Chapter Eight
Dylan
I’d seen quite a few clubhouses in my life.
None were anything like the sprawling warehouse these guys called home.
I had no idea what the square footage was, but the place was cavernous. And weirdly well-decorated.
I mean, my clubhouse wasn’t even as nice. And it was full of women.
And the omelet?
Divine.
And, you know, regulating.
I felt a lot more human after some food.
We also couldn’t count out the relief that came from knowing I had medication waiting for me at the pharmacy. It removed a lot of the anxiety that had been needling me since I realized Roach and his guys stole my insulin in the first place.
“You said you’re staying in town for a bit?” Slash asked when the doctor was gone and so was my food.
The guy I saved, Colter, hadn’t returned yet. And for reasons I couldn’t quite understand, I kept looking for him: glancing at the door, listening for a bike approaching.
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you go take care of yourself, and we can have a meeting tomorrow?”
I wanted to object, to tell them that I was fine, that I didn’t need to ‘take care of’ myself.
Because the suggestion made it sound like I was fragile, that I needed coddling.
And while those were thoughts and worries I did struggle with, I knew that they were just insecurities, not reality.
I wasn’t weak. I didn’t need special treatment.
I damn sure didn’t need these men to take care of me.
That said, I knew what he was really asking for.
Time.
Because they wanted to research me.
They wanted to talk about me.
They wanted to decide if they were going to work with me or not.
That was how clubs worked. There was a hierarchy, sure, but it was a collaborative organization.
“You have a time you want to meet up?” I asked, getting to my feet, the movement dragging Sugar away from her attempts to befriend the club cat.
“You free tomorrow night?”
“Sure. Seven?”
“Yeah, that’ll work,” I agreed, making my way to the door. “See you then.”
I made my way out the door, taking a slow, deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders.
I was still looking down at the town when the bike rambled up the road, heading toward the clubhouse.
I watched it approach.
Then there he was.
Colter.
Climbing off his bike.
“You walked?” he asked.
“I’m driving a moving truck. Would have been weird to show up here in it.”
“Why are you driving a moving truck?” he asked, head cocked to the side.
“Because all I have is a bike. And I couldn’t get out of town with that and Sugar. A moving truck seemed like the best bet. Your president wants me to come back tomorrow at seven,” I told him. “I guess I’ll see you then. What are you doing?” I asked when he fell into step beside me.
“Walking you home,” he said, shrugging.
“I don’t need an escort.”
“Maybe not. That’s not gonna stop me.”
I shot him a sideways look. “What are you, a chivalrous biker?”
“Is that so unheard of?”
“Yes.”
“That was a fast response.”
“I’ve known a lot of bikers,” I reminded him.
“And no good ones?” he asked. “Your old man…”
“My father was a chauvinistic and misogynistic asshole who treated women like shit,” I admitted.
“Even you?”
“I’m a woman, aren’t I?” I asked. “I mean… he was protective of me as a kid. But once I started actually looking like an adult, he was as dismissive of me as he was about the clubwhores.”
“But he left you the club.”
“That might be a generous way of putting it,” I admitted, pausing when Sugar wanted to sniff something a little harder. “He died. I was the next of kin. After probate, it was in my hands. Mortgaged to the fucking hilt. It took a lot of work to get his mess sorted out.”
“He could have been a dick and left it to the next guy in the club.”
“Oh, his club fell apart a few years before he died. Everyone started dipping into the supply.”
“Heroin?”
“Meth. Eventually, there was no product to sell. And they would be too wasted to make any new. Eventually, they just all went their separate ways.”
“And your dad?”
“Meth weakened his heart. Eventually, he had a series of strokes. And then… that was it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I shrugged a shoulder.
I wasn’t ambivalent to his passing. It had been a weird and confusing time, considering we hadn’t ever been close, but I had been loyal to him. But it had been years.
“So, that’s my story. How’d you become a biker? Did you grow up in the world?”
“Not at all. I didn’t really even know much about bike clubs until I got an offer to join.”
“Why would you get an offer?” That wasn’t really how things worked. You hung around the club. If they liked you, you got to prospect, then join. Clubs weren’t out there recruiting. At least not that I heard.
“I guess they liked my past.”
“Are you being intentionally cryptic?”
“The club pays attention to who is getting out of the prison. If they like your history, they make an offer.”
