Chapter 1 #2
We moved deeper into the crowd, weaving between people with muttered apologies. The music shifted to some country song I vaguely recognized, but the room was too loud to make out more than the beat.
I scanned for familiar faces and finally spotted a few people from work gathered near the far wall, but Derek was nowhere in sight.
“Back room maybe?” Maya guessed, nodding toward a hallway where people were moving in and out.
“Probably.”
We squeezed past another cluster of people and stepped through the opening into a larger room in the back.
This one was set up more like an event space.
Round tables filled most of the floor. Raffle baskets lined one wall in bright cellophane and ribbon. A second, smaller bar stood near the corner, and unlike the one in front, this one only had a few people waiting.
Kids ran between chairs. Women chatted in little groups. An older man adjusted a microphone near a makeshift stage area. It was chaotic, but warmer somehow. More personal.
“There,” I said, spotting Derek near the center of the room.
He turned just as we approached, relief flashing across his face. “You made it.”
“Of course we did,” I said.
Maya hugged him quickly. “How’s your sister?”
His smile softened, tired around the edges. “Better today.”
“Good,” I said gently. “How’s she feeling?”
He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Still rough. Treatment’s kicking her ass, but she’s hanging in there.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He nodded once like he didn’t trust himself to say much more, then forced a grin and gestured around the room. “This is insane, right?”
“You weren’t kidding about turnout,” Maya said.
Derek laughed under his breath. “Yeah. I thought we’d get maybe half this.”
I glanced toward the rows of raffle baskets. “This is amazing.”
“It’s the club,” he said. “They helped organize a lot of it.”
My eyes moved automatically toward the bikers again.
That explained some things.
Though not all of them.
Before I could ask, somebody shouted Derek’s name from across the room.
He looked over his shoulder and grimaced. “I gotta go, but I’m really glad you came.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it,” I said.
And I meant it.
He gave me a quick squeeze on the shoulder before disappearing back into the crowd.
Maya turned immediately toward the smaller bar in the corner. “Drink first.”
“Agreed.”
We made our way over and only had to wait behind two people.
“What are you getting?” she asked.
“Cranberry Carbliss.”
She snorted. “That is the most Emma drink possible.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means if a drink could be polite, it would be that one.”
I laughed. “And what are you getting?”
“Something stronger.”
“That tracks.”
When it was my turn, I ordered, paid, and took the cold can from the bartender with quiet gratitude. The aluminum was already beaded with condensation. I cracked it open and took a sip.
Sweet. Cold. Exactly what I needed.
Maya ordered some tequila concoction that smelled like citrus and bad choices.
Then we moved toward the raffle tables.
I paused at the first one, taking in the prizes. Gift cards. Tool sets. Kids’ baskets. Coolers. Home décor. Kitchen stuff. A couple of huge toy sets wrapped in so much cellophane they practically sparkled under the lights.
The variety made me smile.
It felt deeply Midwestern somehow.
Like nobody fully agreed on what constituted a good raffle prize, so everyone just donated whatever they thought people might fight over.
“I’m just buying some to support the cause,” I said, reaching for a sheet of tickets.
“Famous last words,” Maya muttered.
She wasn’t wrong.
At first I only bought one sheet.
Then I spotted a toy basket that would absolutely make one of Derek’s nieces lose her mind.
Then another.
And then, near the far end of the table, I saw it.
The baking basket.
I stopped.
Inside the clear wrapping were jars of homemade jam, pretty measuring spoons, wooden utensils, a thick recipe book, and what looked suspiciously like a sourdough starter kit.
I stared at it for a second too long.
Maya followed my gaze. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“You want that one.”
I pointed. “Look at it.”
“It’s a basket.”
“It’s a beautiful basket.”
She laughed. “You’re such a grandma.”
“I bake.”
“You aggressively bake.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is when you show up to work with homemade muffins on a Tuesday like someone’s wholesome aunt.”
I ignored her and bought another sheet of tickets.
Then another.
We moved slowly down the line dropping tickets into different buckets.
I put some in for the toy baskets, some for a cooler, a couple for restaurant gift cards, but most of mine ended up split between things Derek’s family might like and the baking basket that I had already decided belonged to me spiritually.
A little girl with dark curls appeared near my elbow and stared longingly at the giant Barbie Dream House set wrapped in pink ribbon.
I crouched beside her. “You like that one?”
