Chapter 3
Kayla
The lunch crowd at The Sandwich Tree is loud enough to make conversation a challenge, but Morgan doesn’t seem to notice.
She gestures excitedly as she talks about my upcoming date with Roman this weekend, nearly knocking over her drink.
The small shooting star tattooed on her left cheek crinkles as she grins at me across the table.
“I still can’t believe you got Roman to agree to wear a suit,” Morgan says, shaking her head.
“Are we sure he’s not just going to turn up in a suit jacket over his usual jeans and boots?
Because, babe, I saw the man in what he considers to be formal wear at your wedding. He’s not exactly Don Draper.”
“He said he would,” I say, sounding more optimistic than I feel. “And anyway, I bribed him with the promise of dessert if he actually wears the whole thing. Including the tie.”
Morgan laughs. “God, I would pay good money to see that. Roman Sullivan in a suit must be like… illegal levels of hot.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’ll take a picture for you.”
“You’d better.” She tips her cup slightly towards me before taking a sip. “I need it for science.”
I take a small bite of my own sandwich, but I’m not truly hungry.
I can’t stop thinking about the upcoming weekend.
After the disaster that was the last club party and what happened the morning after, I decided that if our marriage was going to last, Roman needed to start meeting me halfway too.
This date is an attempt at that. If he’s going to expect me to make an effort to be part of his world, part of the club, he can occasionally wear a suit and be part of my world too.
It made sense at the time. I just wanted us to feel like a normal couple for once.
But now I wonder if it will be enough. If I’m just focusing on the externals and avoiding addressing the deeper issues in my marriage.
“You realize if his brothers in the club see him, they will never let him live it down,” Morgan is saying, but she stops when she sees my expression. “Hey, you okay?” She asks, her voice softening.
“Just tired,” I lie, taking a sip of water. “Work’s been crazy.”
Morgan snorts. “Kayla, we work at the same place, and just yesterday Gia was talking about closing for the season a week early because it’s been so dead.
Is this whole thing about what happened with the club?
Because I can help you throw a brick through Naomi’s window if she’s still giving you problems.”
I manage a weak smile. Morgan knows me too well; we’ve been friends since I first moved to Redbird and started at Pine Ridge Landscaping.
She was the first person to invite me for drinks after work, the first real friend I made here.
She was also one of the few people who didn’t change how they treated me after I started dating Roman.
She’s one of the few in town who aren’t intimidated by the Rejects.
“The club would kill you,” I tell her, “and don’t think I could protect you because, aside from Roman, none of them seem to like me very much.”
“They could try,” Morgan salutes me with the last of her sandwich before she finishes it. “They’d have to catch me first.”
I just shake my head at that. We finish the rest of our lunch in silence.
“I just…” I start, and then falter. “I wish he’d let me in more. That’s all. Sometimes I feel like I’m only married to half a man.”
Morgan is silent, which for her is a sign that’ she’s actually listening. I look up. “You ever had that with anyone?” I ask. “That sense that they’re always just slightly out of reach?”
She snorts. “Kayla, I’m a lesbian in rural Montana. The hell do you think I know about relationships? But seriously, Roman loves you. The rest is just…bullshit. You know that, right?”
I nod, but I don’t really believe it.
Morgan glances at the time on her phone. “Shit, I need to get back. Gia will murder me if I’m late again.”
We dispose of our trash and head for the exit. Outside, the October air has a crisp edge to it, the sky a clear, deep blue that makes me think of Roman’s eyes. Since I have the day off, I say goodbye to Morgan and head toward the small parking lot behind the restaurant where I left my car.
As I walk toward my car, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I suddenly feel like I’m being watched. I scan the parking lot, my heart rate picking up when I spot him: a man straddling a motorcycle at the far edge of the lot, his gaze fixed directly on me.
He’s wearing a leather cut, but even at this distance, I can tell it’s not the Devil’s Rejects’ familiar skull logo. This is someone from another club. I freeze, uncertain what to do. Should I turn back? Go into one of the shops? Call Roman?
Before I can decide, the biker notices me staring back. In one fluid motion, he kicks his bike to life, the engine roaring in the quiet afternoon. He peels out of the parking lot without looking back, leaving me standing there with my heart hammering against my ribs.
