Chapter Twenty-Four
Molly
The Noble Fir is crowded tonight, a weekday in name but a Friday in every other sense: the wood floors tremble with the steady march of boots, the lights behind the bar gleam, and the air hangs heavy with the scent of sweat, hops, and that particular edge of ozone that only comes before a fight.
There’s talk and laughter and the pulse of classic rock — AC/DC, Skynyrd, and, because Tractor is manning the jukebox again, a run of the darkest outlaw country you can imagine.
I can’t decide if the playlist is an improvement or a sign the world’s finally decaying at the roots.
I’m behind the bar with my hair up and my patience thin, wiping down the same clean spot like it owes me money.
I pour a beer for Reaper without him asking, load up a double rye for Bones before he even sits, and pour a glass of red for Alessia.
I do it all on muscle memory, because there’s static in my wiring.
Every time I pause to catch my breath, I see Evan’s profile in the mid-morning haze, hear his voice in the humming silence of my apartment, feel the press of his palm where he cupped my jaw.
It’s a trick of memory — his hands, his words, the way he spun his pain into a neat package of dry humor.
I’m not used to letting someone get that close.
That it was him, of all people, is a splinter I can’t shake.
I can’t stop hearing his voice. I have my sister. She needs me.
June.
The name sticks in me like a splinter. I know what I’m supposed to do with that kind of splinter: pull it out, burn it, move on. But instead, I work it deeper, thinking about him so much that he’s started to crowd out the other ghosts.
My hands pause over the cash drawer.
I hate this.
I hate that I care.
I hate that I’m considering doing the one thing I swore I wouldn’t: mix my personal life with club business.
“Molly,” Mayhem leans over the bar, grinning like he’s got a secret. “You look like you’ve got murder in your heart, Molly. Not that I mind, but it’s a little early for homicide, isn’t it?”
“You’re lucky that I’m thinking,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s why you’re still alive. Because if I was acting, I would probably cut your face off with a broken bottle.”
He presses a hand to his chest like I wounded him. “Wow. Hurtful.”
“Good.”
He laughs and drifts away, immediately distracting Havoc by flicking a straw wrapper at his ear. The man flinches as if he’s been shot. Typical.
Riley breezes past, balancing a tray stacked with empties and a basket of fries.
She’s got her hair in a messy bun and a baby-blue tank top that somehow makes her look like she belongs in a surf town, not here in the land of flannel and black leather.
She glances at me, does a double take, and then sets her tray down.
“You good?” she asks, her voice low but insistent, as if she doesn’t trust the world to mind its own business. “You’ve been… stabby.”
“I’m always stabby.”
“Yeah, but this is, like, advanced stabby. Collegiate level. With lectures and term papers.”
“Are you saying you’d like your final exam right now?”
She grins, crunching the fry, then whirls away back to work.
“Love you too!” she calls over her shoulder.
I hate that my mouth twitches.
I look toward the office door, the one Claire disappears into whenever she needs a second away from the testosterone circus.
Rabid’s ol’ lady isn’t officially “in charge” of anything here, but everyone treats her like she is — because she is; Claire’s the woman who can quiet a room with a glance and make hardened men feel like toddlers with sticky hands.
I hesitate and hate that uncertain sensation roiling my chest. If I ask her for this…
If I bring Evan into their world…
I’m putting a target on him. This life is more dangerous than he realizes, and even being in the orbit of the Twisted Devils brings consequences.
But then I picture June somewhere struggling, and Evan’s voice goes softer in my head.
Always.
I set down the bottle with a hard clack.
“Alright,” I mutter. “Fuck it. Fine.”
I wipe my hands on a bar towel, the motion more force than necessary, exorcising nervous energy, and square my shoulders as if I’m about to walk into a courtroom instead of a converted office suite at the back of the Noble Fir.
The door is cracked. I tap twice, knuckle to wood, not quite polite.
Two sharp raps to telegraph I’m not afraid of the person on the other side, even though that’s a lie.
“Come in,” Claire calls, calm as ever. Her voice is always like that: leveled, a precise ratio of warmth and threat, the way a good whiskey burns in the chest but never tips you into oblivion.
I step in, and the air feels denser. Claire’s at the desk, posture crisp, her hair roped back in some impossible bun she can construct with one hand while reading the Wall Street Journal with the other. She’s reviewing a ledger, pen poised. The room smells faintly of coffee and leather.
“We need to talk.”
Claire’s mouth curves. “You look like you’re about to punch somebody.”
“That’s… not inaccurate.”
She sets the pen down, folds her hands. “Talk to me, Molly.”
I hesitate, which is stupid, because I didn’t come in here to be coy. I came in here because I’m a moron with feelings.
“I need to ask you for a favor.”
Claire’s eyes sharpen instantly. Not unkind. Just alert. “Okay. So ask.”
The sentence is simple, but it hits my nerves anyway; I don’t ask for favors; I don’t ask for help; I don’t ask for anything that can be used against me later.
I hate this. I hate every millisecond of it.
My throat feels tight, so I swallow. “It’s… about someone I know.”
“Someone you know,” she echoes, disassembling the phrase as if it’s a grenade. “Keep going.”
