Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Tool sat at the bar, whiskey burning its way down his throat. He should’ve gone to the clubhouse—put more distance between himself and Brandi. But instead, he was here, two blocks away, too damn close to pretend her words hadn’t hit their mark. Coward.
She had no idea what she was talking about. He was a lot of things—reckless, stubborn, maybe even an asshole—but a coward? Not a fucking chance. If she wanted to throw words like that around, she needed to be ready to back them up.
Tossing a few bills on the counter, he downed the rest of his whiskey in one go and pushed to his feet. The bar door swung open under his grip, the cool evening air doing nothing to settle the fire raging in his chest. He didn’t stop as he hit the sidewalk.
With every step, the anger sharpened, fueling his determination. If Brandi wanted to call him names, fine. But she was about to find out exactly who he was.
And he’d make damn sure she never called him a coward again.
The evening air did little to cool the fire raging inside him.
Tool rolled his shoulders, muscles tight as he stalked down the sidewalk.
Two blocks. That was all that stood between him and Brandi.
Between setting things straight and letting her keep thinking he was some weak, indecisive bastard who ran when things got hard.
Coward. The word scraped against something raw inside him. She had no damn clue.
A streetlight flickered overhead as he crossed the last intersection, his boots heavy against the pavement. The Coffee Bean’s windows glowed soft and warm, the faint hum of life inside barely registering over the rush of blood in his ears.
He spotted her immediately—head bent over a clipboard; brow furrowed in concentration as she moved through the back stock area. Focused. Unaware.
For a second, he hesitated. She looked… settled. Like she’d made her decision and wasn’t second-guessing it. And maybe that was the real reason he was there. Because Brandi had drawn a line in the sand, and he wasn’t sure he could let her keep it there.
Jaw tightening, he pushed the door open.
The bell jingled, and her head snapped up. Surprise flickered across her face, but it was gone in a blink, replaced by something sharper.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, setting the clipboard down.
Tool shoved his sunglasses up onto his head. “You want to talk shit, Brandi? Say it to my face.”
She folded her arms. “I did. But it looks like you finally grew a spine and decided to show up.”
His teeth clenched. “You don’t get it.”
“No, Tool, I do.” She took a step closer, chin tilted up, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to pick and choose when you care. You don’t get to act like I matter one second and disappear the next. And you sure as hell don’t get to call me out for moving the hell on.”
His fingers twitched at his sides. “You think I don’t care?” His voice was low, dangerous. “You think I don’t want—” He stopped himself, jaw working.
Brandi’s lips parted slightly, just enough for him to catch the sharp inhale she took. But she didn’t step back. Didn’t give him an inch.
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You don’t know a damn thing, Brandi.”
She huffed a bitter laugh. “Then tell me, Tool.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. He could walk away. He should walk away. Instead, he took a step closer.
Brandi stood her ground. She wasn’t the same girl Tool had helped years ago. She’d stayed in Lampsing because she had nowhere else to go—but deep down, she had also hoped, beyond all reason, that Tool had seen her as more than just someone who needed saving.
She still remembered the day he had given her a choice, when he had shown her that she was more.
Sitting at the bus station, waiting on a ride to Seattle, she had told herself she was safe, that the man who once owned her couldn’t hurt her anymore. It had taken everything in her not to run, not to let the ghosts of her past keep her trapped.
She had made amends with Wick, carving out a real life for herself. A life she was finally living. All but the relationship part. But that would come.
Freedom came with a cost, and for some, the payment was high. She had kept herself busy, kept herself out of trouble—though it had been easy enough when she was stuck at the clubhouse without transportation.
Still, thinking back to that night at the bus stop, when Tool had appeared beside her, reminded her just how deeply she had been drawn to him from the beginning. Everything about him had made her nervous. She remembered every damn detail of that encounter.
“Brandi.”
She startled, her grip slipping from the plastic bus station seat as she whipped around. Her bag tumbled across the floor as she scrambled to right herself.
“Tool? What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer at first, just held out a hand to help her up. When she hesitated, he waited, unmoving. Finally, she reached for him, and he pulled her to her feet with ease.
“Come on,” he said. “I’m taking you back.”
Confusion and something else—something more painful—tightened in her chest. “Why? I mean… is something wrong?”
“Nope,” he said, snatching her bus ticket and heading for the counter. “You just need to stay here, that’s all.”
