Chapter 16 Stud
Sixteen
Stud
The thing about having a woman like Holley in my world is this:
Everyone sees it.
They don’t say anything at first—not while she stands beside me in the compound’s hallway, bag slung over one shoulder, my hoodie swallowing her frame.
But they see it. And I feel it. The shift in the air.
The undercurrent. The Hellions don’t miss much, and they watch me with a kind of wary curiosity usually reserved for threats or miracles.
I’m not sure which category she falls into yet.
Holley stiffens beside me, the buzz of the clubhouse loud around us—voices, laughter, the clank of tools from the garage, country music spilling from a back room. It’s organized chaos. My chaos. And now she’s standing in the middle of it, small and quiet and trying not to look overwhelmed.
She’s not scared, though. That’s the part that gets me. She’s alert, cautious, but not shrinking.
“Relax,” I murmur low, brushing my knuckles against her lower back as I step past her. “No one here bites.”
“Except you?” she whispers back.
That earns a smirk. “Only on request.”
Her breath catches—barely, but I feel it like a spark down my spine.
Before I can say something stupid, we hit the main room.
A few heads turn.
Then a few more.
Conversations pause mid-sentence.
The brothers all know me. They know my patterns. They know the women who come through sometimes—casual, uncomplicated, in and out like weather fronts. But this? Me walking in with Holley pressed close to my side, guiding her through the clubhouse like she belongs there?
That’s new.
Really new.
“Stud,” a voice calls from the pool table. “You got a shadow today?”
I shoot a look toward the speaker—Grinder, la man with quick hands and quicker opinions. He lifts his beer in greeting, smirking. Holley’s cheeks flush.
“Ignore him,” I mutter. “He was born running his mouth.”
“Everyone’s staring,” she says under her breath.
“That’s ‘cause you walked in with me.”
“Is that bad?”
“No,” I say. “It’s just unusual.”
Because I don’t bring women here. Not really. Not like this. Not for more than an hour or two, definitely not for a full damn day or however long she’s going to stay. And never in a way that lets them see me past the surface.
But Holley’s already seen too much of me for that to matter.
I draw her further into the room, and the guys start approaching—slow, respectful, the way you walk up to something you’re not sure is fragile or dangerous.
Country Boy is the first to reach us. Broad shoulders, easy grin, hair pulled back in a low tie.
“Stud,” he says, nodding. “You bring a guest?”
“Holley,” I say, keeping a steady hand on her back. “Meet Country Boy. One of the best idiots I know.”
“Bold talk from the retired Prez,” Country Boy shoots back. But his smile softens when he turns to her. “Good to meet you, Holley.”
“Hi,” she says, offering a small wave.
He warms instantly. “You need anything while you’re here, you ask. This place can be rough around the edges, but we look out for our own.”
Holley glances up at me quickly.
Our own.
Her pulse jumps. I feel it through the air.
Before she can overthink it, Raff and Miles come over.
Miles points at her with his beer bottle. “You stole Stud’s hoodie?”
Holley turns bright red.
Raff elbows Miles. “Shut your damn mouth. You don’t embarrass someone Stud brings in. He’s the head of this club.”
“I’m not the Prez anymore,” I remind him.
“You’re still the OG,” Miles says. “Respect sticks.”
That’s when Scraper arrives.
He’s quieter than the others, presence heavier. Ex–military, same era as me. He looks Holley over once, not in a way that objectifies, but in the way a guard dog takes inventory.
“You safe here,” he says simply.
Holley nods. “Thank you.”
He tips his chin to me. “She’s good.”
“That’s why she’s here,” I say.
We move through the rest of the greetings—some teasing, some warm, all curious. She handles it with more grace than most newcomers ever manage. Doesn’t try too hard. Doesn’t shrink. Just offers small hellos, polite smiles, steady presence.
But every few minutes, she glances behind her.
Checks the doorway.
Scans the windows.
Her shoulders tighten more each time.
I don’t miss it.
None of the Hellions do either—which is saying something.
Once we reach the quieter hallway toward my clubhouse room, I stop her gently with a hand on her arm.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She tries to play it off. “Nothing.”
“Holley.”
Her eyes flicker. She hesitates. “I feel… watched.”
My jaw locks.
“For how long?”
“A few days,” she shares. “Before I left the mountains. I thought it would stop once I got here, but…”
Her gaze darts past me down the empty hall.
That protective instinct—old, deep, instinctive—fires through me fast. “You should’ve told me before you got in the car.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was being dramatic.”
“I’d rather think you’re dramatic than unsafe.”
Her breath hitches. “I’m sorry.”
I step closer. “Don’t apologize for trusting your gut.”
She looks up at me then, eyes big and uncertain. And something inside me cracks open all over again.
This woman has no idea how much space she’s taking up in my chest already.
We get her settled in my room—one of the private ones set aside for officers even after retirement. It’s not fancy. Bed, dresser, old TV, a couple of photos tucked in the mirror frame. A sanctuary of sorts.
She runs her fingers over the leather jacket hanging on the wall. The patches. The weathered Hellions logo.
“You were President?” she asks softly.
“For a time.”
“Must’ve meant something,” she says.
“It did,” I admit. “Still does.”
She studies the patch, tracing the edge with delicate fingers, then looks back at me.
“What made you retire?”
