Chapter One #2
"Yes! I help good. Carry bags. Remember lists." His excitement made his speech pattern even more choppy than usual, words tumbling out in his eagerness.
I nodded, already mentally adding cocoa powder and confectioners' sugar to my shopping list. "Be ready after breakfast. We'll take the truck."
Bug bounced slightly on his toes—actually bounced—and turned to go. I called after him, "Hey, make sure you tell Bear where you'll be tomorrow. He worries."
Bug paused, turning back. "I tell. Bear growly when worried."
"That he is," I agreed, thinking of the massive Sergeant-at-Arms who'd become fiercely protective of Bug since claiming him as his mate. "Growly" was putting it mildly.
With a quick nod, Bug disappeared from the doorway, his footsteps fading down the hall. I returned to my inventory, but my mind wandered again.
Bug had found his place here, against all odds. The damaged street kid and the club enforcer—nobody would have put those two together, but their bond was unquestionable. The claiming bite on Bug's neck had healed into a silvery scar that he displayed proudly, never covering it with his collars.
A small pang hit me somewhere in the vicinity of my chest. I was happy for them—for all the mated pairs in our club. Butch and Treat, Gunner and Henry, Gearhead and Percy. Each finding their other half, that connection that went beyond the physical.
At forty-two, I'd begun to wonder if my mate was out there at all. The club accepted without question that I was gay—females simply did not attract me, never had—but finding another gay shifter who was also my destined mate? Those odds seemed increasingly slim.
I shook off the melancholy. Self-pity wasn't my style. If a mate was in my future, they'd show up when the time was right. If not, I had my kitchen, my Harley, and a family of sorts in the club.
For now, that had to be enough.
I returned to counting cans of tomatoes, mentally adding cupcake ingredients to tomorrow's list. At least I could give Bug his chocolate cupcakes with the "swirly stuff" on top. Making others happy through food—that was something I could do, mate or no mate.
I finished noting the last items on my inventory list and closed the tablet app with a satisfied tap. The pantry was well-stocked for most things, but the shopping list for tomorrow had grown to a decent size.
Before finalizing it, I needed to check with Butch about any special requests for Doby. The toddler bear cub was the newest addition to our unconventional family, and his needs changed almost weekly as he grew.
Butch and Treat were still figuring out parenthood, and I was determined to make at least the feeding part easier for them.
I headed toward Butch's office, tablet tucked under my arm.
The clubhouse was relatively quiet this morning—most of the guys were either out on runs or working at Gunner's garage.
The silence made my footsteps echo slightly down the hallway lined with framed photos of motorcycles and club members past and present.
Butch's office door stood open, but I knocked on the frame anyway. You didn't just walk in on the MC president without announcing yourself, open door or not.
Hierarchy mattered, even among friends.
He looked up from a stack of papers, reading glasses perched on his nose in a way that would have looked scholarly if not for the massive beard and tattoos covering his forearms.
Butch was a mountain of a man, intimidating to most, but I'd known him long enough to see past the gruff exterior to the deeply loyal heart beneath.
"Need something, Rooster?" he asked, removing his glasses and setting them aside.
"Shopping run tomorrow," I said, stepping inside. "Anything special Doby needs this week?"
Butch's expression immediately softened at the mention of his adopted son. The change never failed to amaze me—how the fearsome biker transformed when it came to the cub and his mate.
"Apple juice," he replied without hesitation. "The organic kind in the glass bottles. We're down to the last one, and you know how he gets if we run out."
I nodded, adding it to my list. Doby's tantrums were legendary when his favorite things weren't available. The kid had Butch wrapped around his little finger, and everyone knew it.
"Got it. Anything else?" I asked.
"Maybe those animal crackers he likes? The ones in the blue box."
I nodded again, making another note. "Bug's coming with me shopping tomorrow. Kid wants chocolate cupcakes, so we're making a deal—he helps carry bags, I get baking supplies."
Butch's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Good. Kid needs normal shit like that."
"If you see Bear before I do, let him know Bug's coming with me? Don't want him thinking Bug wandered off again."
"Will do." Butch leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me. "Speaking of wandering, Gearhead mentioned picking up an unfamiliar scent around the back of the property. You seen anyone creeping around the backyard?"
I hesitated, weighing my words. I hadn't exactly been keeping the homeless kid a secret, but I hadn't exactly announced it either. Something protective stirred in me, but lying to Butch wasn't an option.
"Yeah, there's a homeless kid I've been feeding. Just for a couple of months," I admitted. "Skinny thing, probably early twenties at most. Leaves the containers stacked nice and neat. Never caused any trouble."
Butch's eyebrows drew together. "You've been feeding some stranger hanging around our property for months and didn't think to mention it?"
Put that way, it did sound bad.
"He's harmless, Butch. Just hungry."
"Harmless isn't for you to decide without information," he said, his voice taking on the edge of authority that reminded everyone exactly why he was president. "What do we know about this kid? Could be a scout for the Dough Boys. They’ve been causing trouble lately.”
I shook my head. "He's not with the Dough Boys or anyone else. I think he might be a lynx shifter, actually. Scared, undernourished. Got these golden eyes I spotted today. Been leaving food out for him, and tonight I gave him a bag of supplies since winter's coming."
"You approached him?" Butch's frown deepened.
"Briefly. Just to give him the food bag. He took off right after."
Butch pinched the bridge of his nose—a gesture I recognized as his attempt to remain patient. "Next time he shows up, you tell me immediately. We need to know who's hanging around, especially with everything that's happened lately."
Something deep within my soul balked at the idea. The feral kitten had just started trusting me enough to not bolt at the first sign of my presence. Bringing Butch into it—as well-intentioned as he might be—would likely send the kid running for good.
But I nodded anyway. "Sure, Butch."
"I mean it, Rooster. This isn't just about you being a bleeding heart. It's about keeping everyone safe. We've got Doby here now. Bug, Treat, Percy—people who've been through enough trauma. We can't have unknown elements wandering around."
He had a point, damn it. I hadn't considered how a stranger near the property might affect our more vulnerable members.
"Understood," I said, more sincerely this time. "If I see him again, I'll let you know."
"Good." Butch's expression softened slightly. "I'm not saying we can't help the kid if he needs it. Just that we need to be smart about it. Do things the right way."
"The right way" was code for "the club way"—with proper protocols, information gathering, and collective decision-making. It was what kept us all alive and functioning as a unit.
"Got it," I said, accepting the mild reprimand for what it was—concern, not anger.
"Anything else?" Butch asked, already reaching for his glasses to return to his paperwork.
"That's it. I'll let you know when we get back from shopping tomorrow."
He nodded, dismissing me, and I turned to head back to the kitchen. Lunch wouldn't make itself, and I still had prep work to finish before the guys started wandering in hungry and impatient.
As I walked away, I contemplated the conflict brewing inside me. I understood Butch's concerns—they were valid, especially given our history with enemies. But something about that kid pulled at me, made me want to protect him from everything, including my own club's scrutiny.
I sighed as I pushed through the kitchen doors.
Despite occasionally butting heads with Butch over things like this, I wouldn't give up this job for anything.
This kitchen, these people—they were my home, my family.
And maybe, just maybe, there was room for one more stray in our strange collection of misfits.
The sandwiches wouldn't make themselves. I rolled up my sleeves and got back to work.