Chapter 1 Catfish
CATFISH
COLORADO - ONE DAY LATER
The scent of bread baking wakes me out of a dead sleep, and it takes me a second to remember that I’m in Smoke and Quinn’s apartment above the bakery, protecting Wren, who arrived at the clubhouse yesterday.
A position I volunteered for, given I suspect there’s an additional reason why Wren is here. I’m not usually one for fatalist thinking, but then King, our national president, showed up with some of the Jersey Outlaws yesterday, the day after we told them we’d been hacked.
On my fucking watch as treasurer and club secretary.
I wince and put an arm over my eyes.
It’s clear King doesn’t trust me to fix it, and I don’t blame him, because I can’t.
So, do I believe that Wren truly is in trouble and needs our protection? Maybe.
Do I think they’re here to spy on me, to spy on us, and report back to King what the hell is going on out here? Also, maybe.
Did I also wake up with a boner because I’d spent half of last night dreaming about Wren?
About that thick dark hair with green ends?
About that smart mouth? About those haunted gray eyes and how every time Wren looked down at their keyboard, I missed seeing them?
About how they helped us save Lucy from being killed?
Okay, so there’s no maybe on all that. It’s definite.
But there’s no way I’m reaching for my cock and jerking one out over a person I barely know and who’s asleep in the room next door.
The person I’m convinced is here to report back to King on my role in the missing money and possibly make recommendations to him that I should be removed from my role.
Panic wipes out arousal, leaving me feeling sick to my stomach.
The bank was less than helpful when I called them, and I’ve barely slept. The idea I let my brothers and my club down in some way doesn’t sit well. Rage bubbles again, like an untamed volcano about to erupt.
Just breathe.
Another breath.
Then another.
Until the wave of fury and panic recedes.
I try to reassure myself that my brothers trust me, won’t blame me, and know it isn’t my fault.
But your national president wouldn’t fly out here on a private jet for shits and giggles.
I force myself out of bed and pull on some clothes. Soft and well-worn jeans, a thermal long sleeve, and a plaid shirt. When I look out the window, toward the dentist on Main Street, I can see snow has fallen. I grab my phone and call my sister, Willa, as I walk to the kitchen.
When her face appears on my screen, she’s stirring the oatmeal gloop she makes her three-year-old twins—my niece, Maddie, and nephew, Mason—every day. “Morning, River. You’re up early. Everything okay?” There’s worry etched in her eyes.
“No, all good. There’s just some stuff happening at the club, and so I’m not home to plow the drive for you.”
I live in a small but warm apartment above her garage. Her douchebag of an ex-husband insisted on building it to hold his fleet of cars and to create a large home office, before the predictable asshole slept with his assistant.
Now, I stand watch over them all because, at first, the asshole wouldn’t leave her alone, begging for a second chance.
When she said no, he threatened her.
In front of those two precious babies.
Currently, a legal document says he’s not allowed within two hundred feet of this place. I’m insurance, in case he ever tries his luck.
In return for paying a pitiful rent, I take care of shit like plowing their drive so she can get the kids into their car seats before daycare without a fuss. And I hang out with them on the rare occasion Willa has plans with friends or has to stay late at the school where she’s the principal.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I already called it a snow day and sent the email out to parents. Will you be okay?”
“Yeah. Fine,” I say, shaking off my initial reaction, to pack a bag and run, which would be fucking ridiculous because I haven’t done anything wrong. And I trust Grudge, my president, to know I didn’t steal the money.
“Uncle River,” Mason says, coming into view on the screen. “You make a snowman with me?”
“Aww, bud. I wish I could. But I gotta go to work.”
His little feet bare beneath his thick flannel pajamas. “I go with you?”
“No. You stay inside where it’s warm and be good for your momma.”
He chuckles at that. “I be the goodest.”
One look at that kid’s face, and I melt.
“Go,” Willa says. “And let me know you’re okay later.”
I nod. “I will. I’ll send some prospects to clear the drive later, yeah?”
Willa nods. “Thank you.”
Beyond the operational clanging of the bakery downstairs, the apartment itself is quiet, apart from the rhythmic creak of Grudge and Lucy’s bed.
The two of them are staying here too. While I’m used to the sounds of sex within the motorcycle clubhouse, I’m not immune to the way it makes my cock stir.
I groan, quietly. Maybe I should have let myself jerk one out this morning. It would have been worth it for the stress-relief alone.
On the kitchen counter are leftover croissants in a paper bag. I open it and take one out. They’re firmer than yesterday, heading toward stale, but they’ll fill the rumbling hole in my gut.
