Chapter 23
Sloane
Cruz leaves me in his room with Prissy and a whole lot of thoughts that I don’t want to have. The door shuts behind him with a soft click.
It should feel strange, being in Cruz’s private space.
It does, a little. His room is so bare that it feels like a place someone sleeps, not a place they live.
Bed. Dresser. Nightstand. A folded stack of clothes on top of the dresser.
A pair of boots by the door. A duffel bag sitting open near the tiny bathroom.
No art. No photos. Nothing personal except the faint scent of him clinging to the air.
That warm, clean, masculine smell that makes me want to do deeply ill-advised things.
Now isn’t the time to think about that. Not with my café full of broken glass. Not with men I’ve never met shooting out windows all over Hart. Not with Liam somewhere in this building trying to help because he thinks this is all his fault.
I sit on the edge of Cruz’s bed and scratch Prissy between the ears. She’s curled up against my thigh like she hasn’t just been ripped out of a perfectly good sleep, shoved into a carrier, driven to a biker clubhouse, and released into a strange room.
She purrs.
Prissy’s whole approach to life seems to be to find the softest place, assume everyone exists to serve you, and go back to sleep whenever things get too complicated. Maybe I should follow her example.
I try to relax, to pretend that my life hasn’t imploded for the second time in a handful of months.
It works for all of three seconds before my brain decides that what I really need is a high-speed slideshow of every terrible thing that could happen next.
Of escalation and retaliation. Of Liam getting dragged deeper into something that he never should have been near in the first place.
That thought is ugly and it sits there like a stone.
I want to be fair. I’m trying so hard to be fair.
The club didn’t start this. Liam saw something he shouldn’t have seen, and then everyone tried to protect him.
Protect us. Cruz stayed with me, slept barely at all, watched over my home and my café and my son.
These men have shown up for us in every way.
But still.
Broken glass is broken glass.
Fear is fear.
No matter how much I tell myself that the club didn’t bring danger to my door, the fact is that tonight, danger came wearing the shape of their world.
I press my fingers into Prissy’s soft fur. She purrs harder, like she’s trying to vibrate the bad thoughts out of me. “I know,” I whisper. “You’re right. Panic is not useful.”
She blinks at me slowly.
That might be agreement. It might be judgment. With cats, it’s probably both.
My hand keeps moving over her head, down her back, back up to her ears. She arches into the touch, totally trusting. I try to imagine feeling that relaxed. Just accepting that we’re here, that Cruz and Liam are here, that the clubhouse is full of men who know what they’re doing.
I can’t quite get there.
I can almost hear my parents’ voices from years ago, all their disapproval dressed up as wisdom.
Bad choices have consequences. Lie down with dogs, and you wake up with fleas.
They would have had a lot to say about bikers, about gangs, about my son and Cruz and the mess that my life has become.
Except my life doesn’t feel like a mess when I think about Cruz.
That’s the problem.
My life feels bigger with him in it. Scarier, yes. More complicated, definitely. But also warmer. Richer. Like some part of me that had been sleeping for twenty years stretched and decided to come alive all at once.
What if that part is stupid?
What if wanting Cruz makes me reckless?
What if I’m so dazzled by the way he looks at me, by the way he listens, by the way he touches me like I’m something precious, that I’m ignoring all the flashing red warning signs?
Someone knocks at the door, and I jolt so hard that Prissy lifts her head and gives me a deeply offended look.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
The knock comes again. It’s gentle.
I stand, smoothing my hands down my sweater even though there’s no reason to. I’m in Cruz’s room, in the clubhouse, after a shooting. I don’t think anyone expects me to look put together.
I open the door to see three women standing in the hallway.
The first has long brown hair that falls in soft waves around her shoulders.
She’s wearing a flowing floral skirt, boots, and a loose cardigan that looks handwoven or expensive or maybe both.
There’s something kind about her face, but not soft.
She has the sort of calm that makes the air around her feel less sharp.
“Hi,” she says softly. “I’m Lark. Tyrant’s old lady.”
I’d heard Liam and Cruz mentioning her. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, maybe some leather and fishnet clad biker babe. Not a boho princess.
The woman beside her is tall and blonde and so stunning that I have to make a conscious effort not to stare.
