Chapter 8 Kya
KYA
Iwake up with paint in my hair, sore thighs, and the deeply uncomfortable knowledge that I made actual sex noises while dry humping a man fully clothed against a freshly painted wall.
Good job, Sullivan. Really keeping it classy.
I groan and flop back on the couch, covering my face with my forearm.
My overalls—now crumpled and stiff with a combination of sweat, paint, and poor decision-making—are balled up in the laundry basket.
Lee’s hoodie—the one he wrapped around me before we left last night—still smells like him.
I bury my face in it, inhaling deeply as if it’s some kind of sinful security blanket.
Which is deranged, frankly. Not to mention I shouldn’t be this moony over a man that made me come so hard I nearly blacked out and then had the audacity to follow me home on his bike but refuse to come in.
He kissed me at the door sweetly, though for a long fucking time, then gently told me to get some sleep.
The bastard.
To say I’m messy and emotionally constipated and apparently real into motorcycle club enforcers with tortured pasts is an understatement. Apparently, I’m gone for Lee Fucking Armstrong.
Damn it.
By the time I get to Devil’s—coffee in hand, hair vaguely tamed—Mercy’s already there, sorting liquor deliveries like the efficient menace she is.
She doesn’t even look up when she says, “You’re late.”
“I’m ten minutes early.”
“For you, that’s late.” She glances over and then straightens. “Whoa. Girl. Spill.”
I blink. “What?”
She snorts. “You’re got the face of someone who’s either had sex, committed a murder, or both.”
“I—what? No. I mean, definitely not a murder.”
Mercy arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Uh huh. Which means you’ve had sex.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Kya, you’re wearing the same dreamy-dead-inside expression I get after three orgasms and a good pepperoni pizza.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Sip my coffee. “You’re deranged.”
“And you’re glowing.” She sets down the bottle of bourbon with a thunk and crosses her arms. “Spill it, Sullivan.”
There’s no point fighting her. Apparently Mercy can smell sex like a bloodhound—a trait I wish I’d known before hiring her. I lean against the bar, trying to act casual. “I may have made out with someone last night.”
She makes a buzzer sound. “Try again. Your skin is glowing, your pupils are dilated, and you’ve got that post-orgasm guilt that screams ‘this man is a bad idea but I want to climb him like a jungle gym.’ Spill it, sister.”
“It was Lee.”
Dead silence. Then—slowly—Mercy grins.
“Oh, babe.”
I slap a hand over my face. “I know!”
“You finally climbed Mount Motorcycle.”
“Mercy!”
She waggles her eyebrows and shimmies her shoulders. “I bet he left tread marks on your soul.”
“I will unplug the jukebox and tell the regulars it’s your fault.”
She holds up her hands in surrender, but her grin doesn’t dim. “So? Was it everything you imagined?”
“Better,” I admit quietly. “But also… complicated.”
“Go on.”
I slump against the bar “Honestly, I’ve never been kissed like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the last woman on Earth and he’s dying to taste the air in my lungs.”
She whistles, fanning herself. “Damn girl. And you? How’d you kiss him?”
I think back to our kiss, flushing. “About the same.”
We stand in silence for a beat.
Finally, she speaks. “This is romantic as hell. Messy, but romantic.”
“Is it? Cause at the moment it just feels confusing and a little overwhelming.”
More than a little, if I’m honest.
“So,” she says, straightening the coasters lying on the bar. “Are you going to talk to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Kya.”
“I don’t want to make it weird.”
Mercy gives me a long look. “Make what weird, exactly?”
“I don’t know! I just… everything!” I wave my hands around to encompass the bar. “I’m only meant to be here for six months, and this is my focus, and I feel like falling for a badass biker is a terrible idea.”
“Sure. Or it could be the best thing you ever do.” She slaps a hand on the bar and pushes off. “Choice is yours.”
She’s right. Of course she is. Last night wasn’t just some sex-adjacent nonsense. Or at least it wasn’t for me.
I glance toward the back hallway—the one with paint still drying on the walls—and sigh.
“You want some unsolicited advice?” Mercy asks, her tone gentler now.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.” She leans against the bar, studying me. “I was married for eight years to a man who was everything I thought I wanted on paper. Stable job, nice house, looked good at dinner parties. Seemed safe.”
I look up, surprised. Mercy’s never mentioned being married.
“What happened?”
“It was suffocating,” she says simply. “He had opinions about everything—what I wore, who I talked to, how I spent my time, where I could work. Made me feel like I was shrinking smaller and smaller until I barely recognized myself. Then I met Jake. He was a traveling musician with tattoos and a motorcycle, and absolutely no business sense whatsoever.”
“Did you leave your husband for him?”
“Nope. I left my husband for me.” She picks up a glass, polishing it absently.