“There’s a guy,” I say, and cringe at my lack of subtlety.
“A guy,” she repeats, flat, her expression giving nothing away.
I glare at her, not because I’m actually angry, but because I need a shield. “Don’t make that face at me.”
She doesn’t blink. “What face?”
“The one where you’re about to make a joke about my poor taste in men.”
Claire does smile then, but it doesn’t touch her eyes, which remain sharp and focused. “Molly, who is it?”
I exhale hard through my nose. “His name’s Evan.”
That makes her pause — just a fraction of a second. Like she’s filing it away.
“Evan,” Claire repeats. “Okay. Why are you asking me about this Evan?”
Because he stole my heart twice, once when we were teenagers and again now, when my heart is nothing but scar tissue.
Because he cooked me dinner and made me feel cared for, and he said my name like it was a secret worth keeping.
Because he’s a mess but he’s trying, and because he looks at me like I’m the only person on earth worth telling the truth to.
Instead, I say, “He’s… looking for work.”
Claire’s gaze doesn’t move. “What kind of work?”
“Repairs,” I say, the word suddenly seeming inadequate. “Handyman stuff. Construction. He can fix pretty much anything.”
Claire tilts her head. “And why do you care?”
My jaw clenches. If it were anyone else, I’d stonewall, but Claire is dangerous in that way: she makes you want to be honest, or at least less of a liar.
“He’s got a sister,” I say, voice thin. “She’s… in trouble.”
That does something to Claire’s expression. It’s the faintest flicker, but I know I’ve hit a nerve.
She folds her arms. “Tell me about the sister.”
I shrug, playing it casual, even though my heart is ping-ponging off my ribs. “June. She’s all he’s got. Their parents died when they were young, and he’s been supporting her since. She’s got some… issues. But he’s trying to keep her together.”
Claire’s gaze drops to her hands, then returns, steady as ever. “How well do you know him?”
My stomach dips.
I hate this question because it’s the right one, and the one I can’t bear to answer.
I open my mouth and the truth tries to come out — not well enough. Not nearly enough. Not enough because I want to know him more, deeper, because he fills me with feelings that scare me to my core and make me believe things about myself that seem so contrary to who I am.
Instead, I lie a little.
“Well enough.” I hope it sounds more convincing than it feels.
Claire’s eyebrow lifts again. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
“You’re asking me to put him on our radar.”
“I’m asking if there’s any legit work,” I push back. “Roof, fence, anything. Paid. Real. Not charity.”
She regards me for a long moment. “Why not just tell him to go to the employment office? The city’s always looking for manual labor.”
“Because…” I start, then stop. Because I already said I’d see what I could do, and my pride won’t let me back out. Because he looked at me as if I mattered. Because I hate the idea of him worrying alone.
Because I love him.
I force my voice into something steadier. “Because I’m asking you.”
I can tell she’s weighing this, not just the words but the subtext, the history between us, the way my hands keep fidgeting with the bar towel I forgot to drop.
Claire’s face softens, a micro-expression, so fast it’s almost invisible. “You know this isn’t a small favor, right?”
I nod, but I don’t trust my voice.
She leans forward, elbows on the desk, and suddenly the mood in the room shifts. “If he’s trouble, I need to know now.”
I swallow. “He’s not trouble.”
She’s so still, so deliberate. “Everyone says that, until it is.”
“I’m not everyone.”
She nods. “That’s true.” She smiles. “You’re trouble all by yourself.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Claire—”
She holds up a hand. “I’m not saying no.”
My breath catches.
“But,” she continues, “I’m not saying yes yet, either.”
“So, what are you saying?”
Claire studies me for a long moment, then reaches for her phone and makes a note.
“I’m saying I’ll ask around about upcoming projects.
If there’s something, we’ll decide how to handle it.
” Suspicion sits in her stare like it’s made itself comfortable.
“And I’m saying,” she adds, “you’re walking a line. So don’t pretend you’re not.”
I swallow. “I understand.”
Claire’s eyes soften by half a degree — barely. “Is there something more, Molly? Are you okay?”
“No,” I say. “But I’m functional.”
“Good,” she replies. “Go be functional. I’ll talk to my ol’ man.”
I nod once and turn toward the door.
“Molly,” Claire says before I can leave.
I pause.
“Are you sure about this?”
I look back at her, heart beating so hard I can feel my tongue vibrate. I swallow, fight for words, for air.
“I trust him, Claire,” I say, and even to my own ears it sounds like I’m trying to convince myself.
Claire just nods.
I leave the office and walk back behind the bar like nothing happened and my hands aren’t shaking.
Riley glances at me as I grab a bottle. “You look like you just walked out of a lecture. Was it the collegiate-level stabby kind?”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
She grins. “Love you too.”
I pour three more drinks on autopilot, my hands moving through the motions while my brain churns like a cement mixer full of broken glass.
The noise of the bar washes over me — laughter, the crack of pool balls, someone shouting about a bad beat — but it all feels distant, muffled, like I'm underwater and everyone else is on the surface.
I asked Claire for help.
I put Evan's name in her mouth, in Rabid's ear, in the machinery of a world that chews people up and spits out bones — and I just fed it someone I love.