I take a shaky breath, making a mental note to tell Roman about this later. Maybe it’s nothing; random bikers pass through town all the time. But the intentness of his stare felt deliberate. Like he was looking for me specifically.
My hand trembles slightly as I dig my keys out of my purse. I’m almost to my car when I hear it.
“Hey, plant lady!”
My stomach drops. I know that voice. For a split second, I consider pretending I didn’t hear, just getting in my car and driving away. But I’d probably hear about it later from Roman if I did.
Naomi stands next to a gleaming motorcycle, flanked by two Devil’s Rejects members I vaguely recognize from club gatherings.
Her wild curls are pulled back in a ponytail, and in the direct sun they look even more vibrant than usual, almost unnaturally red.
She’s wearing skintight jeans and her cut.
Looking at it reminds me of that night and I feel my shoulders tensing up.
“Naomi,” I say, injecting false brightness into my voice. “Always such a pleasure to see you.”
God, I hope that didn’t sound as sarcastic as it felt.
Naomi saunters toward me, the men who are with her trailing behind.
“I see you’re still around,” she says, looking me up and down like I’m a mildly interesting insect.
I blink. “Was that a question? Because… yes?”
She studies me for a beat, then looks over her shoulder at her companions. “I like her,” she says, loud enough that I’m pretty sure half the lot can hear. “She’s got guts. Doesn’t she have guts, boys?”
Neither man answers.
I sigh, adjusting my purse strap on my shoulder. “What do you want, Naomi?”
Naomi turns back towards me, lowering her voice. “Most of Viper’s previous playthings would’ve run for the hills by now.”
I stiffen at the word “playthings,” but force myself to maintain eye contact. I will not let her see how much she’s getting to me.
“I think I would actually be upset if anything bad happened to you,” she continues and I could almost believe her words if her eyes weren’t glittering with malice.
I look at her, then at the men flanking her, then back at her. “Is that a threat?”
She smiles. “It’s a statement of fact. The world’s a dangerous place. People get hurt. But you don’t have to worry. You’re one of us. Aren’t you?”
One of the bikers with her shifts uncomfortably. “Tech, we really need to get moving.”
Naomi waves him off without looking away from me. “Roman might be home late tonight,” she says, her smile widening slightly. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll take good care of him.”
Something cold slides down my spine. “How thoughtful of you.”
She turns away, then tosses over her shoulder, “How was that yoga yesterday, by the way? Finding your inner peace? Watch your back, plant lady.”
With that, she strides back to her bike, swinging her leg over it in one smooth motion. The three of them roar out of the parking lot moments later, leaving me standing there, keys clutched so tightly in my hand that they’re digging painfully into my palm.
I unlock my car with shaking fingers and slide into the driver’s seat. But I don’t start the engine. I can’t seem to make my limbs cooperate. My mind is stuck on what Naomi said.
Yoga yesterday.
I did have a yoga class yesterday. Roman doesn’t know about it. Early on in our marriage, he would tease me about my “crunchy granola” interests, so I just stopped telling him about them.
Which means Naomi’s been watching me.
The thought makes the hairs on my arms stand up. Turning the ignition, I start the drive home and make a note to talk with Roman about Naomi. I only hope the conversation doesn’t end with him shutting me out again, the way he does every time I bring up the club.
* * *
The clay feels cool and slick beneath my fingers as I press down on the wheel, my foot working the pedal in a steady rhythm.
The empty plate at the kitchen table is still there; the meal I’d prepared for two eaten by one.
Three unanswered texts and two ignored calls are on my phone.
This is becoming our new normal: me waiting, Roman absent.
I shape the clay with gentle pressure, coaxing it higher, watching it transform under my hands. There’s something profoundly satisfying about creating something from nothing; turning a lump of formless earth into something beautiful, something useful. I can lose myself for hours in this process.
I look around at the studio Roman built for me.
The evening light still filters through the enlarged east-facing windows, catching dust motes in golden beams. Potted plants line the shelves along with my finished pieces; some successful, some less so, but all created by me.
Along one wall stands the workbench Roman built with his own hands, sanded smooth and finished with natural oils rather than chemical varnish because he knows I prefer that.
In the corner sits the kiln he installed, running new electrical lines himself to accommodate it.