Wade
“Yeah?” Curtis asked.
“On it,” Curtis said.
“He’s gone,” he assured.
“For now,” she breathed.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
Her eyes snapped to his. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me,” he said. She opened her mouth, and nothing came out. Wade waited because he was good at waiting. People tended to fill silence when it got uncomfortable enough. It was something he’d learned years ago and had used behind the bar more times than he could count.
Harlow was apparently better at silence than most. Unfortunately for her, Wade had all fucking night. He crossed his arms over his chest, and she finally sighed. “Frank doesn’t lose.”
“Everybody loses eventually,” Wade insisted.
“You don’t know him,” Harlow said. He had a feeling that he didn’t want to know Frank at all.
“You keep saying that,” he pointed out.
“Because it’s true,” she said.
“And you don’t know me,” Wade said. That seemed to shut her up.
Wade stared down at her. She was trying damn hard to hold herself together.
He’d give her that. But he could see the cracks forming.
Her hands trembled, her teeth were beginning to chatter, and there was dried blood on her wrist and another smear near the elbow of the hoodie.
Her makeup was a mess, and the expensive white dress she wore looked like she’d dragged it through half the state.
But underneath all that—she was fucking beautiful.
Wade didn’t particularly appreciate noticing that right now.
Her eyes were pale blue and seemed too damn big for her face.
Her wet blonde hair fell in tangled waves over her shoulders, and her bottom lip trembled slightly every time she glanced toward the door.
Wade dragged his attention away from her mouth. Fuck.
“Did he do that?” he asked, noticing the bruises on her wrist.
Her brows pulled together. “Do what?”
Wade pointed toward her wrist, and she immediately pulled her sleeve down.
That was his answer. Something ugly stirred inside him.
He’d never understood men who hit women.
Wade had done plenty of bad shit in his life.
He wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. He’d broken bones.
Put men in the hospital. Helped the club handle problems that would earn him a permanent room in a federal prison if anyone ever managed to prove half of it.
But there were lines—there were always fucking lines.
“Did Frank do that to you?” he asked again.
“It doesn’t matter,” she insisted, still fidgeting with her sleeve.
“It matters if you’re standing in my bar asking me to protect you from him,” Wade insisted.
“I never asked you to protect me,” she spat. Wade raised an eyebrow, and Harlow stared at him for a few seconds before looking away. “Fine,” she muttered. “Maybe I did.”
“Maybe?” he mumbled under his breath.
“I was desperate,” she hissed.
“That supposed to make me feel special?” he asked. Her head whipped around, and for the first time since she’d stumbled through his door, something other than fear flashed across her face—annoyance. Sure, it was directed at him, but he’d take it because Wade liked that a hell of a lot better.
“You’re an asshole,” she breathed. A laugh came from somewhere behind him, and Wade slowly turned his head.
Every man in the room suddenly found something incredibly interesting to look at besides him.
Fucking cowards. When he looked back at Harlow, she seemed horrified by what she’d said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said.
“But—” she started.
“I’ve been called worse,” he admitted. “Besides, I am an asshole.”
“I’m sure,” she mumbled under her breath.
His mouth twitched. Whoever Harlow had been before Frank scared the hell out of her was still buried beneath all that fear.
Wade wanted to know that woman, and the realization irritated him.
He didn’t know her. She’d been in his bar less than thirty minutes and had brought a convoy of armed assholes straight to his front door.
The smart move would be to call Butcher, let his Prez decide what to do with her, and stay the hell out of it.
Too bad Wade had never been particularly good at doing the smart thing when someone pissed him off, and Frank had managed to do that in record fucking time.
The kitchen doors swung open, and Mitch walked out carrying a plate. “Burger and fries.”
Harlow looked at the food like she’d forgotten Wade had ordered it. “Sit,” Wade said.
“I’m not a dog,” she grumbled.
“There’s that attitude again,” he said. Her eyes narrowed, and Wade pointed toward the nearest table. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold,” she lied.
“You’re also running on adrenaline, and I’m guessing you haven’t eaten in a while,” he said. Her silence told him he was right. “When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Breakfast, maybe.” Jesus Christ.
He pulled out a chair. “Sit your ass down.”
“You’re bossy,” she said.
“My bar, my rules,” he said.
“That doesn't mean you're the boss of me,” she countered.
“No, but right now, I'm the guy standing between you and the asshole who threatened to drag you out of here. Humor me,” he said. She stared at him, and Wade stared back. Finally, she sat. “See?” he said. “Wasn’t so hard.”
