The Lion’s Sunshine (Golden Pride #1)

Chapter 1

Toby

The door handle slips twice before I manage to yank it open.

Heat washes over me—blessed, glorious heat—along with classic rock on a jukebox, the smell of leather and motor oil and something else I can't place. Something warm and wild, almost animal, that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up even as the rest of me melts with relief.

My glasses fog instantly, turning the world into brown and amber blurs.

I stand there in the doorway, dripping, blind, shaking. Water runs off my cardigan onto scuffed wooden floors in a steady patter. I must look like a drowned rat. I definitely smell like one.

The music keeps playing, but conversation stops. I can feel eyes on me—a lot of eyes—even though I can't see anything clearly.

"I—" My voice cracks, rough from cold and disuse. I clear my throat and try again. "I'm sorry. My phone died and I just need—can I charge it? I'll order something. Food, drink, whatever. I just need to call an uber."

Silence. The kind of silence that feels weighted, meaningful. Like I've walked into the middle of something I don't understand.

Then footsteps, careful and measured, approaching from my right.

"Here." A young voice, surprisingly warm. "Sit. You're soaked through."

A hand lands on my elbow—large, hot even through my wet sleeve—and guides me forward.

I let myself be led because the alternative is standing in the doorway like an idiot, and at least this person sounds friendly.

We stop at what feels like a booth, the vinyl squeaking obscenely under my wet clothes as I slide in.

"Jason, what are you doing?" Another voice, this one a harsh whisper from somewhere to my left.

"What? He might be hungry." Definitely the same person who guided me here. Jason. His voice has an earnest quality to it, eager and open.

"Don't feed him, for fuck's sake."

"He's shaking."

"He's wet. There's a difference."

"Both can be true," Jason insists, and suddenly there's a basket being set on the table in front of me. Fries, I think—I can smell the salt even if I can't see them clearly. "These just came up. Eat."

Something heavy and warm drapes around my shoulders before I can respond.

A blanket, thick and soft, and the smell of it hits me immediately—cedar and woodsmoke and something distinctly masculine that makes me want to burrow into it and never come out.

It's the kind of scent that belongs on a cologne ad, or wrapped around me after a long day, or—

I'm delirious. That's the only explanation. I've been walking in the cold rain for too long and now I'm having weird thoughts about how blankets smell.

"Does anyone have a charger?" I ask, fumbling my dead phone out of my pocket with numb fingers. "iPhone?"

"Here." "Got one." "Use mine."

Three voices at once, and suddenly there are multiple cables being pressed into my hands. I blink at the blur of them, overwhelmed, then pick one at random and plug in. My phone buzzes immediately with the charging sound.

Small miracles.

"Here," another voice says—deeper, calmer—and something warm is pressed into my hands. A mug. "Tea. You need to warm up."

I wrap my fingers around it gratefully, letting the heat seep into my frozen joints. It hurts at first, that sharp tingle of circulation returning, but I don't let go. With my other hand, I finally pull off my glasses and wipe them on the edge of the blanket.

The world comes into focus.

Oh.

Oh.

The bar is exactly what you'd expect from a motorcycle club—dark wood paneling, neon beer signs casting pools of colored light, a pool table in the back corner with a Tiffany-style lamp hanging over it. Classic rock plays from an honest-to-god jukebox in the corner, something with a lot of guitar.

What I didn't expect was the men.

There are at least ten of them, maybe more, and they're all.

.. huge. Not just tall, though most of them are, but built.

Broad shoulders and thick arms and the kind of muscle that comes from actual physical labor, not a gym membership.

They're covered in tattoos—I can see ink crawling up forearms, peeking out of collar lines, wrapping around knuckles.

Most of them are wearing leather or denim vests covered in patches I can't quite make out from here.

And they're all staring at me.

Every single one of them, with varying degrees of concern and alarm and something else I can't quite identify. Wariness, maybe. Like I'm a bomb that wandered in from the rain and might go off at any moment.

"You walked here?" one of them asks. He's got dark hair pulled back in a bun, arms crossed over a massive chest, and he's looking at me like I've personally offended him by dripping on his floor.

"My date left me on the side of the road." I take a sip of tea—whoever made it put in enough sugar to rot my teeth, but I'm not complaining. The sweetness is actually helping with the shakiness. "About two miles back? Maybe three? I saw your lights."

"Your date left you?"

That's Jason—I can see him now, and he's younger than the others, maybe mid-twenties, with bright eyes and an open, expressive face. He looks personally offended on my behalf, his whole body radiating indignation like a scandalized golden retriever.

"In the rain?" he continues. "On the side of the road? What kind of asshole—"

"Jason," someone warns.

"What? It's a valid question! Who does that?"

"Apparently, Derek." I reach for a fry, too tired to perform okay-ness anymore. "Who also spent forty-five minutes explaining Bitcoin to me like I've never seen a computer, and then told me I'd be prettier if I smiled more."

The fries are perfect. Crispy outside, fluffy inside, salted exactly right.

My stomach growls loudly enough that several of the men definitely hear it, which is mortifying, but I'm too hungry to care.

I never actually ate dinner—hard to have an appetite when your date won't stop talking about his crypto portfolio and his ex.

"You didn't eat," Jason says. It's not a question.

"I was at a restaurant." I take another fry, then another. "But somehow listening to Derek explain blockchain for the fifth time killed my appetite."

Jason makes an outraged noise and pushes the basket closer to me. "Eat more. Silas, can we get him actual food? Like a burger or something?"

"I'm fine, really—" I start, but a man with silver at his temples is already moving toward what I assume is the kitchen.

"You're not fine," Jason says firmly. "You're freezing and starving and some asshole left you on the side of the road in a storm. You need food."

