Chapter 8
Sloane
When Knox eases off the last main road, the street shifts into something smaller, older. Brick storefronts under faded awnings, painted signs instead of blinking screens. A bakery bell tinkles, a barber's pole turns, baskets sit in the laundromat window.
My forehead rests against the glass. I'm watching the sidewalk before I realize I'm doing it.
Who stops walking, who looks straight ahead, which windows have blinds angled down.
My father trained this into me the way you train a dog to heel: without asking, without stopping, until the leash disappears and the behavior stays.
"We're good. This is my ground." He studies me, reading the tells I can't hide. "Couple more turns." He nods toward the windshield. "Clubhouse and garage are close to downtown. You see anything you hate, tell me."
"You own the whole town?" I blurt.
The corner of his mouth kicks up. "We own enough. Right pieces, right blocks."
He turns left at an intersection where a bank anchors the corner.
Another block, another turn, then I see it.
The clubhouse. Two stories of old brick with blacked-out windows on the second floor and deep, street-level windows below.
A wooden sign hangs over the entrance, letters carved and painted dark. The Outsiders MC.
A row of bikes stretches along the curb.
Chrome, matte black, The Outsiders logo stitched across saddlebags, all of it gleaming.
Muffled music and engine thumps vibrate through the lot.
Laughter spills out as the front door swings open.
The garage sprawls beside it. One bay rolled up, a bike on a lift, men wiping grease on rags.
Knox pulls into the gravel stretch between the garage and side alley, then kills the engine.
We swapped the rental for a used truck two stops back, cash, no paper trail, and the cab still smells of the previous owner's cigarettes.
He turns in his seat to face me. Something shifts in the set of his shoulders here.
They're wider, or maybe less contained, like the building behind him is pulling him into a shape I haven't met yet.
"You with me?" he asks.
"I think so. What happens when we walk in?"
"They stare. They test. They decide. After that, anyone who wants a problem hits walls first."
"You're reassuring," I murmur.
"Yeah. I'm a ray of sunshine." He reaches for me, palm up between us. I stare at it for one heartbeat, then slide my hand into his. "If you need out of a conversation, squeeze my hand. You want space? Grab my jacket and I'll move us."
"You think I'm going to unravel?"
"I think you've been running someone else's chaos for too long," he says. "This place throws a different kind of weight. First hit feels weird."
My thumb presses against his palm once. "Okay," I whisper.
His fingers curl around mine, warm and firm. "Come on, Sloane. Time to meet The Outsiders."
He gets out first. Afternoon heat rushes in. He comes around, opens my door, and the rest of it hits. Sound, scent, the pulse of this place. I swing my legs out, and gravel crunches under my boots. His palm settles on my back.
"Eyes on me." His voice drops low. "One step at a time."
The front door opens. The man who emerges carries gravity like a coat. He's broad-shouldered in a black T-shirt that stretches over his chest. Beard a shade darker than blond, green eyes that are sharp and thoughtful. Tattoos winding down both arms.
His cut hangs heavy over it all, patches catching the light. His gaze sweeps the street once, cataloguing everything, then lands on Knox. Knox tips his chin. The man adjusts a shoulder. I have no clue what passed between them, but it's already over by the time his attention slides to me.
He looks me over. My shoulders, where my weight rests, how close Knox stands.
"Your girl?" he asks Knox, voice deep, brushed with grit.
"She's under my protection," Knox says. His hand presses firmer against my back. The man's gaze flicks to that, then to my face.
"You Sloane?" he asks me.
"Yes," I manage.
"You're safe here… for now," he says. "Anybody bothers you, anybody tries to pull you out of this house, they answer to me and mine."
"This is Malachi." Knox tips his head. "President."
Of course he is. My father wears power like a tailored suit; every crease intentional, every button a calculation.
This man wears it like a split knuckle. He moves aside as the door opens wider.
A man with longish hair, sunglasses perched on his head, and a scruffy jaw leans into the doorway, hand braced on the frame.
His cut reads Treasurer. He grins, eyes bright.
"You're late, Vice," he says. "James is two threats away from force feeding whoever you brought."
Vice. The word snags in my head. Knox is the vice president. I'm still turning that over when the man's gaze drops to me, and the grin changes. Curious now. Recalibrating.
"Well, shit," he says softly. "You really did bring someone. Thought Malachi was just saying words to make us antsy."
"East," Knox warns. "Relax."
