Chapter 25
If there is one thing I’ve learned in the last week, it’s that there is a very specific kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to convince yourself you’re making a healthy choice while your entire body quietly disagrees.
That is the exact flavor of tired I am carrying when I get ready for my second date with Drew. Not because I don’t want to go.
That would be easier.
If I were dreading it, if I were forcing myself into a dress and mascara and polite conversation with all the enthusiasm of a hostage being prepped for a formal dinner, at least I could call it what it was. But I’m not dreading it.
I’m just…not excited.
And unfortunately, that’s not the same thing.
I stand in front of the mirror in my room with one earring in and the other still sitting on the dresser, staring at my own reflection like maybe if I look at myself long enough, I’ll suddenly become a woman who gets butterflies over men who are stable and polite and don’t make her question her sanity every other day.
It would be really convenient if I could evolve on command.
No such luck.
I’m wearing a dark green top that fits close enough to make me feel put together without looking like I’m trying too hard, black jeans, and boots because I’m not about to let a man from town talk me into pretending I’m a heels-to-dinner kind of woman when I absolutely am not.
My hair is down. My makeup is simple. I look good. That should matter more than it does.
There’s a knock on my open door before I can spiral any harder. “Come in.”
Ana leans against the frame first, and Shaina appears over her shoulder a second later like they came in a matching package of trouble.
Ana takes one look at me and grins. “Cute.”
Shaina narrows her eyes. “You look suspiciously normal.”
I snort. “Thank you?”
“That was not a compliment,” she says, pushing into the room. “That was concern. You’re dressed like you’re going to a respectable dinner with a man who says things like I had a really nice time and means them.”
Ana shudders dramatically. “That does sound terrible.”
I laugh in spite of myself and reach for the second earring. “You two are deeply unhelpful.”
“We’re realistic,” Ana says.
Shaina flops onto the edge of my bed like she pays rent here. “Different thing.”
Ana comes farther into the room and folds her arms. “How are you feeling?”
I don’t want to answer. The honest answer is complicated in a way I’m tired of hearing myself think through.
Fine.
Not fine.
Hopeful.
Annoyed.
Curious.
Defensive.
A little numb.
A little stubborn.
So I settle for, “I’m going.”
Ana gives me a look. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
Shaina studies me for one beat longer than usual, enough to tell me she’s actually paying attention and not just here to talk shit for sport. “You don’t have to make yourself like him just because Jimmy’s being a moron,” she says.
That lands harder than I want it to.
Because yes. Because that’s the quiet fear sitting under all of this. That I’m not actually giving Drew a fair chance. That I’m just trying to force myself toward something safer because Jimmy keeps lighting me on fire and then acting confused when I end up burned.
“I know,” I say softly.
Ana’s expression softens. “Okay.”
Then, because neither of them can stay sincere for too long without breaking out in hives, Shaina says, “If he says one weird thing about our family, I want you to bite him.”
I bark out a laugh. “That escalated quickly.”
“It was reasonable.”
“It was not.”
“It absolutely was.”
Ana points at her. “No biting on the second date. That’s psycho behavior.”
Shaina shrugs. “Third date, then.”
That gets another laugh out of me, and God, I needed that more than I realized.
There’s another knock before I can answer, and Emma appears this time, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea and the other carrying that calm, steady energy she somehow always brings into a room like it’s part of her perfume.
Her eyes move over me once, warm and knowing. “You look beautiful.” That one lands differently than the others. Softer. More grounding.
“Thanks.”
Emma steps in and hands me the mug. “For your nerves.”
I glance into it. “This better not be one of your weird herbal things.”
She smiles. “You say that like I’ve ever steered you wrong.”
Ana mutters, “There was that one time with the lavender sleep tea.”
“That was user error.”
I grin and take a sip. “I’m honored you all care this much about my romantic mediocrity.”
Emma’s smile shifts, just slightly. “We care about you.”
There it is again. That ache.
Because these women keep making it impossible to pretend I’m doing any of this alone, and somehow that makes it both easier and harder at the same time.
Emma touches my arm once. “You don’t owe anyone your discomfort tonight. If something feels off, you can leave.”
I nod. And I mean it when I say, “I know.” I’m just not entirely sure yet whether I’ll actually listen.
