Chapter Seven
The compound rose from the Delta flatland like something out of a fever dream—a converted cotton gin, all brick and corrugated iron, with motorcycles lined up outside like chrome soldiers standing guard.
Patty climbed off Foxfire's bike and immediately grabbed the bag of groceries she'd made him stop for.
"You didn't have to bring food," he said for the third time since the gas station.
"I'm not showing up to a new kitchen empty-handed." She hoisted the bag higher. "My mother would haunt me."
The skillet was tucked under her other arm. She hadn't let it go since the bar. Probably wouldn't for a while.
The compound's main door opened into a clubhouse that smelled like old leather and older beer. Pool tables. A long bar built from reclaimed wood. Photographs on the walls that told stories she didn't know yet.
Brothers turned to watch as Foxfire led her through. Their eyes tracked her the way her regulars tracked a new face at the counter—assessing, curious, not hostile but not friendly either.
"Kitchen's in back," Foxfire said. "Through there."
She found it without his help. A diner woman could locate a kitchen blindfolded.
What she found made her stop dead.
"This is a disaster."
The compound kitchen was a crime scene of culinary neglect.
Grease buildup on the stovetop. Pans stored wrong-side-up.
A refrigerator that hummed like it was plotting revenge.
The spice rack held exactly four items: salt, pepper, something that might have been oregano once, and a bottle of hot sauce that looked older than she was.
"It's functional," Foxfire offered from the doorway.
"It's an insult to food." Patty set the groceries on the counter—the only clean surface—and surveyed the damage. "Who's been cooking in here?"
"Brothers take turns. Sometimes the old ladies bring stuff."
"And nobody's cleaned the grease trap in—" She checked. "I don't want to know. I really don't want to know."
Foxfire's quick grin flashed. "You going to fix it?"
"I'm going to fix it, and then I'm going to cook in it, and then these men are going to eat something that didn't come out of a gas station warmer." She started unpacking the groceries. "But first I need to know where your cleaning supplies are, and don't tell me you don't have any."
"Under the sink. Probably."
The probably told her everything she needed to know.
A voice from behind her: "Finally. Someone who understands."
Patty turned. A woman stood in the kitchen doorway—late twenties, flour dusted on her hands, the particular posture of someone who worked with dough for a living. She was studying the kitchen with the same horrified fascination Patty had felt.
"Grace." The woman extended a flour-dusted hand. "Crossroad's mine. I run a bakery in town."
"Patty. Harmon's Diner on the Vicksburg highway."
"I know who you are." Grace smiled—warm, genuine. "The woman who swung a skillet at Marco Rios and didn't back down. The brothers have been talking."
"Brothers talk too much."
"Brothers always talk too much. It's part of their charm." Grace moved to the counter, assessing the groceries. "Eggs, butter, flour, real seasonings—you're planning to actually cook."
"I'm planning to survive. Cooking's how I do that."
"Then you're going to fit in just fine." Grace's eyes swept the kitchen again. "This place has needed a proper diner cook since the club started. I can do bread and pastries, but breakfast? Hot meals? That's not my territory."
"It's mine."
"I can tell." Grace's smile widened. "Come on. I'll introduce you to the others while Foxfire does whatever it is he does when he can't sit still."
Foxfire had already disappeared from the doorway. Patty could hear him somewhere in the clubhouse, his voice quick and loud, brothers responding with the particular tone of men who were used to his energy.
She followed Grace through the compound, the skillet still tucked under her arm.
The common room was filling up as the day shifted toward evening. Brothers gathered around the pool tables, at the bar, in clusters that spoke of long history and shared violence. They nodded as she passed—acknowledgment, not welcome. Not yet.
"They'll warm up," Grace said, reading her face. "It takes time. But you've already got the hardest part handled."
"What's that?"
"You survived a fight with Foxfire nearby." Grace's laugh was light but knowing. "The man's a tornado. Anyone who can stay standing while he's spinning has already passed the first test."
"He's—" Patty searched for the right word. "A lot."
"He's fire. Pure, uncontained fire." Grace guided her to a corner where two other women sat with drinks. "That's what draws us to them, isn't it? The ones who burn so bright you forget about everything else while you're standing in their heat."
The other women looked up. One had dark hair and steady hands—the calm of someone who worked with tools. The other was blonde, ink visible on her forearms, with the particular confidence of an artist.
"Patty," Grace introduced. "The diner woman Foxfire's been circling for a year."
"Circling?" The blonde grinned. "From what I heard, he's been sitting at her counter drinking coffee like a puppy waiting for attention."
"That's about right." Patty found herself smiling despite everything. "Though he'd hate being called a puppy."
"They all hate the accurate descriptions." The dark-haired woman extended a hand. "I'm Ruth. Distiller. That one's Megan—tattoos."
"We're the compound's unofficial welcoming committee," Megan added. "Which mostly means we drink and make fun of the men while they pretend to be tough."
