Chapter 2 - Jenny
I'm sitting on the edge of my new bed in the small apartment above the clubhouse, staring at the chipped nail polish on my toes and trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life, when a heavy knock rattles my door.
"Just a minute," I call, grabbing a hoodie to cover my tank top. I've learned the hard way that walking around the clubhouse without adequate coverage leads to unwanted stares from most of the guys. Most, not all.
Beast never stares. At least not when he thinks I can see him.
But I've caught him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking, his dark eyes following me across a room before quickly darting away.
It makes me clench my thighs in ways that are entirely inappropriate, considering he's my brother's friend and eight years older than me.
I swing the door open, expecting Tank with another lecture about "staying safe" or "being careful" around the club members. Instead, I find myself staring at a broad chest covered in a leather cut.
My eyes travel up—way up—until they land on Beast's face. His jaw is tense, beard neatly trimmed, and those dark eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes me step back.
"Jenny," he says, my name rumbling from his chest like distant thunder.
"Beast." I cross my arms, suddenly conscious of how small my apartment is and how much of it he fills just standing in the doorway. "What can I do for you?"
He shifts his weight, something I've never seen him do before. Beast doesn't fidget. He doesn't show uncertainty. He's a mountain: unmovable and solid.
"Can I come in?" he asks, glancing down the hallway. "Need to talk to you about something."
Curiosity overrides my better judgment. "Sure."
I step aside, and he enters my space, making my studio apartment shrink to the size of a shoebox.
I've only been here for a week, having moved in after helping Amelia escape her abusive ex-husband.
The place is still mostly empty—a bed, a small couch Tank found at a thrift store, a coffee maker, and not much else.
Beast stands awkwardly in the center of the room, looking too large for the furniture around him.
"You can sit," I offer, gesturing to the couch.
He shakes his head. "This'll just take a minute."
My heart rate picks up. Has something happened? Is Tank hurt?
"What's wrong?" I ask, unable to keep the edge of panic from my voice.
"Nothing's wrong," he says quickly, then grimaces. "Well, not exactly wrong. I need a favor."
I relax slightly. "A favor? From me?"
"Yeah." His massive hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. "It's... complicated."
I wait, but he seems to be struggling with whatever he wants to say.
It's fascinating, really. I've seen this man knock someone unconscious with one punch during a bar fight last weekend, his face completely emotionless.
Now he's standing in my apartment looking like he'd rather face a firing squad than continue this conversation.
"Beast," I prompt, "just spit it out."
He takes a deep breath. "I need you to be my girlfriend."
I blink, certain I've misheard him. "Excuse me?"
"Not for real," he clarifies hastily. "Just... pretend. For my mom."
A startled laugh escapes me. "Your mom? You want me to fake-date you for your mom?"
His eyes narrow slightly. "It's not funny."
But it kind of is. The massive enforcer for the Savage Riders, a man who's probably done things I don't want to imagine, is standing in my apartment asking me to play pretend to please his mother.
"Sorry," I say, trying to control my smile. "But you have to admit, it's a little unexpected. Why do you need a fake girlfriend?"
He sighs heavily and finally sits on my couch, which creaks under his weight.
"My mother thinks I need to settle down. She's been trying to set me up with every single woman in a fifty-mile radius. Today she mentioned some kindergarten teacher who's moving to town next month."
"And that's... bad?" I perch on the arm of the couch, keeping some distance between us.
"I don't date," he says flatly. "Not seriously. I don't do relationships."
"But you sleep with half the women in Blackwater Falls," I point out before I can stop myself.
His eyebrows shoot up, and I feel heat creep up my neck.
"I mean, that's what I've heard," I add lamely.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Doesn't mean I date them."
"Right." I look away, suddenly fascinated by a water stain on my ceiling. "So, you told your mom you have a girlfriend to get her off your back?"
"Yeah."
"And you said it was me? Why me?" I turn back to him, genuinely curious. He could have named any woman in town.
Now it's his turn to look uncomfortable. "You were the first person I thought of. Plus, you're new in town, so my mom doesn't know much about you. And you're..." He trails off, eyes skimming over me briefly.
"I'm what?" I press, annoyed at his hesitation.