“You were in prison?” I asked, dubious.
“Didn’t mean to be. I was in the service for years. When I got back from my last deployment, I found out my best friend had been fucking my wife. He learned how I felt about that.”
“You went away for assault.”
“Yeah.”
I could see that. I mean, it was bad enough to be cheated on, but to have your best friend be the one your spouse cheated with? That was the ultimate betrayal.
I couldn’t even commit to a man for a month. I couldn’t imagine promising your whole future to someone only to have them screw you over.
“Seems like he had it coming.”
“He did.”
“What about your wife?”
“I don’t hit women.”
“I meant… what happened to her after you went away?”
“Last I heard, she and my ex-best friend have two kids and a house in the Bay Area.”
“That sucks. That they got a happily ever after even though they screwed you over.”
“I wouldn’t have reacted that way if they’d fallen in love without the betrayal. Shit happens. Sometimes you choose the wrong person. I get it. It was the fucking around behind my back part I took issue with.”
“That’s kind of generous. I would still be raging to this day if my husband fucked my best friend. Of course, that would mean I would have a husband. Or a best friend. I’m not sure which one of those is less likely.”
“You had a whole sisterhood,” he reminded me.
“True. So it was just the husband part that is wildly improbable. Why did you get married?”
“High school girlfriend. We thought we were pregnant. Our parents pushed us to get married. We did. Then… she wasn’t pregnant.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen when we got married. I joined the service right out of high school.”
“Why?”
“Because I had a wife to provide for then.”
“Ew,” I said, my nose scrunching up.
“Don’t like the idea of being provided for?”
“God, no.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to rely on someone. Ever. That’s a power imbalance. I don’t like that.”
“I think maybe in a healthy relationship, there aren’t power dynamics you have to worry about.”
“That’s a fantasy.”
“Not a romantic, huh?”
“I think romantic love is just a silly little story people tell themselves. Like Santa Claus.”
“You think love is like… Santa Claus,” he repeated, shooting me a smirk that suggested he thought I was being absurd.
“No. Actually, I think love is the sillier of the two. I mean, at least we all grow out of our belief in Santa when we’re, like, eight.”
“Were you always such a cynic?” he asked.
“Growing up in the club kinda squashed any Disney princess fairy tales,” I said, shrugging.
I had distinct memories of watching those movies at friends’ houses and scoffing at how ridiculous they were. Even at that age, I felt my father’s over-the-top action movies were closer to reality than love stories.
I still believed that.
“So, I’m assuming you’re not a rom-com kind of girl.”
“Are you a rom-com guy?”
“I don’t mind them.”
“Really? With the cold heroines with resting-bitch-face who end up with the super sweet hero? That’s some fantasy right there.”
“I dunno. Think there might be something to them.”
“To what?”
“Cold women with great resting-bitch-face,” he said, his gaze on me.
“I’m nobody’s heroine,” I told him. “I’m a big girl. I can walk myself across the street,” I said as we reached the side of the road that would lead to the motel.
“I’m sure you can. Still gonna cross it with you.”
“That’s annoying, by the way,” I told him as we waited for a car to pass then crossed.
“What is?”
“Good manners?”
“Not listening when a woman tells you to shove off. Would you be following me to the motel if I were a man?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Not even a hesitation admitting that double standard.”
“Because sometimes, shit is different. Like it or not.”
“That’s—”
“See that?” he asked, nodding behind me, making me turn to look.
“The prison? Hard to miss.”
“Yesterday, a rapist was released. I know some people think reforms are possible. But I don’t think there’s any fixing that kind of sick.
So, he’s out here somewhere, likely looking for his next target.
I’d prefer it if you weren’t in his sights.
If that means you’re pissed at me for treating you differently from a man, so be it.
I’m not having that shit on my conscience. ”
“I can take care of myself.”
I was quick.
I was lightning-fast when trying to prove a point.
One second, we were just standing there.
The next, my gun was unholstered, in my hand, and pointed at him.
Unfortunately for me, Colter was faster.
In a move so quick his body blurred around the edges, he had my wrist in his hand, then me whipped around, my back to his chest, my arm crossing my body.
And he was holding tight.
Sugar let out a little whimper, confused by the change.
“And that would probably be enough to fend off someone without training,” he said. His breath was warm on the shell of my ear, making a strange shiver move through my stomach. “But I’m not taking that chance.”