in her expression. “You’re offering to help?”
“Unless you’d rather I leave.”
She studies me for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide if this is some kind of trick. “There’s an extra brush in the paint tray. Grab the smaller ladder if you want the top half.”
I do as instructed, setting up the ladder a few feet down from hers. We work in silence for a while, the only sounds are the soft music and the rhythmic swish of brushes against the wall. The quiet isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s not hostile either. Just… cautious.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally, focusing on a stubborn corner. “For earlier.”
She doesn’t respond right away, and I don’t push. Just keep painting, giving her the space to reply or not.
“Me too,” she says eventually, so quietly I almost miss it. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that.”
“You had every right to be pissed,” I concede. “I was being overbearing.”
“You were being protective,” she corrects, dipping her brush in the paint. “I’m just not used to that.”
The simple admission lands like a weight on my chest. Of course she’s not used to it. Her mother was barely functional most days, and as far as I know, Patty Sullivan never had a relationship that wasn’t either abusive or negligent. Who would have protected Kya growing up?
“Why’d you really come back?” I ask. “To Stoneheart, I mean. Besides dealing with your mom’s estate.”
She’s quiet for so long I think she might not answer. Then she sighs, setting down her brush.
“I guess I was looking for something.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, gaze fixed on some distant point.
“Connection, maybe. Belonging. I’ve moved around so much with my work, so I’ve never really found that.
As messed up as this town was for me growing up, it’s still the only place that ever felt like home. ”
The admission feels raw, vulnerable in a way Kya rarely allows herself to be.
“Why’d you buy the bar?”
She hesitates. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
I roll another layer onto the wall. “Seems like you’d be running the other way from here, what with all the bad memories.”
She shrugs. “Not all of them are bad. Some are worth keeping.” Finally, she glances my way. “What about you? Why’d you stay? Join the club?”
It’s my turn to consider the question. “Same reason, I guess. Belonging. Purpose.” I dip my brush, focusing on the task. “After the army, I was… adrift. Couldn’t figure out where I fit anymore. The club gave me that back.”
“Does Emma ever visit?” she asks, changing the subject slightly.
“Christmas. Sometimes Thanksgiving.” I shake my head, remembering my sister’s last whirlwind visit. “She’s always in a rush to get back to the city, though. This place is too small for her now.”
“But not for you.”
“Never was.” I glance over at her. “Some of us are built for small towns. For community. For roots.”
Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe. Understanding. “Yeah. I tried the city thing. Had the fancy apartment, the IKEA furniture, the whole nine yards. But it never felt…”
“Real,” I finish for her.
“Exactly.” Her smile is small but genuine, the first one I’ve seen all night. “Nothing felt permanent. Just… temporary.”
We fall back into silence, but it’s lighter now, the tension easing with each stroke of our brushes. I find myself watching her when she’s not looking, noticing the way she bites her lip in concentration, the curve of her neck as she reaches up, the stray wisps of hair curling against her skin.
Dangerous territory, Armstrong.
I clear my throat. “So what’s the plan for this place? Besides turning it green?”
She glances around the hallway. “Fresh paint, some new fixtures, maybe update the bathrooms eventually. Nothing too fancy, I want to keep the soul of it intact. Just… freshen it up a bit.”
“Suits it. How did you know the color to choose?” I ask, nodding toward the brush in her hand. Her painting style is all instinct—no tape, no measuring, just bold strokes and confidence. It’s kind of hot.
“Gut instinct, mostly. I don’t really overthink it. Just stand in the room until it tells me what it wants.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The room talks to you?”
She grins at me. “In its own way. Every space has a mood, you know? Energy. History. My job is to coax that out and give it something to work with.”
“Your job?” I echo. “This isn’t just a hobby?”
“Nope,” she says, stepping down from the ladder and stretching her back, revealing a stripe of skin between the hem of her tank and the dip in the side of the waistband of her overalls. “I flip houses.”
That pulls me up short. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Started a few years back in Portland. Saved every penny I had, worked three jobs at once—barista in the morning, waitress at night, part-time admin in between. Took me years to get a deposit together.”
I let out a low whistle. “That’s… damn impressive.”
She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but I can tell she’s proud. She should be. “It was hard. But once I bought my first place and flipped it, I got hooked. There’s something about taking this broken thing that others have discarded and turning it into a beautiful home again.”
“Is that why you bought Devil’s?”
She tilts her head, considering. “Maybe. I think I saw something worth saving. Something that still had good bones. Plus… it was my mom’s favorite place. For better or worse.”
She pauses, a strange look crossing her face.
“Actually, I think this is my way of feeling close to her,” she says slowly, more to herself than to me.
“When she was alive, I couldn’t fix her.
But working here, it feels good to be in the place she loved, even if that love was a toxic one.
” She shakes her head. “That’s silly, right?
That I should invest in the place an alcoholic loved best? ”