“Needed a different life,” I say. “One with quieter mornings. Less responsibility. Fewer decisions that ruin men’s lives.”
“And they still respect you.”
“Respect doesn’t go away when you step down. Neither does the responsibility.”
Her expression warms. “You’re a good man.”
I look away because compliments like that do things to me I’m not prepared for.
“Tired one,” I correct. “Not always good.”
She smiles like she knows better.
Later, we go back to the hot rod shop so I can finish work I abandoned earlier. Holley sits on a stool watching me, legs swinging, hair messy from the ride, hoodie sleeves rolled twice so her hands peek out.
She looks comfortable here.
Too comfortable.
The guys drift in and out.
Sparx leans in the doorway. “So you’re Stud’s girl, huh?”
Holley opens her mouth to protest, but I don’t give her the chance.
“She’s not anyone’s girl,” I say, voice sharp enough that Sparx lifts his hands in surrender. “She’s a guest.”
Holley’s brows knit at that, but she doesn’t argue.
When he leaves, she asks quietly, “Is it bad for them to assume I’m yours?”
I grip the wrench a little tighter. “Not bad. Just inaccurate.”
She flinches—not visibly to most, but I know her now. Enough to see the small contraction in her shoulders.
“I didn’t mean—” I start, but she cuts me off softly.
“No, you’re right. We’re… whatever we are.”
The words sting more than I expect.
She falls quiet after that.
The slow burn in the room cools to embers.
And the whole time she sits there, swinging her legs, pretending to look at parts, she keeps glancing over her shoulder.
The watching feeling hasn’t left her.
Which means it hasn’t left me either.
Night settles over the compound which is across the street from my shop. Members come and go. Music shifts from loud country to low rock to silence as the clubhouse thins out.
Holley lingers close to me, careful not to intrude but drawn to my side like gravity has its own rules around us.
When we step outside for air, she hugs her arms around herself.
“Feels different here at night,” she says.
“In a good way?
“In a quiet way.”
We walk the perimeter of the compound—lights casting long shadows, bikes parked in neat rows, the fence line secure. Nothing out of place.
But still… she shivers.
“Someone’s watching,” she whispers.
Cold shoots through my veins.
I pull her closer without thinking. “No one here is a threat.”
“I know,” she says. “This feels… old. Like it followed me.”
Those words punch the air out of me.
Old.
Followed.
I look around again—slower this time, more deliberate. Shadows, light poles, the line of the forest behind the fence.
Nothing stands out.
But my gut doesn’t settle.
“Let’s get inside,” I say quietly.
She nods.
My room is dim and warm, light from the hallway slipping under the door. She stands by the dresser, fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her sleeve.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “It’s like… I’m safe here, but not safe. And that doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” I say. “Because it’s not about the place. It’s about the feeling.”
She looks up at me then—big eyes, vulnerable in a way she rarely lets me see.
Something in me gives up resisting.
I step closer.
Not touching yet. Just inhabiting the air between us.
Her breath catches.
“Tony…” she whispers.
I brush a knuckle along her jawline, slow, deliberate. Her skin warms under my touch. She leans in instinctively.
“You don’t have to be afraid here,” I say.
“I’m not afraid of here,” she says. “I’m afraid of… this.”
She gestures between us.
Yeah. Me too.
But I won’t say it.
I take her hand, intertwining our fingers. “You’re staying in here tonight.”
Her eyes widen.
“Nothing’s happening,” I add, thumb stroking her palm. “Unless you want it to. This is about safety. You understand?”
She nods slowly, eyes never leaving mine.
I let go of her hand only long enough to pull back the blankets. She climbs in hesitantly, as if she’s not sure she’s allowed, and that alone squeezes something painful in my chest.
I circle to the other side and lie beside her, leaving space.
Enough space to keep a promise.
Not enough to feel distant.
The lamp clicks off.
Darkness settles.
Silence stretches.
Then—
“Tony?” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me be here.”
I stare at the ceiling.
“I’m not good at this,” I say quietly. “Having someone in my space. Having someone… matter.”
She turns her head toward me. I feel her gaze even in the dark.
“I’m not asking you to change your life,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“Then why does it feel like your world shifted a little when I walked in?”
Because it did.
But I don’t say it.
Instead, I reach across the sheets and gently pull her closer until her head rests on my shoulder. She goes easily, without hesitation. Like she wanted that from the second we lay down.
Her hand slides across my chest.
Her breath warms my throat.
Her body curves into mine like she was made to fit there.
My pulse kicks hard.
“Is this okay?” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “It’s okay.”
Better than okay.
Dangerous.
Her eyes flutter closed. I listen to her breathing, steadying, softening. My hand drifts up her back, slow strokes meant to calm her. Or maybe to calm myself.
After a minute, just when I think she’s asleep, her voice comes quietly:
“It’s gone.”
“What is?”
“That feeling,” she whispers. “Of being watched.”
I tighten my arm around her.
“Good,” I say.
But deep inside, a cold thread winds through my gut.
Because I don’t believe it’s gone at all.
Not yet.
And definitely not because we crossed the state line.
It lingered for days.
It followed her two states away.
It sits just beyond the fence line, faceless for now.
Whatever is out there watching her… it’s patient.
But I’m watching too now.
And I don’t lose sight of threats once I’ve marked them.
Not ever.