Chapter 7
SEVEN
DOMINIC
The tattoo on my forearm catches another admiring glance from the blonde at table six.
She’s been nursing the same cosmopolitan for forty minutes, stealing looks between fake conversations with her friends.
They’re all the same type—college girls from the state university forty minutes away, slumming it at the Rusty Anchor because someone told them this is where the “real” locals drink.
They order fruity cocktails in a dive bar that specializes in cheap beer and cheaper whiskey, then act surprised when the drinks taste like cough syrup mixed with food coloring.
“Can I get another round?” The blonde leans over the bar, giving me a view that’s definitely intentional. Her friends giggle behind her like they’re still in high school.
“Same thing?”
“Unless you have a recommendation?” She bites her lower lip, eyes tracing the ink that disappears under my rolled-up sleeves. “Something…stronger?”
I pour four shots of tequila without looking at her. “Forty-two fifty.”
Her face falls slightly at my flat tone, but she hands over her credit card. The machine takes forever to process—everything in this place is held together with duct tape and spite—and she uses the time to try again.
“That’s beautiful work. The tattoo, I mean. Where’d you get it done?”
“Portland.”
“Oh cool! I love Portland. So artsy. Do you go there a lot?”
“Not really.”
She waits for more. I don’t give it to her. The receipt finally prints and I slide it across the scarred wood along with a pen that’s missing its cap.
“I’m Chelsea,” she offers, signing with unnecessary flourishes.
I’m already turning to wipe down the other end of the bar. “Enjoy your drinks.”
She retreats to her table, and I catch her friends immediately leaning in for a debrief.
One of them glances back at me and whispers something that makes them all giggle.
Probably sharing whatever bad boy fantasy they’ve conjured about me.
Girls like that see the tattoos, the motorcycle boots, the general air of “don’t fuck with me” I’ve cultivated over the years, and think they’ve found their small-town rebellion story.
They have no idea that the most rebellious thing I’ve done lately is organize the bar’s receipts by date instead of amount.
The door slams open hard enough to rattle the neon Budweiser sign, and Earl Miller stumbles in like he’s being chased. His eyes are wild, face flushed with more than just the cold October wind.
“Holy shit. None of y’all are gonna believe what just happened!”
Half the bar doesn’t even look up. Earl’s dramatic entrances are as regular as the tide.
“Let me guess,” one of the bikers calls from the pool table. “You saw another UFO behind the hardware store?”
“Or Bigfoot in the harbor again?” This from Aaron Keenan, vice president of the Sinners biker gang and one of the biggest assholes I’ve ever met. “How many beers deep were you for that one?”
Earl’s face goes red. “I ain’t drunk and I ain’t lying! I just gave a ride to Phoenix fucking Riviera!”
The bar goes quiet. Even I pause mid-wipe.
“Bullshit,” Aaron says flatly.
“I swear on my mother’s grave—“
“Your mother’s still alive, Earl. Her fat ass was at the grocery store yesterday with a cart full of snack cakes.”
“Fuck you, Keenan!” Earl’s practically vibrating with indignation. “She was in my truck, I swear. That actress from that kids show my niece used to watch. The one who’s always in the tabloids now.”
Aaron snorts. “Right. And I suppose she needed a ride because her private jet broke down?”
“That’s exactly what happened,” Earl replies smugly. “Engine failure or something. Had to emergency land at the old airfield. I gave her a ride to the Seafoam. Had her right next to me in the truck.”
The skepticism in the bar is thick enough to cut. Earl’s been known to embellish, especially after a few drinks. Last month he swore he saw Tom Brady at the gas station. Turned out to be a cardboard cutout someone was moving.
“You’re full of shit,” another biker says, turning back to his beer.
“I got proof.” Earl fumbles in his pocket for his phone, nearly dropping it twice.”Took a picture.”
That gets everyone’s attention. Even the college girls have stopped pretending not to eavesdrop.
“Let’s see it then,” Aaron challenges, abandoning his pool game.
Earl holds up his phone triumphantly, and people start crowding around. I stay where I am, but I can hear the reactions.
“Holy shit, that is her!”
“No way. Has to be photoshopped.”
“Look at those tits though—”
“Twenty bucks says I could tap that before she leaves town.”
The comments get progressively cruder, and something in my chest tightens with disgust. I’ve never understood the way some alphas talk about omegas like they’re prizes to be won or objects to be conquered.
Maybe it’s because I grew up in the system, saw what happened to omegas without protection, but that kind of talk has always made my skin crawl.
“Give me that phone.” Bryce Keegan—Snake’s younger brother and twice as stupid—lunges across a table toward Earl.
Earl jerks back, clutching the phone to his chest like it’s made of gold. “Get your own celebrity picture!”
“That photo’s worth money, old man. TMZ pays thousands for this shit.”
“Then I’ll sell it myself!”
Bryce grabs Earl’s wrist, twisting hard enough that Earl yelps. The phone clatters to the floor, and three people dive for it at once. Chairs screech. Someone’s beer goes flying. One of the college girls shrieks as she gets shoved aside.
“Enough.”
My voice cuts through the chaos, but nobody’s listening. Bryce has Earl in a headlock now, the older man’s face going purple. Two other Sinners are wrestling for the phone, and the whole thing is about to spiral into a full-scale brawl.
I vault over the bar in one smooth motion, grab Bryce by the collar of his leather cut, and haul him off Earl with enough force to send them both stumbling.
“I said enough.”
Bryce spins on me, fists already raised. “Stay out of this, Romano. This ain’t your fight.”
