Chapter 9
Emily
Onyx clears his throat. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled. Are you working today or did you and my ma decide to give you a day to get used to being at the clubhouse?”
“No. She said I could start right away.”
“If you’re ready, I’ll walk you back to the office and get you set up.”
I nod, trying not to get emotional again.
I’m staying in his suite and we’re going to be presenting as a couple.
I don’t know if that means to everyone or just the authorities.
I’m going to have to ask about that. I have to remind myself that this is Onyx.
I know he’s a good man. Sure, this will be getting closer than we’ve ever been, but I can trust that I’ll be safe staying at his place.
I follow him as he turns away from the table. My heart beats a little faster when I realize I’m about to walk through the Sons of Rage clubhouse for the first time in years. My grandfather never brought me here once I hit adolescence. He said it was no place for a lady.
I’ll be working and living here. Which means I’ll get to see the inner workings of this legendary club. In this town, some fear them and others worship them. Me? I’ve always just accepted them as my next door neighbors and left it at that.
The moment we move through the bar area, I see people glancing in our direction.
Conversations don’t stop, but they glance up from their drinks and food.
There are some interested expressions on several brothers’ faces, as their attention moves from me to Onyx and back again.
They don’t say anything and thankfully, no one stares too long. Still, it’s a bit unnerving.
I’m also very aware that walking with Onyx changes how I’m seen. I’m no longer the mousy little bookworm, now that I’m walking with one of their club officers. That feels weird. I have to get my head around the fact that he’s important and high status in this environment.
He slows so I can keep up with him. I concentrate on staying close enough that I don’t feel left behind but not so close that it feels like I’m on his heels.
“Most of the offices are this way,” he says, gesturing to the right with one hand towards a hallway. “Some areas are open to everyone. Some aren’t. If you ever find that you’re not sure, just ask. No one will give you a hard time for it because I’ll beat their ass.”
I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s joking but I can’t help but remember how he beat the intruder nearly to death at my cabin.
His eyebrow flies up when I don’t laugh. I realize that I’ve slowed down to put space between us without realizing it. I’m shocked at my own hesitation. I’m not afraid of him. I’m not.
The clubhouse is busy, but not chaotic. There are women moving around with purpose.
It takes me a second to realize they’re cleaning and carrying laundry.
I remember Onyx mentioning to me once that they earn their keep, so I guess that makes sense.
As we walk down the hallway, one of the club girls turns to glance over her shoulder at me and Onyx, her expression is blank.
She has a good poker face, I’ll give her that.
We pass a group of men arguing good-naturedly over car parts. One of them glances over at Onyx. Onyx stops to introduce me.
“Jinx, this is Emily. Emily, Jinx is our sergeant-at-arms.”
He glances from me to Onyx and asks, “Is she yours?”
“Hell the fuck yes, she is. So, hand off, you brazen fucker.”
I know Onyx has always cursed a lot, so I’m not surprised by his language. Plus I can tell he’s joking because Jinx laughs.
“You better put a property cut on what’s yours before someone tries to seal her away.”
Onyx folds his arms over his chest. “She’s more than just a pretty face. She’s gonna be working with me in the office. Ma hired her this morning to archive all our club records.”
“That makes her double trouble, pretty and smart too.”
“Fuck all the way off. And tell Threads to fix my Emily up with a property cut at his earliest convenience.”
“You got it Onyx,” Jinx says good-naturedly before strolling off.
“Office is back here,” Onyx says, putting his hand at the small of my back and guiding me down the rest of the hallway. He slows as we reach a door that looks just like the others except for the keypad beside it. He punches in a code and when the lock pops, he holds it open for me.
His office is quiet. Two desks are face to face.
I imagine him working with one of his brothers here.
Each desk has neatly stacked paperwork in little organizers.
The far side of the room is completely lined with file cabinets.
I count at least twelve, including a lateral file cabinet.