East lifts a hand in mock surrender, attention on me. "Easton. Everyone calls me East. I count the money and annoy authority."
"Successfully," Malachi mutters.
East winks. "Welcome to Willowridge, Sloane. You are officially the reason our vice went dark for two days."
My cheeks flame. Knox's mouth hooks at one corner. The look he gives East says everything he won't. "Busy couple of days," he adds, as though that explains everything.
East's brows lift. "Yeah, I bet."
Behind him, a quieter presence leans against the doorframe. Dark hair, muscle stacked on muscle, arms folded. His cut reads Sergeant-at-Arms. His expression gives nothing away. When his gaze meets mine, it stays there long enough that I start to feel like a document being read from the wrong end.
"Nash." Knox nods beside me. "Sergeant-at-Arms. He’s the enforcer. Don't let the silence fool you."
East grins. Nash doesn't.
A woman's voice floats from inside. "If he's making that poor girl stand on the street while the boys posture, I'm throwing a dishcloth at someone's head."
Another voice follows, deep and amused. "Let him breathe, Mags. Man hasn't even crossed the threshold yet."
The door widens, and she appears. She has jeans, a soft T-shirt, and an apron tied at her waist. Her hair is pulled back, loose strands framing her face. There's flour on her forearm and a damp dishtowel over one shoulder.
Her eyes settle on me, sweeping my frame once with the practiced ease of a woman who can guess a dress size from across a room, and the warmth in them is so heavy my knees almost buckle.
"Maggie Carruthers." Knox sounds a little resigned. "This is Sloane. Mags runs this place with James. Malachi just thinks he does."
Malachi snorts. "Woman lets me pretend to lead if I take out the trash."
Maggie ignores him. She moves closer, but her hand hovers near my arm instead of landing.
"Can I?" she asks. I nod before my throat decides to close. Her fingers brush my forearm, then squeeze once. "Inside," she orders. "You can barely stand up, and I'm not letting you pass out in the parking lot when there's chili on the stove."
Someone calls from behind her. "Tell her it's good chili, too. First batch of the season."
A man appears beside Maggie. Older, gray hair gathered at the nape, with a thick gray beard, and eyes that crinkle at the corners.
"This is James." Maggie gestures. "He cooks, he cleans, and pretends he doesn't eavesdrop."
He holds out a hand. "James Carruthers. Welcome." His grip is warm and steady. Knox lets go to let me step forward. I feel assessed again, but this time it's different. He tracks from my head down my torso. I recognize the sweep instantly; visual triage. Looking for favoring, swelling, guarding.
"You hurt anywhere?" he asks. "Head, chest, stomach?"
"I'm a nurse," I say. "I'd notice."
His focus sharpens. "Trauma?"
"ER and ICU."
He nods. "Then you know why I ask anyway."
"Vitals don't lie," I say quietly.
A small smile tugs at his mouth. "Combat medic. Two tours. Long time ago."
"Shows," I say. He takes it the way I meant it. Looks satisfied as if I passed a test I didn't know I was taking.
Knox's hand finds my back again. When I glance at him, he holds on me for a beat too long. Maybe pride. Maybe relief that I sound more competent than drowning.
Maggie bumps her shoulder into James' chest. He slides his hand to the back of her neck, thumb tracing her hairline, the gesture so automatic neither of them seems to notice.
He lets go, retreats a step. "You need air, water, or a quiet corner, tell someone. None of us bite without consent. Well, not unless provoked."
"Only me," East adds cheerfully.
Knox squeezes my shoulder. "Come on," he murmurs. "Sit."
The moment we cross the threshold, everything hits louder. Warm light spills across the room. Bar to the left, pool table and couches to the right, noise layered with laughter and music. The place feels worn in. It smells like years of spilled beer, wood polish, and fryer grease.
"Table by the kitchen door," Maggie decides, already moving.
I follow because I have no idea how to do anything else right now.
We pass close enough to the bar that I catch sight of another woman with short black hair in a razor-edged cut.
Tattoos climb her arms, peeking above the collar of her shirt.
Her eyes shift between blue and green in the overhead light.
She has purple lipstick and a sharp smile.
She leans against the far end of the bar, talking to East.
Her gaze flicks to us, lands on me and narrows. "Well," she says, drawing it out. "So she exists."
"Frankie." Knox draws me forward. "This is Sloane. Sloane, Frankie. She runs the tattoo shop two blocks over and has more dirt on this town than the internet."