“Go to hell,” she spat. Someone behind him coughed to cover another laugh, and Wade smiled--actually fucking smiled. That surprised him almost as much as it seemed to surprise her.
“Eat,” he ordered. Harlow picked up a fry, and he considered that to be progress. Wade turned toward the bar. He had barely made it three steps when motorcycles rumbled outside. Harlow shot out of the chair so fast it tipped backward, and Wade caught it before it hit the floor. “Easy,” he soothed.
“They came back,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “They didn’t come back.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Because Frank drives a black SUV like a douchebag. Those are Harleys,” he insisted.
She stared at him. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she stammered.
“You've got something to say, say it,” he insisted.
“I’m trying to decide if you insult everyone you meet,” she said.
“Pretty much.” The corner of her mouth twitched, just barely, but he saw it.
The pounding at the front door made her jump. “Wade!” a familiar voice shouted. “Open the fucking door.”
Harlow’s gaze flew to his. “It’s Butcher,” Wade explained as though she’d know who he was. He crossed the room and unlocked the door, and Butcher stepped inside first, rain dripping from his cut. Two brothers followed him, both looking ready for war.
Butcher took one look around the room before his gaze landed on Harlow, and he stopped. His eyes traveled from the wedding dress to the bruises on her wrist and finally to Wade. “What the fuck did you get us into?”
“Me?” Wade asked.
“It’s your bar,” Butcher said.
“She walked in here on her own,” Wade insisted. Butcher looked at Harlow again, and she lifted her chin slightly. Wade almost felt proud of her for it.
“Who is she?” Butcher asked.
“Harlow,” Wade said.
“I gathered that much from what the guys told me,” Butcher grumbled. Wade shrugged, and Butcher stared at him as though waiting for a better answer.
“What?” Wade asked.
“Last name might be fucking useful,” Butcher said. Wade looked at Harlow, and he could see the fear in her eyes again. It wasn’t as strong as when Frank had been outside banging on the door, but it was enough that Wade noticed.
“Harlow?” he prompted. “What is your last name?”
She set the fry back onto her plate and looked at him in disbelief. “You really don’t know who I am?”
“Nope,” he said.
Butcher glanced at Wade and then looked back at her. “Should we?” Apparently, they should, with the way that Harlow looked between them before slowly wiping her palms against the ruined skirt of her wedding dress.
“My name is Harlow Kane.” He didn’t know that name, and Butcher didn’t seem to either. She almost looked confused by their lack of reaction.
“Okay,” he said.
Her brows shot up. “Okay?”
“Should your name mean something to us?” Wade asked.
“My father is Richard Kane,” she said. Butcher went still, and Wade noticed immediately. Apparently, that name did mean something to him.
“Fuck,” Butcher muttered.
“What?” Wade asked.
Butcher looked at him. “Richard Kane?”
Harlow nodded.
“The Richard Kane?” Butcher asked again.
Her mouth tightened. “Unfortunately.”
Wade looked between them. “Somebody want to tell me who the fuck Richard Kane is?”
Butcher let out a humorless laugh. “He’s in real estate, construction, and has made numerous political donations. Half the goddamn state has taken his money at one point or another.”
“My father likes owning people,” Harlow said quietly. Wade looked at her. That sentence carried a hell of a lot more weight than the words themselves.
“And who the hell is Frank?” Butcher asked.
Harlow’s expression hardened. “Frank Donnelly.” Butcher cursed again. Wade was getting tired of being the only bastard in the room who apparently didn’t recognize names.
“Who the fuck is he?” Wade asked.
“Trouble,” Butcher said.
“No shit,” Wade said.
“I mean serious trouble,” Butcher continued.
Wade leaned against the edge of the table. “I'm listening.”
Butcher looked at Harlow. “You sure that's who was outside?”
“Yes. I was supposed to marry him tonight,” Harlow said.
“Supposed to?” Butcher asked.
“I left before the ceremony was finished.” That caught Wade’s attention. He looked down at her left hand. The diamond ring was still there.
“You’re not married?” he asked.
“No, I’m not,” she breathed. Something in his chest loosened, and he immediately told the unwelcome feeling to fuck off. Why the hell did he care whether she was married? Butcher apparently caught something in Wade’s expression because his eyes narrowed at him, but Wade ignored him.
“What happened?” Butcher asked Harlow.
She looked down at her plate. For a long moment, Wade thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she whispered, “I ran.”
“Why?” Butcher asked.