"You're the kind of woman my mother would approve of," he finishes. "Smart. Got your shit together. Work with kids."
"Wow. I sound boring as hell when you put it like that."
His lips twitch again. "You're not boring."
The way he says it makes my stomach flutter, and I mentally slap myself. This is not the time to get all swoony over a compliment that wasn't even really a compliment.
"What exactly would this fake relationship involve?" I ask, trying to sound practical.
"Dinner at my mom's place tomorrow night," he says. "Maybe a few public appearances around town. Nothing major. Just enough to convince her I'm not going to die alone."
I shouldn't even be considering this. It's ridiculous, juvenile even. But something about the vulnerability in his eyes, a look I've never seen on him before, makes me pause.
"What's in it for me?" I ask, surprising myself with the boldness of the question.
Beast's eyebrows raise slightly, but he doesn't seem offended. "What do you want?"
A dangerous question. What I want is to stop thinking about him at night when I'm alone in this bed. What I want is to stop wondering what his hands would feel like on my skin, if his beard would scratch or tickle against my neck. What I want is impossible.
"Protection," I say instead, thinking practically. "Not from Tank. He's already overprotective enough. But there's a war going on, and I'm new in town. I don't know who to trust outside the club."
"Anyone wearing Savage Riders colors would protect you because you're Tank's sister," he points out.
"Yeah, but they'd be watching me because of Tank, not because they want to. There's a difference." I stand up, pacing the small space. "If people think I'm with you, they'll be extra careful about how they treat me."
He considers this, then nods slowly. "Fair enough. What else?"
I hadn't expected him to agree so easily or ask for more conditions. I think quickly.
"Help me fix this place up," I gesture around the apartment. "It needs painting, new fixtures. The shower leaks. Tank said he'd help, but he's been busy with Amelia and Anna."
"Done," Beast says without hesitation. "I'm good with my hands."
The innocent comment makes me rub my thighs against each other, body and cheeks warming up. I turn away, pretending to inspect a crack in the wall.
"And one more thing," I say, my back still to him. "This stays between us. Tank doesn't find out it's fake."
"He's going to kill me either way," Beast mutters. "But yeah, agreed. No one knows but us."
I turn back to face him. "Why would he kill you if it's fake?"
Beast gives me a look that suggests I'm being intentionally dense. "Tank doesn't want any of the club members near you, especially me."
"Why especially you?"
His mouth twists into a sardonic smile. "Because of my 'reputation,' as you so delicately pointed out."
"Oh." I feel my blush deepen. "Well, it's not his business who I date, fake or otherwise. I'm twenty-four, not fourteen."
"Tell him that," Beast says, standing up. The couch sighs in relief as his weight lifts from it. "So, we have a deal?"
I should say no. This is a terrible idea that can only end in disaster. But there's something thrilling about the prospect of spending time with Beast, even under false pretenses. And if I'm being honest with myself, the idea of making Tank uncomfortable is a small bonus.
"Deal," I say, offering my hand, his massive palm engulfing mine.
"Dinner's at six tomorrow," he says, moving toward the door. "I'll pick you up at five-thirty."
"Wait," I call as he reaches for the doorknob. "Shouldn't we, I don't know, get our story straight? How we got together? How long we've been dating? Your mom's going to ask questions."
He pauses, turning back to me. "Right. Uh, we met when you arrived with Tank last week. We hit it off. Started seeing each other a few days ago."
"That's it? Not very romantic," I tease.
"We can figure out the details tomorrow," he says gruffly. "Wear whatever you want. Mom's not fancy."
With that, he slips out the door, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of leather and motor oil.
I collapse onto the couch, my heart racing for no good reason. What the hell did I just agree to? Pretending to date Beast is playing with fire. He's dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with his role in the club and everything to do with the way my body responds to his presence.
And Tank... Tank is going to lose his mind when he finds out. He'll assume it's real, and that Beast is just using me like he uses all women.
The responsible thing would be to call Beast and back out now.
Instead, I find myself walking to my nearly empty closet, rifling through the few clothes I brought with me, wondering what would impress Beast's mother, and maybe, just a little bit, Beast himself.
I'm in so much trouble.