Chapter 6 #2
I finish my beer, the cold bottle leaving condensation rings on the scarred metal table, and settle back to watch these four men I just met navigate their easy camaraderie.
Ash shoves Havoc's shoulder over something—probably another jab about his terrible taste in music, based on the good-natured insult I catch—nearly making him drop his pizza.
Havoc retaliates with a middle finger and a grin.
Beck laughs, that easy charm rolling off him in waves like he's never met a moment he couldn't diffuse with humor.
They're all so... alive. Comfortable in their skin in a way I've forgotten how to be.
Moving through space like they own it, like fear is something that happens to other people.
It's nice. Dangerously nice. The kind of nice that makes me forget all the reasons I should've said no to this impromptu dinner.
Makes me forget I'm supposed to be someone's wife, someone's possession, someone who doesn't get to sit on patios drinking beer with beautiful, dangerous boys who make me feel eighteen instead of ancient.
"So what's up with this?" I reach out, touching the edge of Kade's leather vest before I can stop myself.
The material is worn soft under my fingers, heavy with patches and symbols I don't understand.
A skull with roses. Numbers that probably mean something.
Stitched letters spelling out names and ranks in a hierarchy I can't decode.
"Are you all in some kind of biker gang? "
I laugh as I say it—trying to sound light, curious, like the question is innocent. Like I'm asking about a book club or a softball league.
The sound dies in my throat when I see their faces. No one's laughing with me. Ash goes very still. Havoc's eyes sharpen. Even Beck's easy smile falters at the edges.
"It's a cut," Kade says, voice flat in a way I haven't heard before. Empty of the warmth that's been there all afternoon. "And we prefer club."
Heat creeps up my neck, staining my cheeks.
"Oh." I pull my hand back from the leather like it burned me.
"So it really is a biker 'club.'" I make air quotes with my fingers, trying desperately to lighten whatever tension I just created with my ignorance.
Trying to climb back to the easy atmosphere from thirty seconds ago.
"It's a motorcycle club," Kade says, each word deliberate. "The Wicked Gods."
"Hmm." I take another bite of pizza just to have something to do with my mouth besides say something else stupid.
Processing. Motorcycle club. The leather vests—cuts, apparently, because of course they have their own terminology—the casual violence in their postures, the way they move like they own every space they enter.
The matching patches. The brotherhood coded into every gesture between them.
This isn't some weekend riding hobby. This is something else entirely.
Something organized. Something with rules I don't know and boundaries I just accidentally crossed.
"Don't worry, we aren't mean," Havoc says, those dark eyes holding mine with an intensity that suggests he could be very mean if circumstances required it.
"Somehow I don't believe that." The words come out before I can filter them, but at least they make Ash laugh—low and genuine—and the tension breaks like a held breath releasing.
Kade's phone lights up on the table between us, the screen glowing with a notification from someone named Spider. My eyes catch the time displayed at the top of the screen.
Six twelve.
"Shit." The word explodes out of me.
"What?" Kade asks, immediately alert to the shift in my voice.
"It's past six. I need to go." I stand so fast my chair scrapes against concrete, the metal legs shrieking in protest. I'm already grabbing my purse in one motion, slinging the strap over my shoulder. "It was nice meeting you guys, and hopefully we don't meet again. No offense."
I don't wait for their response. Don't look back to see if they're confused or offended or wondering what the hell just happened to the woman who was laughing with them sixty seconds ago.
My feet carry me across the patio, through the gate instead of over the fence like normal people, out into the parking lot where my car waits under a dying streetlight.
My heart pounds against my ribs. Six fifteen now, probably.
Daniel said he'd be late, said he had a meeting that would run past dinner.
But what if he's not? What if he decides to come home early and I'm not there?
What if he calls and I don't answer because I'm driving and he tracks my phone and sees I'm nowhere near our neighborhood?
The scenarios play out in my head like a nightmare I've rehearsed too many times—each one worse than the last. Questions about where I was, delivered in that carefully calm voice that promises consequences.
Why I wasn't home when he might've needed me.
His face when he checks my location history and sees I've been stationary at this address for over an hour.
The careful, precise way he'll ask me to explain myself before the punishment that always follows incomplete answers.
I hit the unlock button on my key fob as I approach, the car chirping its electronic greeting in the quiet parking lot. My hand closes around the door handle, pulling it open. Already mentally cataloguing my excuse—
A hand reaches in front of me and shuts the door.
My breath catches.
"You forgot something."
Kade's voice comes from directly behind me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body through the evening air. My pulse kicks into overdrive for entirely different reasons now. Not fear—at least not the kind I'm used to. Something else. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
I turn around—instantly regretting that move when I'm staring at his chest. The black t-shirt under his cut stretches across muscle, close enough I could touch him if I lifted my hand even slightly.
I look up. He's so tall my neck hurts, and the way he's positioned himself pins me between the car and his body without actually touching me anywhere.
One hand braced on the car roof above my head, the other holding something at his side.
I swallow hard when I see the heat in his eyes. Dark. Intent. Focused entirely on me in a way that makes me forget how to breathe properly.
"I have to get home," I manage, voice smaller than I want it to be.
"To your husband." Not a question. A statement weighted with things I can't let myself examine. Judgement maybe. Or disappointment. Or something darker that makes my stomach flip.
I nod, not trusting my voice to stay steady if I try to speak. Not trusting myself not to say something true and terrible about what home actually means.
He holds up my Bath & Body Works bag, the cheerful paper crinkling between his fingers. The logo looks absurd in his large hand.
"Oh." The word comes out breathy, embarrassed. Of course. That's why he followed me. Not because he wanted to stop me from leaving. Not because he felt the same electric charge I did when our fingers touched earlier. Just returning my forgotten purchases like any decent person would.
"Forgot this," he says, voice rough.
"Right. That."
I take the bag from him, our fingers brushing in the exchange—that same spark of contact that happened earlier, except this time I'm prepared for it and it still knocks the air from my lungs.
"Thanks."
He backs away slowly, those dark eyes never leaving mine. Each step deliberate, measured, like he's giving me space but making sure I know exactly what he's walking away from. Making sure I understand this is a choice—his choice to step back, not because he wants to but because I said I had to go.
"See you tomorrow, Peaches."
Then he turns and walks away, hands sliding into his pockets, leather cut shifting across his shoulders as he moves. Confident strides carrying him back toward where his friends wait by their bikes, probably watching this entire interaction with commentary I'm grateful I can't hear.
I get into my car, close the door, lock it with shaking fingers. I sit there in the driver's seat with the Bath & Body Works bag in my lap and my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.
I take a few deep breaths. Then a few more. Press my palms against my thighs to stop them trembling.
God, he's intense. The kind of intense that makes you forget you're supposed to be careful. The kind that makes you want things you know you can't have.