Drew picks me up at seven.
That’s already point one in his favor.
Not because I need a man to come get me like I can’t operate a vehicle, but because after his little comment the other night about rescuing me from my own truck, I’d expected more of that same energy tonight.
Instead, he’d texted earlier and asked if he could drive. Polite. Normal. Easy to say yes to.
When I step outside, he’s leaning against a dark SUV in a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled and jeans that fit him in the irritatingly respectable way men like him always seem to manage without looking like they tried too hard.
He smiles when he sees me. A real one. “You look incredible.”That one doesn’t feel slimy. Doesn’t feel rehearsed.
Just appreciative.
And because I’m trying, actually trying, to let this be what it is without holding it up against every impossible thing Jimmy has ever made me feel, I smile back and say, “Thanks.”
He opens the passenger door for me.
Again, normal. Thoughtful. The kind of thing a woman should probably appreciate without mentally adding a running emotional commentary in the background. So I get in, buckle up, and tell myself to stop being dramatic.
That lasts approximately twelve minutes.
At first, the drive is easy.
He asks about work at Ambrosia and I give him the cleaned-up version of the truth, because while I’m not ashamed of what I do, I’m also not stupid enough to unload the full reality of managing a strip club for an MC on a second date with a cop who already has opinions.
He tells me about a guy he arrested last weekend for trying to steal catalytic converters and somehow manages to make it funny instead of grim, which I’ll give him credit for.
He asks about my mom and dad. About Landon. About growing up with “such a big family around.”
That’s how he says it.
Family. Not club.
Interesting.
I file that away.
Dinner is at a nicer restaurant than last time, somewhere with low lighting and cloth napkins and the kind of menu where everything has an ingredient list longer than it needs.
Drew pulls my chair out.
I sit.
He orders wine. I order pasta. He smiles at the waitress in that easy, clean-cut way that probably works on half the county and doesn’t make me want to stab him, which is honestly an improvement over a lot of men I’ve met in my life.
For the first half hour, it’s…fine.
Still, that’s the word for him.
Fine.
He’s attentive. He asks questions. He looks at me like he’s actually listening when I answer. And maybe if that were the only thing happening here, maybe if I were just a woman on a date with a decent man and no emotional baggage clawing at my insides, this could be enough.
But eventually, the conversation turns. It always does.
He asks how long I’ve worked at Ambrosia. “Officially?” I ask. “A few years.”
He tilts his head. “Officially?”
I smile a little. “I grew up around it. Around all of it.”
That should be a neutral statement. A simple one. Instead, something in his expression shifts just slightly. Not enough for most people to notice. Enough for me. Like he’s looking at a beautiful antique and suddenly realizing there’s a crack in the porcelain.
“That had to be…interesting,” he says. The pause before the last word is small. Too small to call out without sounding defensive.
Still, I feel it.
I twirl my fork through the pasta and keep my tone light. “Depends on your definition of interesting.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “I just mean, not a lot of girls get raised around that kind of environment.”
There it is.
Still subtle. Still deniable.
But there.
I set my fork down carefully. “That kind of environment?”
He leans back slightly, one hand wrapped around his glass. “You know what I mean.”
Actually, I do. And I hate that I do.I could let it slide. I probably should.
Second dates are not generally the place to launch into a defense of outlaw motorcycle club culture and strip club management, no matter how well-earned that defense may be.
But I also know what it feels like when someone looks at the place that made you and decides it only counts as context if they can eventually save you from it.
So I say, “You can just say the club.”
Drew’s expression stays easy, but I catch the flicker in his eyes. Not discomfort. Calculation. “Okay,” he says smoothly. “The club.” He says it like he’s humoring me.
That alone makes something in my stomach tighten. I force myself not to overreact. Because maybe I’m reading into it. Maybe I’m waiting for something ugly because Jimmy has me so spun up and raw that I’m hearing attacks where there aren’t any.
That’s possible. So I let it go.
For now.
We move on to safer things. Movies. Music. Some story from his academy training days about a guy who accidentally pepper-sprayed himself and threw up in a parking lot.
I laugh.
He smiles like he likes making me laugh.
And for one stupid, fleeting second, I think maybe this can still work. Then he asks if I’ve ever thought about doing something else.