“Jake made me remember what it felt like to laugh, to feel free, to be myself without someone constantly watching and judging. I didn’t realize how controlled my life had become until I met someone who didn’t try to manage every breath I took. ”
“What happened with Jake?”
Her smile is bittersweet. “Nothing. I’m not a cheater. He was simply the catalyst to me recognizing that I needed to change my life. We all deserve happy.”
My throat tightens. “Mercy, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.” She sets down the glass and looks at me directly. “Point is, some people are worth the risk. And from what I saw the other night—the way that man looked at you like you hung the moon—Lee might be one of them.”
I want to argue and point out all the reasons this is complicated, but the words stick in my throat.
“He’s not going anywhere, Kya,” she continues. “This is his home. The question is whether you’re brave enough to see where this goes, or if you’re going to run back to the safety of Portland.”
The accusation stings because it hits too close to home. “I’m not running.”
“Aren’t you?” She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been back how long? A few weeks? In that time you’ve bought a bar, signed a lease, but you’re still talking about this being temporary. Sounds like denial to me.”
Before I can respond, she pushes off the bar. “I’m going to finish the inventory. Think about what I said.”
She disappears into the back, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a growing knot in my stomach.
The front door chimes, and I look up to see three women enter.
One with dark brown-red hair that catches the light and an edge to her that screams “don’t mess with me.
” The other has long dark hair pulled back in a messy braid and warm eyes that match her smile.
Behind them struts a gorgeous redhead in a top so low-cut I’m amazed nothing’s fallen out.
“You must be Kya,” the “don’t mess with me” woman says, approaching the bar with a surprisingly warm smile. “I’m Andi, Hawk’s wife. This is Poppy—she’s engaged to Axel.”
The redhead slides onto a barstool with feline grace. “And I’m Ginger. Tank’s old lady, resident troublemaker, and the one who’s been dying to meet the girl who’s got Lee Armstrong twisted in knots.”
I recognize their names immediately. Hawk’s the Sergeant at Arms, Axel’s the Road Captain, and Tank’s the Vice President. These are the women who came before me in this world of leather and loyalty.
“Ladies,” I say, straightening. “What can I get you?”
“Just Diet Cokes,” Poppy says, settling onto a barstool. Her smile is just as warm as Andi’s, and I like them both immediately. “But we’re not here to drink. We’re here to meet you.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ginger interrupts. “I’ll take a shot of tequila. It’s five o’clock somewhere, and mommy needs her medicine.”
Andi rolls her eyes. “It’s two in the afternoon.”
“Your point?” Ginger winks at me. “Pour yourself one too, honey. We need to discuss how you’ve got that boy so wrapped around your finger he’s practically gift-wrapped.”
I pour their drinks, hyper-aware that I’m being evaluated. “Oh?”
“Don’t worry, everything is so far, so good,” Andi says, accepting her glass. “We’re not here to give you the third degree. We just wanted to invite you to a party at the clubhouse tonight. Nothing fancy, just family getting together.”
Ginger knocks back her shot and leans forward, giving me an eyeful of cleavage. “Translation, the boys will get drunk, we’ll gossip, and someone will definitely end up naked in the pool. Last time it was our Prospect, Steel. Poor boy still hasn’t recovered.”
I’m intrigued but I still frown, confused. “Why?”
They exchange a look. “Why not? Parties are fun, Lee is hot, and we want to get to know you.”
“Plus,” Ginger adds, wiggling her eyebrows, “I have a bet with Tank about whether you two will sneak off to neck before or after dinner. I’ve got fifty on before.”
“Ginger!” Poppy gasps, but she’s fighting a laugh.
That pulls a reluctant smile from me.
Andi leans in a little. “Also, the food’s going to be amazing. Come for the eye-candy, stay for the brisket.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come,” Ginger purrs. “There’s nothing like watching grown men try to prove who’s tougher after a few beers. Last party, Bones tried to bench press his bike.”
Before I can respond, the door to the storeroom swings open and Mercy strides out, a clipboard in one hand.
“You should go,” she says, pointing her pen at me. “All work and no play makes Kya a bad boss.”
“I can’t, the bar—”
“I’ll cover your shift tonight.”
“Mercy, no.”
“You heard me.” She glances up, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’ve been working nonstop since you took this place on. Take the damn night off. Go flirt with your man, eat too much food, have fun for once.”
“And if you’re really lucky, you’ll get to see Lee without his shirt.” Ginger gives a little shimmy that has her hair and breasts shaking. “Trust me, it’s worth the price of admission.”
Andi grins. Poppy lifts her Diet Coke like a toast.
Seeing that I’m outnumbered, I give in.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go.” I lean against the bar, glancing between them. “But there’s one problem.”
“And that is?” Poppy asks.
“What am I going to wear?”
Ginger’s eyes light up like Christmas morning. “Oh honey, now you’re speaking my language. How do you feel about leather?”