There are also boxes stacked in careful rows near the back.
Some of them are pretty old, judging by the wear on the cardboard.
“This is where you’ll be working,” Onyx announces. “You can use Mica’s desk. He’s hardly ever here because he has an office in town. Most of the records are stored here. Some of the older stuff is still in the archive room, but we’ll start you here.”
I walk into the room, shut the door behind me and set my bag down on the desk.
My anxiety clicks down a notch just being in this space.
This is something I understand. I feel at home in an office and Onyx’s office is a nice one.
I’ve never had the luxury of working in a real office before.
I set up a nice home office but it’s not the same.
He has endless file space, a full-sized copier and desktop computers.
Heck, there’s even a water cooler. I have to tamper down a smile at that, you’d think in a biker clubhouse it would be a minifridge stocked with beer.
Turning to him, I say enthusiastically, “Your office is perfect. I can’t wait to get started digging through all the files.”
Surprise registers on Onyx’s face. “Most people fuckin’ hate my office. My old man says it’s claustrophobic and Jasper called it soulless once. Even Mica couldn’t wait to get out of here. He bolted the second his office in town was refurbished and hasn’t looked back.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “That’s crazy talk. You even have your own half bath,” I say, pointing to an open door off to the side. “This is premium grade office space.”
He gives me a sexy lopsided smile. “This is what I’ve been saying for years.”
Onyx leans against one of the cabinets, folding his arms loosely. “I wanted it to be nice because I spend so much time here.”
“Well, you did an amazing job,” I tell him.
“As you know, I’m the club’s secretary. That means that in addition to taking meeting minutes, I handle all the club’s business operations.
I file for business licenses, ensure compliance with state and local regulations and make sure Mica has everything he needs to file taxes on all our businesses every year.
I’m also responsible for scheduling employees for all three businesses.
We own and operate a junkyard, garage and auto parts store.
” He pauses, then adds, “Mica is actually the club’s treasurer.
He handles any and everything to do with numbers, including accounting, audits and financial tracking. He’s the smart one.”
That doesn’t surprise me. “It makes sense that you divide it up that way.”
He watches me for a moment, like he can’t believe how easily I’m acclimating to his environment. “If you need anything, office related or otherwise,” he says, “you come to me. No matter what the problem is, I’ll fix it.”
I nod. “I’m sure you will. We’re in your wheelhouse now. I respect that.”
He straightens and gestures towards the boxes at the back of the room. “We’ll go over those next. But you can take a minute if you need it.”
“I appreciate you taking it slowly, but I want to jump right in,” I tell him.
I glance around the office, taking it all in again, with more detail. This is where I start my new life. I know this job is temporary, but it might turn into something more if I do a good job. We’ll just have to see.
And for the first time in weeks, it feels like something good has finally come my way. I’m finally getting my life on track, with the help of the Sons of Rage and this family that my grandfather was so fond of.
Onyx moves deeper into the office and gestures towards that stack of boxes lining the far wall.
I quickly follow, eager to sink my teeth into my new job duties.
I notice the boxes are all labeled by hand and marker, some newer, some clearly old enough that the cardboard has softened at the edges.
They say epoch one through thirty, from what I can see.
I run my fingers along the label on one box. “What does epoch mean?”
Onyx shoots me a stern look.
“My ma has always walked to the beat of her own drummer. She used to be in charge of the club’s paperwork and thought it would be cool to divide everything up according to time periods that only existed in her head.
Epoch one is prior to her and my dad getting married.
Epoch two is after they married and before they had kids.
It makes it practically impossible to find anything.
And that is why she hired you, by the way. ”
“Oh, wow. She didn’t mention any of that.” I can almost see how that made sense in her own mind.
“Yeah, it’s a bit of a sore spot. Anyway, this is most of it,” he says. “Anything older than that’s still in storage.”
“Queenie told me she wanted the most recent stuff handled first.”