Patty sat down with them, the skillet finally finding a spot on the table. The women didn't comment on it. Didn't ask why she was carrying a piece of cast iron through a motorcycle compound.
They just accepted it.
"So." Ruth leaned forward. "The bar fight. Give us the version Foxfire isn't telling."
"What version is he telling?"
"The one where he singlehandedly killed eight men and saved you from certain death." Megan rolled her eyes. "Standard hero nonsense."
"I hit two of them."
"I knew it." Ruth's smile was fierce. "Nobody who carries a skillet like that sits behind a bar and waits for rescue."
"I've never waited for rescue in my life. I've been running a diner solo since my mother's stroke. Waiting for someone else to handle things isn't something I know how to do."
The women exchanged looks. Something passed between them—recognition, maybe. Understanding.
"You'll fit in," Grace said quietly. "Women who handle their own problems—that's who ends up here. That's who survives here."
"These men." Ruth gestured toward the clubhouse where brothers gathered. "They'll protect you to their last breath. They'll move heaven and earth if you're threatened. But they respect women who fight back more than they respect women who need fighting for."
"I fight back."
"We know." Megan's grin was sharp. "That's why we like you already."
The evening settled around them. Patty found herself relaxing in a way she hadn't since the brick came through her window. The women talked—about the compound, the brothers, the particular chaos of loving men who lived like they were always three seconds from a fight.
They didn't ask about her past. Didn't pry into her history with Foxfire or why she'd ended up here.
They just made space.
Eventually, Patty stood.
"I'm going to fix that kitchen."
"Now?" Grace glanced at the clock. "It's almost eight."
"Best time to clean. Nobody's expecting to use it." Patty grabbed the skillet. "Besides, if I don't do something with my hands, I'm going to start thinking about the men I watched die this morning."
Nobody argued with that.
She found her way back to the kitchen and started working. The grease trap first—disgusting, but manageable. Then the stovetop, scrubbing until the metal underneath started to show. The refrigerator got reorganized. The pans got repositioned. The counters got wiped down with actual soap.
By the time footsteps sounded in the doorway, the kitchen looked like a kitchen instead of a war crime.
"You've been in here for three hours."
Foxfire. Still restless, still radiating that particular energy that seemed to power him like an engine that never cooled.
"This place needed three hours." She rinsed the rag and hung it properly. "It needed three days, but I made do."
"You cleaned the compound kitchen."
"I claimed the compound kitchen." She turned to face him, her back against the counter she'd been scrubbing. "There's a difference."
His eyes swept the room—taking in the changes, the organization, the space that now looked like somewhere food could actually happen.
"You're settling in."
"I'm making myself useful. That's different too."
He crossed the room, moving into her space the way he moved into everything—fast, direct, without hesitation. His hands landed on the counter on either side of her, bracketing her without quite touching.
"The brothers like you."
"The old ladies like me. The brothers are reserving judgment."
"The old ladies matter more." That quick grin. "They run this place. The brothers just think they do."
She should step back. Should put distance between them. Should remember that she'd watched him kill people this morning and shouldn't be standing in his space like she belonged there.
But she didn't move.
"You're crowding me."
"Yeah." He didn't back off. "I am."
"Is this a claiming thing? Because Grace mentioned you'd been circling me for a year."
"Grace talks too much."
"Grace talks exactly the right amount." Patty met his eyes. "Is she right? Have you been circling?"
The restless energy stilled. Just for a moment. Just long enough for her to see what was underneath—something rawer, more vulnerable than the sharp grin usually let through.
"I've been sitting at your counter for a year," he said. "Drinking coffee I could make myself. Eating eggs I could get anywhere. Coming back every time my run brought me through."
"Why?"
"Because you're the most alive thing on that highway. Because you pour my coffee before I ask. Because watching you work feels like watching someone who actually knows who they are and doesn't apologize for it."
Her chest tightened. "That's a lot of words for a man who usually talks too fast to finish sentences."
"I talk fast when I'm not saying anything that matters." His eyes held hers. "This matters."
She reached up and pressed a hand against his chest. Not pushing him away. Just feeling.
His heart was pounding as fast as hers.
"You're exhausting," she said.
"I know."
"You never stop moving. Never stop talking. Never stop filling up every room you walk into."
"I know that too."
"It should be annoying." She felt the heat of him through his shirt, the restless energy that even standing still seemed to vibrate through his body. "It should drive me crazy."
"Does it?"
She thought about the past four days. The brick through her window. The chase through the Delta night. The bar fight where he'd killed men who threatened her while she swung a skillet from behind the counter her mother had taught her to defend.
She thought about a man who'd been drinking coffee at her counter for a year, waiting for something he was only now starting to name.
"You're the most exhausting person I've ever met." She let her hand stay on his chest. "And the most alive."
That grin—quick and sharp and devastating—spread across his face.
The most exhausting and most alive person she'd ever met.