Chapter 2
TWO
RAVEN “RAE” WILDER
The door swings shut behind the three idiots and for a second the whole bar goes quiet like someone hit pause on the room.
Conversations hang half-finished, a pool cue hovers over the table near the back, and Wayne exhales the kind of breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for ten minutes straight.
I keep wiping the same section of the counter even though it’s already clean, because sometimes pretending everything’s normal is the fastest way to make a room believe it.
Wayne rubs a hand down his face and mutters, “You shouldn’t talk to them like that.”
I glance over at him, lifting one shoulder in a shrug while I keep the rag moving over the wood. “They shouldn’t come in here acting like they own the place.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That is exactly the point,” I tell him, finally dropping the rag into the sink before grabbing another glass from the rack behind me.
The towel in my hand moves in slow circles while I dry it, partly because it needs drying and partly because it gives my hands something to do.
“You start giving men like that an inch and next thing you know they’re measuring the place for curtains and arguing about where the furniture should go. ”
Wayne shakes his head like he’s already tired of this argument, which is fair because we’ve had it twice this week already and neither one of us has changed our mind about it.
His mouth pulls down at the corners and he looks older than he did ten minutes ago, the lines around his eyes deeper under the harsh bar lights.
“Rae, you don’t know what those guys are capable of.”
I snort quietly and keep polishing the glass like the conversation isn’t anything serious. “I know exactly what they’re capable of. They’re capable of walking into a bar and hoping everyone inside is too polite to tell them to get lost.”
A couple of the regulars down the counter chuckle into their beers, shoulders shaking as they try not to laugh too loud. They’ve been drinking here long enough to know how these conversations usually go, and they also know better than to get in the middle of them.
Wayne doesn’t laugh.
“That’s not funny,” he says, his voice flat. “Those guys are trouble.”
I lean both hands on the bar and meet his eyes across the counter, the joking tone slipping out of my voice. “Yeah. I noticed.”
For a moment he just looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether to keep arguing or let it go. Eventually he sighs and shakes his head again, the fight draining out of his shoulders in the slow way it does when he knows he’s not going to change my mind.
“You’re going to get yourself hurt one day.”
“Not tonight,” I say.
The music picks back up and the room slowly settles into its normal rhythm again.
Someone restarts the pool game near the back wall, the sharp crack of the cue ball echoing across the room before the low murmur of conversation fills in around it.
One of the truckers sitting at the bar waves his empty bottle at me, and I grab another beer from the cooler before sliding it across the counter toward him without even looking down.
The regular noise of the bar spreads back into the space where the tension had been sitting a minute ago, like water filling in a hole.
But I’m still watching the door.
Because those guys didn’t leave angry enough for it to be over.
And because I’ve been working in bars long enough to know the difference between a bluff and a promise.
I grab another glass from the rack and start drying it when movement near the back wall catches my eye.
The quiet guy who came in earlier is standing up from his table, dropping a few folded bills onto the wood before pushing his chair back.
He moves like he knows exactly where he’s going and doesn’t feel the need to rush about it.
He hasn’t said a word since he walked in.
Hasn’t looked like he needed to.
Most people don’t notice him at all, which is funny because he’s hard to miss once you actually look at him.
He’s tall enough that the top of his head nearly lines up with the hanging light fixtures, with broad shoulders under a dark jacket that looks worn but solid.
There’s a stillness about him that makes people step around him without realizing why they’re doing it, the same way water moves around a rock sitting in the middle of a stream.
But I noticed him the second he walked in.
Guys like that don’t sit in bars unless they’re watching something.
And he’s been watching the whole time.
Our eyes meet again as he passes the end of the bar.
His expression doesn’t change and he doesn’t slow down, but there’s something there behind his gaze that makes the hairs along the back of my neck lift slightly.
It isn’t curiosity or drunken interest or anything like that.
It’s something quieter. Something steadier.
Focus.
Like he already made a decision about something and the rest of the night is just catching up to it.
Then he pushes the door open and disappears outside.