"And for you to stop hovering," the man with the bun interrupts. "You're going to smother him."

"I'm being hospitable, Vaughn."

"You're being a mother hen."

"Both can be true!"

I eat my fries and watch them bicker. It's oddly soothing—the warmth of the blanket around my shoulders, the heat of the mug in my hands, the easy rhythm of their argument. Like watching a family, or at least people who've known each other long enough to fight like one.

My phone finally has enough charge to turn on. I swipe past the lock screen to find five missed texts from Robin, timestamps spanning two hours—which means he's probably pacing our apartment right now, genuinely worried.

I type back quickly: I'll be home soon. Date from hell. Getting uber.

His response is immediate: TOBY. Where the hell have you been?? I was about to call hospitals.

Phone died. Long story. I'm fine.

You're not fine, you're getting an uber which means Derek the Douche didn't drive you home. What happened?

I hesitate, then type: He left me on the side of the road because I wouldn't put out.

WHERE ARE YOU.

I glance around the bar, at the motorcycles I can see through the rain-streaked window, at the very large men who are still watching me while pretending not to.

Some kind of biker bar? I walked until I found somewhere with lights.

A BIKER BAR? Toby!!

They're nice! One of them gave me a blanket. And fries. I think they're making me a burger.

Oh my god.

They seem more concerned than murdery. Like big tattooed golden retrievers.

A pause, then: Be safe. There's chocolate peanut butter cake in the fridge if you want a slice when you get home. Trying a new recipe.

I smile at my phone. Robin stress-bakes when he's worried.

Has since college, when he'd cope with finals by producing enough cookies to feed our entire dorm floor.

By now I can gauge exactly how anxious he is by what's waiting in the fridge.

Cake means worried. If there are also muffins tomorrow, he was genuinely scared.

Love you. Home soon.

Love you too. Text me when you're in the uber.

"Vaughn, stop pacing, you're making everyone nervous." The silver-haired man is back, setting a plate in front of me—a burger with the works and another pile of fries. "Eat," he tells me, voice calm but brooking no argument.

Vaughn—the one with the bun—scoffs but stops wearing a path in the floor. He's still watching me, though. They all are, in that careful, wary way I noticed before. Like they're not quite sure what to do with me.

"Thank you. For all of this." I gesture vaguely at the blanket, the tea, the food I'm steadily demolishing. "I know I'm interrupting your night. I'll be out of your hair as soon as I can get a ride."

"You're not interrupting," Jason says quickly. "Right, guys?"

There's a chorus of agreement that sounds almost rehearsed in its reluctance. Like they're not sure what the right answer is, but they're pretty sure this is it.

"Ezra, did you—" Vaughn starts.

"Already did," a lean man with sharp cheekbones replies, tucking his phone away.

They're all being weird. Careful in a way that goes beyond just dealing with an unexpected stranger. Like there's a whole conversation happening that I'm not privy to. But they're also being incredibly kind—feeding me, warming me, making sure I'm okay—so I decide not to question it.

"Your cardigan," Jason says suddenly, leaning closer to look. "Are those cats?"

I look down at my sodden vintage find. The yellow wool has gone dark with water, but the pattern is still visible—dozens of little cat faces in various expressions, scattered across the fabric.

I found it at a thrift store last month and fell in love immediately, despite Robin telling me it made me look like a kindergarten teacher.

"Yeah." I pick at the wet sleeve. "Derek thought it was weird."

"It's cool," Jason declares with the kind of certainty that suggests he's daring anyone to disagree with him. "Really cool. I like the one that's winking."

"That's my favorite too." I smile despite myself, pointing to another one. "This one looks scandalized. And this one's definitely plotting something."

"He is! Look at his little face!" Jason leans in, delighted. "Vaughn, come look at the plotting cat."

"I'm good."

"You're missing out. This cat has schemes."

I'm laughing before I can stop myself—actually laughing, for the first time all night. Jason grins at me like he's won something.

"See? The cardigan is great. Derek's just an idiot with no taste."

"What do you do?" Jason asks. "For work?"

"I'm a librarian. Downtown branch."

"That's a real job," someone says from across the room, firm.

"A good job," someone else adds.

"Thanks. I—yeah. I like it." I poke at my fries. "I run the youth literacy programs, mostly. We're doing drag queen story hour this week. Miss Glitterbomb does all the voices and my roommate makes themed snacks."

"Wait, your roommate bakes for story hour?"

"He's a pastry chef. He made mouse-shaped cookies last week because we read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie."

"That's adorable. I want to come to story hour."

"It's Thursdays at eleven. Open to the public." I take another sip of tea. "Though I'm not sure it's really your scene."

"Why not? I like stories. I like drag queens. I like cookies shaped like mice." He grins. "I'm extremely well-rounded."

Before I can respond, someone's phone buzzes. Then another. Then three more in rapid succession.

The atmosphere shifts.

It's subtle at first—a straightening of spines, a sharpening of attention. The easy warmth of a moment ago drains away, replaced by something alert and expectant. Vaughn and Ezra exchange a look I can't read. The silver-haired man sets down the glass he was polishing and goes very still.

"He's coming," someone murmurs, low enough that I almost miss it.

I glance around, confused, but no one offers an explanation. They're all facing the door now, or positioned so they can see it. The careful wariness is back, but it's different this time—less about me and more about anticipation. Maybe nerves.

The front door opens, bringing a gust of cold air that cuts through the warmth of the blanket.

Heavy footsteps cross the threshold, steady and unhurried. Confident. The kind of walk that belongs to someone who's never questioned their place in the world.

Everyone in the room seems to hold their breath.

Everyone except me, because I'm oblivious and deep in enjoying the fries and what's left of my burger.