9. Alexandra
A few hours pass without me really noticing.
Time blurs when your hands are busy and your mind finally has something else to latch onto besides panic. Ella puts me to work almost immediately, handing me a stack of clean glasses and showing me where everything goes behind the bar. It’s simple, repetitive. Exactly what I need.
“Saturday nights are open,” she explains as I wipe down the counter. “Public, friends, friends of friends. Anyone who doesn’t start shit.”
“And if they do?” I ask.
She smiles thinly. “They don’t do it twice.”
That answers that.
The bar slowly comes to life as the afternoon stretches toward evening. Lights come on one by one, casting everything in warm amber tones. Music hums low from the speakers, not loud yet, just enough to fill the space. Men drift in and out, some heading toward the back, others lingering near the bar.
They all look… solid. Like they belong here in a way I still very much do not.
A group of women cut through the main room a while later, and the energy in the clubhouse shifted instantly. They didn't just walk in; they reclaimed the space, their boots clicking a sharp rhythm against the floor. They were a blur of dark eyeliner, leather, and perfume that cut right through the smell of stale beer.
They moved with a terrifying kind of confidence, draping themselves over the guys at the pool table like they were coming home to furniture they owned. One of them—a blonde with a sharp jawline and eyes that looked like they’d seen everything twice—paused.
She didn't just look at me; she cataloged me. Her gaze swept over my messy hair and my borrowed, oversized clothes, slow and deliberate. It wasn't a "welcome" look. It was a look you give a stray cat that just climbed onto the silk sofa.
My shoulders pulled up to my ears, and I suddenly felt every inch the "exchange student" again. Small. Out of place. A guest who didn't know the rules.
I lean closer to Ella. “Friends of yours?”
Ella snorts. “God, no.”
“Who are they, then?”
She lowers her voice. “Club whores.”
I nearly drop the glass in my hand. “That is… blunt.”
“That’s accurate,” she replies. “They linger. Attach themselves to prospects and sometimes patched members if they think they have a shot. Most of them are hoping to become old ladies.”
I glance at her. “Old ladies?”
“A patched member’s woman,” she explains. “Exclusive. Protected. Tied to the club whether they want to admit it or not.”
She watches one of the women laugh too loudly at something a prospect says, her hand sliding up his arm.
“I don’t like them,” Ella adds flatly. “They mistake access for belonging.”
The way she says it tells me this is not a new conversation.
I glance around, suddenly hyperaware of where I am. “So this is… a motorcycle club. Like an actual MC.”
“Yes,” Ella says. “Not a cosplay version.”
“Right,” I murmur. “That would explain the motorcycles.”
She gives me a look. “You’re doing great, Lex.”
“I feel like I walked into a documentary halfway through season three.”
She laughs, softening. “Okay. Crash course, then. This is a clubhouse. It’s home base. Bar, common areas, rooms upstairs. Some of the guys live here full-time, some don’t.”
“And Stone?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Ella’s brows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment on it. “Prez usually does. Comes with the job.”
“Prez means president,” I realize.
“Yes.”
“And patched in?” I prompt.
“Full members,” she explains. “They’ve earned their patch. Their place. Prospects are the guys still proving themselves. They do the grunt work. No votes. No say.”
“That feels… intense.”
“It is,” she says calmly. “But it’s also structured. Everyone knows where they stand.”
I absorb that quietly, trying not to let the weight of it crush me.
“And the illegal stuff?” I ask carefully.
Ella holds my gaze, calm and steady. “That’s club business,” she says lightly. “Patched members only.”
At my look, she gives a small, almost apologetic smile. “Which means you don’t need to know the details, and definitely don’t need to worry about them.”
She sobers just a touch. “They don’t always operate inside the law. I won’t lie to you about that. But they have rules. Lines they don’t cross. And they protect their own.”
Her expression sharpens. “Good men can exist in bad systems, Lex. Sometimes they’re the only thing keeping things from getting worse.”
I nod slowly, the words settling over me.
Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to cover it.
While the bar fills, I slip away long enough to check my phone. No signal issues here, at least. I open my email, reread the message I sent earlier.
Mette, this is urgent. Please call me as soon as you see this.
I stare at it for a moment, then lock my phone.
She probably won’t see it until Monday. It is Saturday. Rationally, I know that. Still, my chest tightens with the familiar ache of waiting.
An hour later, my phone rings.
I freeze.
The screen lights up with a Danish number I have not seen since before I left.
“Mette,” I whisper, then answer. “Hello?”
“Alexandra,” she says immediately. “I got your email. What’s going on?”
Something in her voice breaks me open.
I step into a quieter hallway, my back against the wall, and tell her everything. The tutoring. His apartment. The threat. Running. The bar. The men. My voice shakes, cracks, steadies, breaks again. Mette didn't interrupt. She didn't offer empty "oh no"s. She just breathed with me on the other end of the line, a steady anchor three thousand miles away.
When I finally ran out of air, the silence on the line was heavy. I could almost picture her in her office in Aarhus, leaning forward, her face turning into that granite mask she wore when a student was being cheated by the system.
“That man will never be allowed near another student again if I have anything to say about it,” she says finally, her tone razor sharp. “You did nothing wrong.”
Tears burn my eyes. “I thought I was stupid.”
“You were vulnerable,” she corrects. “There is a difference.”
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “I don’t know what to do next.”
“I do,” she says. “Listen. My son, Rasmus, is studying at Seaview University. He’s been in the U.S. for two years.”
My heart stutters. “I didn’t know you had a son here.”
“He values his privacy,” she says. “But you can trust him. He can help you navigate this. The university, housing, legal options if you choose them.”
I hesitate. “I’m staying at a motorcycle clubhouse right now.”
There is a beat.
“…I see.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I rush to add. “They helped me. They’re protecting me.”
Another pause, then a quiet sigh. “All right. Where are you?”
I tell her.
“I’ll have Rasmus come to you tonight,” she says. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“Okay,” I breathe. “Thank you.”
After we hang up, I stand there for a moment, phone pressed to my chest, trying to recalibrate.
Tonight.
I return to the bar, where the noise has risen and the lights are lower now. Stone stands near the far end, talking to a couple of the men. He looks up when he sees me, his attention locking onto mine instantly.
I walk toward him, nerves buzzing.
“My teacher from Denmark called,” I say quietly. “She’s sending someone. Her son. He’s a student here.”
Stone’s expression stills. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
Something hard flickers across his face before he masks it. He nods once. “All right.”
The men around us peel away without being told. The space feels suddenly smaller. Stone steps closer — too close to be accidental — and I feel the solid heat of him at my side.
“You trust him,” he says.
“Yes.”
His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping once. “Enough to walk out of here with him.”
It’s not a question.
My breath stutters. “I… I don’t know yet.”
The silence that follows is thick. Stone’s gaze drops briefly, like he’s forcing something under control, then lifts again. “I don’t like the idea of you leaving.”
The admission is quiet.
“I didn’t plan for tonight to go like this,” I say softly.
“Neither did I,” he replies.
His voice is low, tight around the edges — like he’s holding something back with both hands.
We stand there, close enough that stepping away would feel like a choice. I don’t make it.
Then the front door opens.
Stone turns first.
His body shifts — subtle, instinctive — placing himself half a step closer, half a step between me and the room.
Then I see him. A tall figure scanning the bar, eyes sharp, searching.
His gaze finds me.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
I’m here. —Rasmus