He shrugs, “Not surprising. I’ve been meaning to get to this stuff forever, but I’ve never been able to carve out the time.”
I nod, already trying to get my head around the monumental task ahead of us.
This is their club history. We need to treat these documents with the utmost respect.
Her epoch debacle aside, I can see why Queenie pushed for this project and why it never made it to the top of Onyx’s list. Someone running operations for multiple businesses doesn’t have the luxury of stopping everything to archive the past.
I straighten and look back at him. “This is a big job.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like relief more than frustration. “Yeah. That’s obviously why she wanted someone who actually knows what they’re doing and someone she trusted to keep what they learn in these files confidential.”
I step closer to the nearest box and open it carefully, sliding the lid aside. Inside are ledgers, old reports, handwritten notes clipped together with rusted paperclips. Some of it should have been preserved years ago. I close the box gently.
“I’ll start with indexing and organizing,” I say, turning back to him.
“Everything gets logged first, by year, type, business, and relevance. That way nothing gets lost or duplicated. Once it’s categorized, I’ll move on to the microfiche transfer.
That preserves the originals without handling them too much. ”
He watches me closely, not interrupting.
“After that,” I continue, “I’ll create a digital backup system.”
Onyx nods slowly. “I’ll help you as much as I can along the way. How long do you think this job will take?”
“Months, at least,” I say honestly. “There’s no rushing this if you want it done right. But once it’s organized, maintenance will be minimal. Updates won’t be nearly as time-consuming.”
“That’s what I suspected,” he says. “If I know my ma, she will want the job done right, rather than fast.”
I watch his expression as he looks back at the boxes. There’s no irritation in his expression and more importantly, no sense that I’m stepping on his toes by taking this job. If anything, he looks relieved that this responsibility is finally being handled properly.
He asks a few questions after that. Practical ones about access levels, storage requirements and who needs to sign off on what.
They’re the questions of someone who understands the importance of preserving these documents, not someone guarding territory.
I answer each of his questions honestly and without hesitation.
“That sounds solid,” he says when I finish. “I appreciate you walking me through it.”
The shift is subtle but noticeable. The tension that followed us out of the bar eases into something quieter, more respectful and focused. We’re not talking about the asshole who broke into my house or about Onyx being my protector. We’re talking about work, something we both value and understand.
I pull another folder from the box and flip it open, scanning the first page. The handwriting is tight and slanted, the ink faded in places. “I’m going to need a minute to adjust to some of this,” I say without thinking. “Whoever wrote this must have hated margins.”
Onyx leans in just enough to see what I’m looking at. “That’s my dad’s handwriting,” he says. “He wrote fast and expected everyone else to keep up.”
I glance up at him, surprised, then back down at the page. “That explains a lot.”
He lets out a quiet breath that sounds like a little involuntary laugh. It’s brief, but it eases us more into the moment. I slide the folder back into place and check another file. The date makes my eyebrows lift.
“There are a lot of really old documents here,” I say. “This goes back to before I was born.”
“Before I was born too,” he responds. “Some of the old boxes got mixed in with the new. Some of it hasn’t been looked at in twenty years or more.”
When I turn slightly to grab another box, I notice how close he’s standing.
He’s not crowding me exactly, but he’s definitely in my personal space.
When I shift my weight, he adjusts automatically, giving me a little more space without moving away.
My skin prickles with awareness because I can feel the warmth of his body.
That, coupled with his quiet attention makes this situation feel more intimate.
Surprisingly, I find myself relaxing into it with him.
I like that he trusts me to handle the work without explaining it twice. He doesn’t look at me like I might break if the wrong thing happens. After everything I’ve been through, that matters more than I want to admit.
The morning slips by faster than I expect. Once I fall into the rhythm of sorting and logging the records, time narrows to paper and dates and the steady scratch of notes. Onyx works, facing me from his own desk, occasionally stepping out to handle something and returning without comment.