I watch the door swing shut behind him, the neon light flickering briefly across the glass before the room swallows the moment.
“Who was that?” one of the regulars asks from two stools down.
I shrug and go back to drying the glass. “No idea.”
But that’s not entirely true.
Because the way he watched those guys earlier wasn’t curiosity.
It was an evaluation.
And when the three idiots walked out the door, he followed them.
Which means one of two things is about to happen in my parking lot.
Either those men are about to learn a valuable lesson…
Or the quiet guy out there is about to regret sticking his nose in someone else’s business.
I set the glass down and wipe my hands on the towel before glancing toward the front window.
The neon beer sign buzzes softly against the dark glass, and beyond it the parking lot sits under a couple weak streetlights that barely push back the night.
Shadows stretch across the gravel, and the shape of a motorcycle leans under one of the lamps like it’s waiting for something.
For a moment I seriously consider stepping outside just to see what happens, because curiosity has always been one of my worst personality traits and this town doesn’t give me a lot of entertainment after dark.
Then Wayne clears his throat behind me.
“Rae.”
I turn and look at him.
He jerks his head toward the end of the bar where three guys are waving for drinks, their empty bottles clinking against the counter while they wait.
“Customers.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say.
I grab three bottles from the cooler and slide them across the counter toward the waiting hands, but part of my attention stays on the front door while I work.
I’ve been standing behind this bar since I was sixteen years old, and The Rust Nail is the only place that has ever really felt like home.
Wayne might be a grumpy old man who complains about everything from the price of beer to the music on the jukebox, but he’s also the man who handed a runaway kid a broom, a room upstairs, and a chance to stay when nobody else gave a damn whether she had somewhere to sleep that night.
He never asked questions about where I came from or why I looked like I hadn’t eaten in two days. He just told me to sweep the floors and keep the place clean, and after that he started teaching me how to run the bar like I belonged here.
So yeah, I’m protective of him. And I’m not about to let three strangers stroll into The Rust Nail and try to take that away from him. Which means if the quiet guy out in my parking lot is about to cause trouble…He’d better win.
I set another round of beers on the bar and try to focus on the job in front of me, but my attention keeps drifting toward the door like a dog hearing something outside it can’t quite see.
The jukebox hums along with some old rock song and the regulars start talking again like nothing happened, but the feeling in my chest won’t settle down.
Curiosity has always been my worst trait, and tonight it’s practically yelling at me.
I last about thirty seconds before giving up.
“I’m taking a break,” I say, grabbing the rag and tossing it into the sink.
Wayne doesn’t even look up from the register. “You just took one.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You leaned on the bar for twelve seconds.”
“That doesn’t count.”
He finally glances at me over the top of his glasses, already suspicious. “Rae.”
I point a thumb toward the back hallway. “Bathroom.”
His eyes narrow because we both know that’s a lie.
“You’re going to stick your nose in something that’s not your business.”
I flash him my sweetest smile. “You raised me better than that.”
Wayne sighs the long suffering sigh of a man who has been dealing with my nonsense for a decade. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”
“No promises.”
Before he can say anything else, I slip out from behind the bar and head down the hallway that leads to the kitchen and the back door. The sounds of the bar fade behind me as I push through the metal door and step outside into the cool night air.
The back lot of The Rust Nail is dim except for one crooked streetlight that throws a weak yellow glow over the gravel. The smell of motor oil and dust hangs in the air, and somewhere in the distance a dog barks once before going quiet again.
I stop just inside the shadow of the building.
And there they are.
The three idiots from earlier are standing about twenty feet away near the edge of the lot, but they’re not alone anymore.
The quiet guy from the bar is standing in front of them with his back to me.
Up close he looks even bigger than he did inside.
Broad shoulders under a black leather cut, dark jeans, heavy boots planted solid on the gravel like he’s not planning on moving anytime soon.
The light catches the patch on the back of his vest and my eyes narrow slightly when I make out the lettering.
Iron Reapers MC.
Well.