10. Maddox
10
MADDOX
It’s been a week since Black Dog Bites opened its doors, and I’m still stuck at the garage while Ryder gets to spend every damn day with our feisty little baker. Not that I’m jealous. I’m just…strategically concerned about the division of labor.
“Hand me that wrench,” Brick says, his voice muffled from under the Camaro he’s working on.
I kick it toward him with my boot. “Don’t you think it’s weird that Ryder’s always at the diner with Rowan?”
Brick slides out just enough to give me a flat look. “They’re cooking. The place is packed from opening to close. They don’t have time for whatever you’re imagining.”
“I don’t know.” I lean against the workbench, crossing my arms. “Our quiet brother’s been different since she showed up. More…”
“Present?” Brick offers, disappearing under the car again.
“Exactly.” I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it, but that’s it. Ryder’s always been in his own world, but lately, he’s been more engaged. More aware. More focused on something besides engines and kitchen equipment.
And I know exactly who that something is.
“I’m taking tomorrow off,” I announce. “Going to help out at the diner.”
Brick grunts from beneath the car. “We’ve got three appointments and that Mustang needs to be ready by noon.”
“You can handle it. Or reschedule.” I grab a rag to wipe grease from my hands. “Our baker needs more supervision than just Ryder.”
Another grunt. Brick doesn’t argue further, which means he either agrees or doesn’t care enough to fight me on it. Either way, I’m counting it as a win.
“Lucy wants to know how we’re handling Rowan’s wages,” Brick says, changing the subject. “Since she’s working off the bike damage.”
I think about the discussion we had two nights ago. After watching Rowan bust her ass for a week—showing up early, staying late, cooking like she was born in that kitchen— we all silently acknowledged what none of us wanted to say aloud.
“Tell Lucy to keep the debt in a separate account,” I reply. “But don’t actually take it from Rowan’s pay.”
Brick slides out, his eyebrow raised. “So we’re letting her think she’s paying us back?”
I shrug. “She did trash three custom bikes.”
“She’s also doubled our projected first-week revenue,” Brick counters.
“Which is why we’re not actually making her pay.” I grin at my brother. “But she doesn’t need to know that.”
Brick shakes his head, but I catch the slight upturn of his lips. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Her food’s worth more than the bikes,” I admit. “But watching her try to please us? That’s priceless.”
We lock up the garage early. Brick heads to the clubhouse for a meeting with Teller, the President of Black Wolves MC, while I drive home to grab a shower before dinner. Not that I’m making an effort to look good for anyone in particular. I just hate smelling like motor oil when I’m not working.
Our house sits on three acres at the edge of town—a four-bedroom duplex that’s way too big for three guys who spent most of their lives in cramped spaces. But Matthews from Cerberus insisted this was what “heroes” deserved, handing us the keys before we even set foot back in Wolf Pike.
I still don’t feel like a hero. I’m just a guy who did some ugly but necessary things, got paid too much for them, and came home changed.
I spend the evening tinkering with bike designs and nursing a beer while watching some mindless action movie. Ryder hasn’t returned home when I head to my room. After setting my alarm, I drop into my bed, thinking of tomorrow’s opportunities with our debt-paying baker.
My alarm blares, jerking me awake. I slam my hand down, knocking it off the nightstand. Shit. The red numbers show 8:30 a.m. I was supposed to be up at six.
“Damn it,” I groan, rolling out of bed. So much for my early start at the diner.
My bedroom reflects the contradictions in my personality that my brothers love to mock. One wall holds bookshelves filled with everything from motorcycle mechanics to Russian literature. Another displays my hat collection—the one childhood obsession I never outgrew. Leather jackets with skull designs hang next to pristine suits I never wear.
I shower quickly, changing into clean jeans and a black shirt that shows off the tattoos covering my arms. Not trying to impress anyone. Just looking like myself.
Ryder’s already gone by the time I head downstairs, even though I know he came home pretty late last night. He still picks Rowan up every morning, like it’s his sacred duty or something. At least it means I can take the second backup bike—Brick crashed at the garage last night, so he won’t need it.
The ride to the diner takes longer than necessary because I make a detour past the track. Wolf Pike’s underground racing scene is one of the town’s best-kept secrets—a full quarter-mile strip hidden in an abandoned quarry just outside town limits. Tank established it years ago as a controlled environment for speed demons who would otherwise race on public roads. Only locals know about it, and that’s how we keep it.
The track sits empty this early, but tonight, it’ll be filled with the roar of engines and the smell of burning rubber. Friday nights are race nights. Maybe I’ll bring Rowan to see if our little baker has a taste for speed that matches her spicy attitude.
The thought of her clinging to me on a bike, her body pressed against mine as we take corners at dangerous speeds, is enough to put me in a good mood that lasts all the way to the diner.