She nodded solemnly.
“How many tickets do you have?”
She held up three.
I looked at the giant prize and then back at her tiny face.
“Here,” I said, tearing off a strip from mine and placing it in her hand. “Now you have more.”
Her eyes got huge. “Really?”
“Really.”
She lit up like I’d handed her the keys to a kingdom and immediately ran off toward the basket.
Something warm settled low in my chest.
I straightened, smiling to myself, only to find Maya watching me.
“What?”
She tipped her head. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make yourself everybody’s favorite person without trying.”
I blinked. “That felt surprisingly nice.”
“It wasn’t.”
I stared at her.
She gave me a dazzling smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m kidding.”
“Uh-huh.”
She sipped her drink and looked me over again, slower this time. “You’re lucky being sweet works for you.”
I let out a quiet breath through my nose. “You are being weird tonight.”
“I’m being honest.”
“Same difference.”
She rolled her eyes and moved on to the next basket.
I stayed where I was for a second.
Not upset.
Just… aware.
Maya had always had a way of saying things that made it hard to tell whether she was complimenting you or slipping a blade between your ribs. Most days I ignored it because it wasn’t worth the energy.
Tonight, though, something about her tone felt sharper.
Maybe it was the crowd.
Maybe it was the kind of place we were in.
Or maybe she was already in one of those moods where she needed to be the prettiest girl in every room and didn’t particularly care how she got there.
I dropped the rest of my tickets into the baking basket and stepped back.
The room had grown louder in the last twenty minutes. More people were crowding in. More bikes had probably rolled in outside. The line at the back bar had doubled. Somewhere near the front, a burst of laughter rose above the music.
I cracked open my drink again and took another sip.
When I lowered the can, I felt it.
That odd, prickling awareness of being watched.
It came on sudden and sharp enough that my shoulders stiffened.
I looked around slowly, pretending I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.
Families.
Coworkers.
A prospect-looking guy carrying a tray of drinks.
Three women leaning over a raffle basket.
And then my eyes landed on a table across the room.
A group of bikers sat there, spread out with the kind of easy ownership that made the space around them feel claimed. They were bigger than most of the men in the room, heavier with muscle, rougher in a way that made them stand out even from the other bikers.
One laughed at something somebody said.
One was halfway through a basket of fries.
Another scrolled on his phone like he couldn’t be bothered.
And at the center of them, sitting back in his chair like the room belonged to him, was a man I hadn’t seen before.
My breath caught for exactly one second.
He was all hard lines and dark attention. Broad shoulders. Cut stretched over a black t-shirt. Forearms tattooed. Beard trimmed short. Dark hair a little too long at the top. He looked like the kind of man trouble wrapped itself around on purpose.
Not smiling.
Not talking.
Just watching.
Me.
The realization hit hard enough that heat rose up my throat.
I looked away first.
Obviously.
I brought the can back to my mouth and took a drink I did not need, my pulse suddenly a little too loud in my ears.
Please don’t look back over there, I told myself.
Naturally, I looked back over there.
He was still watching me.
Not Maya.
Me.
And somehow that was worse.
Or better.
I wasn’t sure yet.
Maya leaned into my side. “Who are you looking at?”
“No one.”
“That was suspiciously fast.”
I kept my eyes forward. “Mind your business.”
She followed my line of sight anyway, then went still for half a beat.
“Oh.”
I hated the excitement in her voice immediately.
“What?”
“That table.”
I took another sip, mostly so I wouldn’t have to answer.
Maya’s mouth curved slowly. “Well. This just got interesting.”
I made the mistake of glancing over again.
The dark-haired biker hadn’t moved.
Hadn’t looked away.
Hadn’t even tried to pretend he wasn’t studying me from across a crowded room like he’d already decided I was worth his time.
Something low and unfamiliar curled in my stomach.
Anticipation.
Warning.
Maybe both.
I didn’t know his name.
Didn’t know who he was.
Didn’t know why a man like that was looking at me when there were prettier women in the room and Maya was practically built to draw attention.
But for the first time all night, the noise of the room seemed to dull around the edges.
Everything narrowed.
The table.
The man.
The weight of his stare.
Then Maya said under her breath, “Well, well.”
I dragged my eyes off him. “What now?”
Her smile widened, catlike and bright. “I think the bikers just noticed us.”
And something told me she was only half right.