“It is when you’re wrecking my bar.”
“Your bar?” He laughs, ugly and sharp. “You’re the fucking help. You don’t own shit.”
I don’t bother responding. When he swings, I’m already moving—ducking under his fist and driving my shoulder into his solar plexus.
We hit the floor hard, bottles and glasses raining down around us.
Bryce is bigger than me, but I’m faster, meaner, and I’ve been in more fights than he’s had hot meals.
My elbow connects with his nose. Blood sprays across the floorboards.
“Fuck!” He rolls away, clutching his face. “You broke my fucking nose!”
“Should’ve stayed down.”
Someone grabs my shoulder from behind. I spin, fist cocked, and barely stop myself from cold-cocking Aaron Keenan.
The VP of the Sinners stares at me with flat dead eyes. He’s got twenty years and fifty pounds on me, plus the kind of prison muscle that comes from having nothing to do but lift weights for a decade. The snake tattoo on his neck seems to writhe in the dim light.
“You’re making a habit of hitting my boys, Dom.”
“Your boys should learn some fucking manners.”
“And you should learn your place.” He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath, the stale cigarettes embedded in his leather.
My hands itch to wipe that smug look off his face. The old me would have. The old me wouldn’t have hesitated, consequences be damned. But I’m not that person anymore.
I force my fists to unclench.
“I’m not looking for trouble, Aaron.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” His gaze flicks to Bryce, who’s still on the floor whimpering about his nose. “That’s twice tonight you’ve put hands on my people.”
“Snake was running his mouth. Bryce was assaulting an old man.”
“And that’s your business why?”
Because I’m not like you. Because someone has to give a shit about the people who can’t defend themselves.
But I don’t say that. Aaron wouldn’t understand, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care.
“Just trying to keep the peace,” I say instead. “Derek doesn’t need his bar torn apart.”
Aaron studies me for a long moment. The whole bar has gone silent, everyone watching to see what happens next. Even the college girls have stopped crying, frozen in their booth like rabbits sensing a wolf.
Finally, Aaron steps back. But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You might not be in the life anymore, Dom. But that doesn’t mean you’re off limits.” He jerks his chin toward the door. “Remember that.”
He helps Bryce to his feet and they shuffle out, trailing blood and muttered threats. The other Sinners follow, shooting me looks that promise this isn’t over.
The door slams shut behind them.
Martin’s going to have my ass for this.
The thought settles into my gut like a stone as I survey the damage. Broken glass glitters across the floorboards. A chair lies on its side, one leg snapped clean off. There’s blood—Bryce’s blood—smeared across the wood in a pattern that tells the whole sorry story of our brief altercation.
Martin Chen has owned The Rusty Anchor for fifteen years. He took a chance on me when nobody else would, gave me shifts when I was fresh out of the system with nothing but a chip on my shoulder and a reputation for trouble. The man’s been more of a father to me than anyone who shares my DNA.
And I just broke his unspoken rule: don’t start shit with the Sinners.
I grab the broom from behind the bar and start sweeping, the familiar rhythm doing nothing to calm the buzzing under my skin. Aaron’s threat wasn’t empty. The Sinners have long memories and short fuses, and I’ve just painted a target on my back. Again.
Stupid. Reckless. Just like always.
“Hey, Dom?”
Earl sidles up to the bar, phone still clutched in his weathered hand. He slides onto a stool and fumbles in his pocket, producing a handful of crumpled bills and loose change that he counts out twice before pushing across the wood.
“Bud Light.”
I grab a bottle, pop the cap, set it in front of him. The coins are warm and slightly damp. I try not to think about where they’ve been.
Earl doesn’t drink. He just sits there, staring at his phone screen with his tongue practically hanging out. The glow illuminates every crag and wrinkle on his face as he zooms in, scrolls, zooms again.
I go back to wiping down the bar, moving in slow circles that let me watch him from the corner of my eye. His thumb traces the edge of the screen like he’s touching something precious. Something sacred.
“Hey Dom.” Earl doesn’t look up. “How much you think I could get for this? Selling it to one of them tabloid sites?”
“Depends.” I don’t break my rhythm with the rag. “How much is a cease and desist letter worth to you?”
Earl’s head snaps up. “A what now?”
“Cease and desist. It’s what celebrities send when you try to profit off their image without permission.” I scrub at a sticky spot that’s probably been there since the Clinton administration. “Their lawyers bill by the hour. Trust me, whatever TMZ pays won’t cover the legal fees.”
His face crumples with disappointment. “But I just—”
“Take your beer and fuck off to one of the high tables, Earl.”
“At least look at it first! Come on, Dom. Just one look.”
I stop wiping. The desperation in his voice is almost pathetic enough to be endearing. Almost.
“Fine.” I toss the rag over my shoulder and hold out my hand. “One look. Then you leave me alone.”
Earl practically throws the phone at me.
The photo is grainy, clearly taken in secret, but it’s definitely her.
Phoenix Riviera, looking exhausted and annoyed, copper hair catching the light through the truck window.
She’s smaller than I expected, delicate in that way omega celebrities always seem to be.
Fragile things wrapped in designer armor.
But that’s not what makes my blood run cold.
Behind her, partially obscured by shadow, are two figures. One is just a silhouette—male, probably alpha based on the build, but impossible to identify. The other…
No.
My hand tightens on Earl’s phone hard enough that he yelps.
The other is Mason Aldrich.
Also known as the packmate that I haven’t seen in ten damn years.