“Morning,” a quiet voice behind me says.
I turn and face Wren. Their face is soft, but there are dark circles beneath their eyes. “Morning,” I say. “You sleep okay?”
They glance wistfully in the direction of their room. “Not yet.”
The answer feels cryptic. “As in you didn’t get comfortable enough to sleep well? Or didn’t sleep at all?”
Wren’s eyes meet mine. Another punch to the solar plexus. “Didn’t sleep at all yet. I just need some coffee.”
I look at the empty pot. “It feels like coffee is the last thing you need. Sleep might be a better choice.”
Wren shrugs and reaches for the coffee filters anyway.
“What you did yesterday, helping Grudge find Lucy, helping the club out, that was amazing.”
“It’s easy when someone leaves themselves as exposed as Lucy’s idiotic father did. I think people forget just how detailed a trail they leave behind. The digital nature of most of our transactions and the effect of cloud storage these days just makes it even easier to hack or find someone.”
While I eat the rest of my croissant, I wonder as to why that makes Lucy’s father an idiot. “The average person uses the cloud all the time, though. Don’t businesses use it and shit?”
Those eyes finally meet mine, but this time, they’re filled with an almost comical disdain.
“Please don’t talk with food in your mouth; it’s gross.
Yes, people do. But if I were making a repository of potentially life-ruining data, I wouldn’t just stick it in the cloud for anyone to hack.
Especially if I wasn’t particularly tech literate.
Any person who labels files as ‘final’ and ‘final v2’ and ‘most final’ is no computer wizard. ”
I wince because I’ve been known to name files that way, and I make a mental note to never let Wren see the state of my laptop. Though it’s kind of ridiculous that instead of worrying about the missing money and why Wren is here, I’m too busy thinking about Wren finding out I’m shit at naming files.
“Why green?” I ask, the question surprising even myself. And fuck me if it doesn’t give me away as curious about the person currently watching the coffee pot bubble.
Wren glances over their shoulder at me. “Why green what?”
I point up and down in the direction of their hair. It looks lush and thick and I want to drive my hand into it. Bet it smells good too.
Wren looks down at their hair and runs their fingers through the ends. “Matrix.”
“What?”
I’ve never believed in any of that love-at-first-sight bullshit, but I totally embrace the concept of lust at first sight.
When Wren looks back to me again, I swear my cock stiffens in my denim.
Never been more relieved there’s a kitchen island between us so Wren can’t witness my dick making a break for freedom.
“Think the green and black of the Matrix movies. Less neon, though. I didn’t want to bleach my hair again because the ends used to be gray.”
“Huh.” Their answer makes my cock ache even harder, and I tuck myself closer into the island. “The chick in that movie was smoking hot. All that PVC and leather.”
Wren rolls their eyes. “Of course, you remember her outfit.” Their tone tells me they think I’m a sexist asshole. But my thoughts also drifted to the way Neo looked in that movie, so it wasn’t quite like Wren thinks.
“In fairness, I remember her body and the way she could kick ass in heels. My mom loved all those movies, would watch them at least once a month. They were the source of many an uncomfortable teenage boner.”
I don’t say anything about the adult boner I’m currently hiding.
Wren places their palm on their forehead. “I think you’ve forgotten this isn’t the clubhouse and I’m not one of your brothers.”
That makes me laugh, that they think who I am differs based on who I’m with. I am who I am. “What’re you going to do? Complain to HR?”
Wren’s eyes narrow in my direction.
I watch as they busy themself, their movements measured and meticulous, like when they type. “What you did yesterday, all that hacking into cameras and shit. Can you do that for any camera? Like, have an on-going feed of it?”
“I’m a magician, Catfish. The sooner you catch on that I can do just about anything, the better.”
Wren might be fucking pretty, but they’re a touch full of themself. And I’m not used to being talked to like I’m five years old. It rubs up against childhood patterns that sting. “You want to magic a new attitude? Dial down the ego, dial up the charm a little.”
Wren flips the bird at me. “Next thing we know, you’re gonna be telling me to smile more.”
That does make me laugh. “Wouldn’t hurt. Would make the scenery around here much more pleasant.”
“Now you’re just being an asshole.”
I shrug. “Been called worse.”
Wren grabs a croissant and rips a piece off before putting it into their mouth. The little flick of their tongue on their fingers makes me want to go over there and suck it. So, instead, I ask the question I’ve been burning to ask.
“How come you’re here, Wren?” I ask. “For real.”