Chapter 2
BEAR
Thanksgiving in the clubhouse was loud, messy, and about as far from Norman Rockwell as you could get.
Wings and beer covered every flat surface. The game blasted from the big screen over the bar while a few of the guys argued over a busted fantasy league bet. Pico—idiot that he was—had deep-fried a turkey outside in the snow. Somehow, it hadn’t ended in a fireball. Yet.
The mountain had already seen three storms this season, so chains clinked on the trucks parked out front. Bonfires burned daily in the yard, smoke curling into the frosty air. Pico had even mapped out the bobcat snowmobile routes around the woods like it was his personal North Pole.
Everyone was in good spirits. Everyone except me.
I was grumpy as fuck.
Didn’t help that my stepmom, Anne, kept calling, asking me when I was going to “give her grandbabies” and “maybe think about leaving that motorcycle club life behind.” Like I was gonna swap my kutte for a sweater vest and country club Saturdays.
After my mom and brother passed—my old man married the country club wife maybe he always wanted. I choose to live up here with my maternal grandpa on the land. Chopping wood and fixing cars cleared my head. Most days.
My ex, Danica—now married to some wannabe NASCAR hotshot—couldn’t stop sending me racy pictures like she’d forgotten how the word “boundaries” worked.
Or that Jess—the woman I’d hooked up with a handful of times over the summer when I’d been extra grumpy and extra lonely—was now trying to wedge herself into my lap while I was watching the damn bowl game.
I gave her a firm shove to the side without taking my eyes off the TV. “Move it, sugar. View on the screen’s better than the view of your implanted double D’s.”
Her jaw dropped. “That’s not what you said in July when your—”
“Yeah,” I cut in, “’cause I was shit-faced and lonely.”
Her mouth snapped shut.
She huffed, muttered something about me being an asshole, and stalked off toward the bar. I didn’t argue. If there was one thing I’d perfected over the years, it was the art of not giving a damn.
The game ended with my team blowing a fourth-quarter lead, and with it went the stupid bet I made with Jinx— letting him sign me up to play Santa at the Christmas fair.
I never thought I’d lose. And the shit-eating grin on his face is proof he knows it.
I want to wipe the floor with his smirk, instead I sat there for a long second, staring at the score, the noise of the room fading under the static in my head.
Me. A hundred kids whining about toys. An itchy red polyester suit and Pico whitening my beard with a spray can dye. Not fucking happening.
And just like that, the switch flipped.
Full-on Asshole Bear Mode: engaged.
Over in the corner, a couple of the club girls had started dragging out boxes from storage—tinsel, garland, a fake tree with half its lights burned out. Christmas music crackled from the Bluetooth speaker.
My jaw ticked.
In three strides, I crossed the room, yanked the half-decorated tree right out of its stand, and hauled it outside.
“What the hell, Bear?!” one of them called after me.
I didn’t answer. Just walked it straight to the bonfire and fed it to the flames. The dry plastic branches hissed and popped like they were screaming.
The guys outside roared with laughter. “Grinch is back!” Gunner whooped, holding up his beer in salute.
Not finished, I marched back inside, grabbed the length of garland they’d started draping over the bar, and tossed that in too.
When I came back in, the women stood there, mid-stringing lights, looking half shocked, half ready to throw something at me.
“Clubhouse is a no-Christmas zone,” I said flatly. “New rule.”
“You’re a real piece of work, Bear,” one muttered.
“Good,” I said, dropping back into my chair. “Now turn the damn music off.”
I grabbed a beer from the cooler and headed back out to the fire, the cold biting at my cheeks.
The tree was almost gone now—melting into blackened plastic curls and acrid smoke. I watched the flames eat it, swallowing every scrap of tinsel until the only light left came from the bonfire itself.
Holidays. I hated ’em.
Didn’t matter how much I tried to drown it out—the memories always found their way in.
Snow on the windshield. Mama’s voice humming along to carols on the radio.
She’d taken Grayson out to see the lights strung across town. I’d stayed home, pretending I was too old for that kind of thing. They were headed back when she hit a snowbank on one of those tight mountain curves. Got out to push the car free. Unbuckled her seat belt.
That’s when the drunk came flying around the bend—full of whiskey and bad decisions from some holiday party—and hit them from behind.
My father and I dealt with it different ways.
He threw himself into the Boone family legacy harder, married a society woman.
Never had more children. We grew apart— and he died of a heart attack eight years ago.
Chasing money and empires will do that. My stepmom-Anne is nice enough.
But never close. Me? I found a new family in the club.
Brothers who knew loss, who didn’t ask you to talk about it.
Men who understood that sometimes the only way to keep moving was to keep riding.
Snow was starting to dust my hair and beard, melting into cold rivulets down my neck. I didn’t move. Just watched the fire eat the last of that fake tree until all that was left was the hiss and crackle of plastic and sap burning together.
Didn’t even notice I wasn’t alone until the faintest touch—nails trailing over my forearm.
“You look lonely, Bear,” Ainsley’s voice purred. “And cold. Let me warm you up…”
I finally dragged my gaze from the flames to look at her.
The second she saw my eyes, she stepped back. Smart girl.
“Hard pass, sugar,” I said, letting my voice go flat. “I’m on a new diet. It’s called skank-free.”
Her lips twisted, part insult, part wounded pride, but she didn’t say a word before turning and walking back toward the clubhouse lights.
I turned back to the fire, beer in hand, letting the snow pile higher on my shoulders. Didn’t bother brushing it off. Cold didn’t bother me much anymore.
I knew I was harsh. Mean, even. Couldn’t seem to help it lately.
Restless. That’s what it was. Like I wanted something I couldn’t put my hands on.
Peace. Not pussy.
If I’d been younger, Ainsley’s offer would’ve sounded like a damn good way to spend the night. But these days? I didn’t want the noise, the games, the mess after.
I wanted quiet.
Not that I’d ever admit to being lonely. Hell no. But it was there, gnawing at me just the same, like the cold working into my bones.
I tipped my beer back, eyes on the fire, and let the snow keep falling.