Brandi watched as he pushed the slip of paper across the counter, not surprised when the clerk handed him a full refund without question. Tool had that effect on people.
With money in hand, he turned, signaling for her to follow.
Brandi wasn’t sure what she expected when she stepped outside, but she figured there would be at least a few other club brothers waiting. There weren’t. The only vehicle in the lot was a single, gleaming motorcycle—a blood-red Harley with ghostly skulls licked into the paint.
A fine-looking bike, sure, but…“Where am I supposed to ride?” she asked, eyeing the machine warily.
Tool smirked, gunmetal-gray eyes glinting in the dim parking lot lights. He looked unfairly good like that, his long dark hair pulled back from his face, the sharp planes of his jawline catching the glow.
He unlocked his saddlebag and pulled out a small pad, sticking it onto the rear fender. “You sit there.”
Brandi blinked. “That? That’s not a seat.”
He ignored her, reaching down to push down the passenger footpegs. “This might go easier if you just trust me.”
Trust. That was a heavy word. Still, she hesitated. “I’ve never been on a bike.”
“Not a problem,” he said, already climbing onto the machine. He reached back, taking her hand and placing it on his shoulder. “Step up using the peg. Swing your leg over. Use my shoulder for balance.”
She braced herself, expecting to fumble, but somehow, she got on without making a complete fool of herself.
With her bag secured and his spare helmet fastened onto her head, she sat rigid behind him, hands hovering awkwardly.
Where did she put them? And how the hell was she supposed to stay on without flying off the back?
Her answer came a second later when Tool reached back, took her wrists, and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Hold on tight,” he said, voice rough.
Then they were moving, blasting onto Highway 1, the roar of the engine drowning out the sound of her thundering heart.
Brandi followed Tool into the room above the MC clubhouse, her steps slow, uncertain. He still hadn’t explained why he had come for her that night. Most men wanted something from her. Even Wick had wanted something from her—though in his case, it had been to help.
She shuddered, thinking about where that had gotten him.
Tool dropped her bag onto the chair, but he didn’t leave. Brandi’s breath hitched. She knew how this worked.
She removed the sling supporting her injured arm and reached for the buttons of her blouse.
“Do you want me on the bed or the floor?” she asked, voice flat.
Tool turned sharply, his brows furrowing. “What the hell are you doing? Stop that. Button your damn shirt up.”
Brandi froze. “I thought you…” Her voice cracked, tears rising fast. For the first time, she didn’t know what was expected of her.
She had no skills. No safety net. Fiddler had uncovered that her family had never gained citizenship. She had no visa, no real reason for the government not to deport her back to Romania.
Panic clawed at her throat. “If I’m not here to service you, then why am I here?”
Tool exhaled harshly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Service me? Where do you get this shit from?”
“I’ve only been with one man willingly,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “That was Wick. But Mischa said I was there to service him and his friends.”
Tool’s entire body went rigid. His eyes darkened, his fists clenching. “I really don’t want to know about you and my brother.” His voice was gritted steel. “And I can’t kill that fucker twice, so let’s not talk about Mischa again.”
Brandi swallowed hard.
Tool let out a slow breath. “You’re staying here at the clubhouse. Gypsy knows. You proved you could be trusted. This gives you time to figure things out.”
He pulled a phone from his pocket and handed it to her. “My number’s in there. So is Gypsy’s. If you need anything, you call. And only us.”
Then he handed her an envelope thick with cash.
She stared at it. “What’s this for?”
“You need money to get by.” He shrugged. “When things settle, we’ll help you get on your feet—if that’s what you want.”
She hesitated before taking it.
Tool’s gaze softened just a fraction. “You made some bad fucking choices. But you did what you had to do to get free. And in the end, you stood up for yourself.” He stepped back, tossing her sling onto the chair. “This room’s got its own bathroom. It’s stocked.”
Brandi nodded. “Okay.”
He turned, heading for the door.
“Tool?”
He stopped.
She hesitated, then muttered, “Thanks.”
He said nothing. Just nodded once before walking out, pulling the door closed behind him.
Brandi exhaled slowly.
“Brandi.”
Shaking herself, she turned toward the door. “What?”
“Screw this.”
Before she could react, Tool was on her, his grip tight as he yanked her forward. Then his mouth crashed against hers, stealing the breath straight from her lungs.