Chapter Two
Tempi
The beer lines were sticky again.
I groaned as I yanked the tap handle forward and got a foamy, half-ass pour that hissed like it resented me.
The glass went into the rinse bucket with a clunk, and I grabbed the hose to flush the tap for the third damn time this week.
Note to self: call the line guy. Again.
I glanced around the bar and mentally ticked off the list I always kept in my head.
Mop the floor.
Restock the cooler.
Change out the light in the women’s bathroom before someone left a Yelp review about peeing in the dark. Again.
Mornings at The Badger’s Den weren’t glamorous.
They were quiet.
Sacred, even.
No music. No noise. Just me, the smell of beer, bleach, and a little bit of lemon from the cleaner I used to wipe down the bar top. A few hours of peace before the world came in smelling like cigarettes and bad decisions.
I flipped on the TV mounted in the corner, muted news highlights flashed across the screen, and I stepped back behind the bar.
The Badger’s Den wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.
Four years since Dad passed, and I was still keeping it alive on a mix of stubbornness and sheer spite.
People liked to talk about how bars were a dying breed, but mine wasn’t. Not in Madison. Not on State Street.
We weren’t trendy.
We were Wisconsin.
Fried cheese curds. Bloody Marys that could feed a family. Badger games on every screen. And regulars who knew my name and I knew theirs.
I loved this place even when it drove me nuts.
“Hey, Tempi!”
called Britta from the back hallway.
“We outta lemons again?”
“Check the walk-in. If they’re not in there, we’re screwed until the delivery comes.”
I grabbed the bar rag and started wiping down the back counter while eyeing the row of liquor bottles. I’d need to restock vodka before tonight. Maybe whiskey, too. Depends on how many of the Tuesday regulars rolled in looking for drama and cheap shots.
The bell over the front door dinged.
I didn’t look up right away. It was probably Randy from the butcher’s dropping off the jerky sticks for the Bloody Marys or one of the old-timers coming in to warm a stool before noon. Most of my daytime crowd didn’t demand much beyond a cold drink and a dry place to nurse regrets.
But the footsteps that followed?
They didn’t match.
Heavy. Measured. Like someone who knew exactly where he was going and didn’t give a damn if you liked it.
I looked up and immediately wished I hadn’t.
He was tall, broad across the shoulders, and wearing a black leather cut with silver stitching that screamed dangerous and proud of it. His presence filled the room like a punch in the chest. Confident. Calm. Calculated.
And a patch I’d never seen before: Saint’s Outlaws MC.
Shit.
This guy looked like trouble.
He took two steps inside and gave the place a slow, assessing look. Like he was taking inventory. Like he owned the place.
I think the fuck not.
Then his eyes landed on me.
“I need to talk to the owner,”
he said. His voice was deep, rough around the edges, with a tone that didn’t ask so much as expected.
I arched a brow.
“You’re talkin’ to her.”
He paused, head tilted slightly, like he thought he’d misheard me.
“The owner?”
“Yep.”
I leaned both elbows on the bar and smiled, slow and unimpressed.
“Still me.”
He blinked. “Huh.”
“That a problem?”
“No,”
he said, and narrowed his eyes.
“Just not what I expected.”
I straightened and crossed my arms.
“What exactly were you expecting? A guy in cargo shorts with a ‘World’s Best Bar Owner’ apron?”
He smirked. “Maybe.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint, biker man. You get me.”
He stepped closer and planted both hands on the bar. His fingers were rough. Knuckles scarred. Rings gleamed on a few of them. Nothing fancy, just sharp edges and brass.
His eyes looked me up and down.
“Is that an offer, sweetheart?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Hardly. What can I do for you?”
I asked. I had heard all of the pickup lines before. This guy may have one of the most handsome faces I've ever seen, but that wasn’t going to fool me.
“Name’s Twister,”
he said.
“President of the Saint’s Outlaws. We just set up shop down the street. And you are?”
I’d heard the rumble of bikes for three straight days. Seen the crew moving boxes, hauling tools, slapping stickers and skulls onto every flat surface they could find. I’d even spotted one of them peeing behind the dumpster in broad daylight.
Saint’s Outlaws weren’t subtle.
“I’m Tempi, and I’ve noticed you guys,”
I said.
“It’s been like living next to a Harley dealership on fire.”
That grin on his face widened.
“Just came to introduce myself. Figured it was polite.”
“Uh-huh,”
I said, not buying it for a second.
“Let me guess, you want to ‘build a relationship’ with the local businesses.”
He tilted his head.
“Something like that.”
“Well, I’m not interested.”
“You don’t even know what I’m offering.”
“I don’t need to. I’ve been running this bar long enough to know when someone walks in talking with their chest that they’re usually trying to bulldoze something.”
This was, in fact, not my first rodeo.
Twister chuckled and leaned in like he enjoyed the resistance.
“You always this feisty with your neighbors?”
“Only the ones who think they can waltz in and try to bulldoze me.”
“Feisty and observant,”
he said.
“Hell of a combo. But I’m not trying to bulldoze you. I just want to be… neighborly.”
I sighed.
“Look. You do your thing, I’ll do mine. You keep your boys out of my bar if they can’t hold their liquor, and we won’t have any problems.”
Twister looked around again, like he was mapping escape routes. Or maybe planning a renovation.
“Hell of a place you got here.”
“Thanks,”
I replied.
“It stays open because I know when to say no.”
“I can respect that,” he said.
It should’ve sounded like a compliment, but it felt more like a warning. The way his eyes locked on mine, sharp and unflinching, I got the sense he wasn’t used to being told no.
And maybe didn’t hear it very often.
I stepped back from the bar and tossed the rag onto the counter.
“You done now, President Twister?”
“For now,”
he said and turned toward the door.
“But I’ll be back.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
He paused, hand on the door, and gave me a once-over that wasn’t disrespectful but sure as hell wasn’t apologetic either.
“I wasn’t offering.”
The bell dinged as he walked out, his heavy boots echoed against the tile.
And just like that, the temperature in the bar went up five degrees.
I stood there longer than I should’ve, with my heart thumping harder than I wanted to admit. Britta poked her head out from the back hallway with her brows raised.
“Who the hell was that?”
“Trouble,”
I muttered.
She leaned on the doorframe.
“Trouble in the hot, dangerous way or trouble in the someone’s-gonna-break-our-windows way?”
“Could be both.”
“Well,”
Britta said with a grin, “if you need someone to hold your earrings, I’m your girl.”
I laughed and shook my head.
“I don’t need backup. Yet.”
But I had a feeling I might if their club was here to cause problems.
And Twister?
He wasn’t going to be easy to ignore.