Black Dog Bites is already humming with early customers when I arrive. The bell above the door announces my entrance, drawing several gazes—mostly appreciative, a few wary. The town still isn’t sure what to make of the Kane brothers’ return, but they sure as hell love our food.
Ryder’s at the grill, his back to the main room. Rowan weaves between tables, coffeepot in hand, stopping to chat with customers we’ve somehow acquired in just a week.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, which means I get to watch her for a moment—the way her body sways slightly as she walks, and the way her genuine smile transforms her entire face. Today, she’s wearing form-fitting black pants that hug curves designed to make a man lose his mind.
“You gonna stand there staring, or are you gonna make yourself useful?” Her voice breaks through my admiration. She hasn’t even turned around. Eyes in the back of her head, this one.
“Depends on your definition of useful, sweetheart.” I move behind the counter, grabbing an apron. “I make a mean cup of coffee.”
She finally faces me, one eyebrow raised. “Your brother didn’t mention you were joining us today.”
“Surprise inspection.” I tie the apron with practiced movements. “Making sure you’re not slacking off on your debt repayment.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real anger there. “We’re short on table seven’s order. Two breakfast specials, extra bacon.”
Just like that, I’m put to work. The morning rushes by in a blur of coffee orders, bacon sizzling, and the constant hum of conversation. I wasn’t lying about the coffee—it’s my specialty. Years of working the counter at Tank’s old place taught me how to match brew to personality. Strong black for the construction workers. Lattes with extra vanilla for young mothers. Americanos for the businessmen pretending they’re not stopping at a biker-owned establishment.
I catch Ryder watching Rowan and me interact, his expression unreadable as always. But there’s something in the way his jaw tightens when I lean close to her to grab a clean mug, something in how his eyes track my movements when I’m in her space.
“Heading out,” Ryder announces around noon, wiping his hands on a towel. “Need to finish the paint job on the bikes.”
Rowan looks up from the ticket she’s writing, her face revealing surprise. “You’re leaving me with him?”
The outrage in her voice makes me laugh. “Don’t worry, princess. I know my way around a kitchen.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she mutters, but quickly shifts to business mode. “The lunch special needs to be started. Prep’s in the walk-in.”
Ryder gives me a look that clearly says behave before heading out the back door. The lunch crowd trickles in as he leaves, keeping us too busy for conversation until midafternoon.
As the crowd thins, I take the opportunity to look at Rowan. Really look. The way sweat beads slightly at her temple, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, and the grace in her hands as she plates a sandwich. The tight pants she’s wearing cling to every curve, the seam running right up the center of her ass when she bends to retrieve something from a lower shelf.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” she snaps, catching me staring.
I grin, unrepentant. “Just admiring the view. Those pants are a workplace hazard.”
“My pants are perfectly fine for a diner.” She turns away, focusing on chopping vegetables with unnecessary force.
“Nothing about the way your ass looks in those is perfectly fine ,” I counter, moving closer under the pretense of reaching for the salt. “It’s distracting.”
“Then stop looking at it.” Her knife doesn’t slow, but her shoulders tense as I invade her space.
“Can’t help it. I’m only human.” I need a spice from the cabinet above her head. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I reach up, pressing slightly closer than necessary. She’s forced to face me, backed against the counter.
Her breath catches as I lean in, my chest nearly touching hers. Our height difference means she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Her defiance is simultaneously irritating and arousing.
“Excuse me,” she says, attempting to slip past.
I don’t move. Instead, I place my hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her in. “Not so sharp-tongued now, are you?”
Up close, I can see flecks of gold in her green eyes, count each freckle dusting her nose, and feel the heat radiating from her body.
“Move,” she whispers, but there’s a quiver in her voice that tells me she’s not entirely opposed to our current position.
I push closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. She gasps as I press forward, making sure she feels exactly what she’s doing to me. The thin material of her pants and my jeans does little to disguise my reaction to her.
“You like this, don’t you?” I murmur, my voice dropping lower as my gaze shifts to her parted lips. “Like playing with fire.”
Her breathing quickens, her pupils dilating as she stares up at me. For a moment, I think she might actually tilt her face up the remaining inch and close the gap herself.
The bell above the door chimes, shattering the moment.
Rowan’s reaction is instantaneous and painful. Her elbow connects with my ribs, followed immediately by her knee driving upward between my legs. Not enough to do serious damage, but enough to make me double over, groaning.
“Dick,” she hisses, slipping away while I’m incapacitated.
I straighten slowly, my hands braced on my thighs as I watch her straighten her clothes and paste on a smile before heading out to greet the customer.
“Worth it,” I mutter to myself, adjusting my jeans while I can’t be seen from the dining area.