She looks like a fifties pinup brought to life, all red lips, platinum waves, winged eyeliner, and curves that would make vintage dresses weep with gratitude.
Somehow, she makes jeans and a fitted sweater look like a magazine shoot.
“I’m Ella,” she says, offering me a warm smile. “Raiden’s old lady.”
The college professor. Again I feel chastened by how my mental image pairs up with reality.
The third woman steps forward with a small wave.
She’s much younger than them, and she looks like she dressed in a hurry.
A long, knitted cardigan pulled over what looks like a vintage Victorian nightgown.
Her feet are incongruously stuffed into a pair of work boots that look like they’ve seen a lot of work.
She has a friendly face, but there’s a tightness around her mouth that tells me she’s holding herself together through force of will.
“And I’m Willa. Atlas’ old lady. I run the antique store.”
“The blanket,” I blurt.
Willa smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. “The crochet one?”
“Cruz said you found it for him.”
“I did. He was very specific for a man who mostly communicated in grunts.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It wobbles a little, but it’s real.
Lark’s expression softens. “Can we come in for a few minutes? We wanted to check on you.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
I step back, suddenly aware that this is not my room and I’m inviting people into Cruz’s space like I have any right to do that. Then again, I’m sitting on his bed with my cat, considering my life choices, while my café windows are smashed out. Etiquette might have to take the night off.
The women come in, and the room immediately feels less bare. Prissy sits up like royalty receiving visitors.
Ella’s face lights. “Oh my god. Is this Prissy?”
“She is.”
“She’s beautiful.”
Prissy accepts this as her due and stretches one paw out delicately.
Willa sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd the cat. “Older cats are the best. They already know who they are.”
“That’s exactly why I wanted her.” My throat tightens. “Well, Cruz found her. He sent me the listing.”
Lark leans against the dresser, her arms folded loosely. “That sounds like Cruz.”
“Does it?”
All three women exchange looks that make my stomach flip in a whole different way.
Ella smiles. “Yes.”
Willa snorts. “Completely.”
Lark’s expression stays gentle. “He might look like the strong silent type, but he notices things.”
I sit back down because my legs feel slightly unreliable.
Prissy immediately crawls closer and bumps her head against my hand.
The women don’t rush me or start with a barrage of questions or reassurances.
Instead, they’re a calm and steady presence, as if this isn’t the first time they’ve walked into a space where someone’s whole life feels like it’s rattling apart.
Maybe it isn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because apparently that’s where my brain decides to start. “I don’t know what to say. I’m not used to this.”
“None of us are supposed to be used to this,” Lark says. “That would be a bad sign.”
A breath hitches in my chest. “Is this a lockdown?”
“No,” Ella says. “Not officially. Tyrant hasn’t called one.”
“But as the Prez’s old lady, I wanted to be here in case anyone needs me,” Lark says offering me a kind smile. “And Ella wanted to be here because Raiden is VP.”
Ella’s smile turns wry. “And because I’d be climbing the walls at home.”
Willa lifts a hand. “And I’m here because my shop got hit too.”
My heart sinks. “Your store?”
“Front windows.” She says it lightly, but there’s pain underneath. “They smashed them out. Glass everywhere. A few display pieces broken. Atlas says it’s a shame my freaky doll collection survived.”
I laugh again, but it comes out wet. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” Willa’s mouth tightens. “I’m angry. Upset. I might have threatened to shove broken glass up someone’s ass earlier, but that was between me, Atlas, and the broom.”
Ella nods seriously. “Understandable.”
“Very,” Lark agrees.
Willa looks at me. “But the club will sort it. Atlas was already calling people before I even finished swearing. Someone’s going to board everything up. Insurance will be a nightmare, because insurance is always a nightmare, but it’ll get fixed.”
“You sound so calm.”
“I’m not calm.” Willa glances down at her hands, then back up. “I’m furious. I’m sad. That shop is mine. I built it piece by piece. I know what it is to love a building.”
The words hit me square in the chest.
“My café…” I stop because my voice cracks.
“I know,” Willa says.
And I think she does.
Not in the vague way people say I know when they don’t know at all, but in the real way. She knows what it is to walk into a space and feel every hour of work, every dream, every impossible decision that made it yours.
“It’s not just windows,” I whisper.
“No,” she says. “It’s not.”
Lark steps closer. “But it can be repaired.”