5. MARCY
MARCY
Bianca’s apartment is a mess.
Not in a dirty way—Bi herself isn’t gross—but in a chaotic, lived-in, never-quite-finished-projects kind of way.
Half-unpacked boxes sit against the walls from when she swore she was going to reorganize last month.
A pile of laundry is draped over a chair in the corner, clean but never put away.
Her kitchen counter is cluttered with an assortment of coffee mugs, makeup brushes, and a half-eaten protein bar that I’m pretty sure has been there for days.
It’s exactly the kind of place that should feel suffocating. But somehow, it doesn’t. Not like my real home does.
I sink deeper into her lumpy couch, scrolling mindlessly on my phone, letting the blue light burn my retinas as I avoid everything.
The past two days have been a blur of sleeping, eating whatever Bianca shoves in my face, and trying not to replay the disaster of my birthday in my head like some depressing highlight reel.
I failed.
I was so sure things were going to turn around. That the night wasn’t going to end in total catastrophe.
And then that happened.
I groan, staring blankly at the ceiling. The guy hated me. Like, really hated me. That much was obvious. And the worst part? I didn’t even know why.
His glare, his tone, the way he said my last name like it tasted like shit in his mouth—none of it made sense.
All I’d done was exist in the same space as him, and suddenly I was public enemy number one.
And now, after whatever the hell that was with Hawk, I was stuck in limbo, holed up at Bianca’s, avoiding reality like it wasn’t going to come knocking eventually.
The front door slams open, and Bianca storms in, all wild curls and big energy, already zeroing in on me like a heat-seeking missile.
“Oh, hell, no.” She kicks the side of the couch with her socked foot. “You are not still rotting.”
I groan louder, covering my face with a throw pillow. “Go away.”
“Not a chance.”
Bianca yanks the pillow off me and tosses it across the room. I glare up at her, but she crosses her arms, looking completely unimpressed.
“Bi, I’m mourning.”
She snorts. “Mourning what? The fact that you got the hottest send-off into womanhood and then dipped?”
I sit up, scandalized. “I did not dip.”
Bianca arches a brow. “Oh? So you didn’t run out of that bar like your ass was on fire the second things got spicy?”
I scowl. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?”
I open my mouth, then shut it. Because, okay, maybe it was a little like that.
Bianca marches over to the window and, with zero hesitation, yanks the shades open.
Light explodes into the room like the wrath of God himself, and I hiss, throwing my arms over my face like a dying vampire.
“Bianca!” I groan, burying my head under the nearest pillow. “What the hell?”
She ignores me, hands on her hips as she surveys my tragic, sloth-like state. “You’ve been festering in here for two days, Marcy. Two. You’re starting to smell like depression and despair.”
I peek out from under the pillow, scowling. “That’s just your couch.”
Bianca gasps, clutching her chest. “You take that back. She may be old, but she’s loyal.”
I roll my eyes, still wincing at the obnoxious amount of sunlight now flooding the room. “Close the damn blinds, Bi. My retinas are burning.”
She crosses her arms. “Nope. You need Vitamin D.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do. You look like you’ve been kept in a basement.”
I glare. “I have been in a basement. This one.”
“This is a garden-level apartment, and you know it.”
“Semantics.”
Bianca sighs, shaking her head, then grabs my phone off the couch. “Alright, rotting corpse, let’s see what kind of disaster you’ve been doom-scrolling.”
I sit up fast, snatching for it. “Hey!”
But Bianca is quick, leaping off the couch, holding my phone out of reach like she’s taunting a child. She squints at the screen. “Ohhh, we’ve got deep stalking mode activated.” She raises an eyebrow. “You looking him up?”
I freeze, my stomach plummeting. “No.”
Bianca grins, all teeth. “You so are.”
I groan, flopping back onto the couch. “Kill me.”
She cackles, flinging my phone back at me. “Oh no, babe. Not until you tell me everything.”
I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face as I stare at my phone. “The truth is…” I hesitate, then groan. “I’ve been trying to look him up.”
Bianca tilts her head. “Him him?”
I shoot her a look. “Not Hawk.”
“Ryder?” she says, and I groan dramatically. Bianca smirks. “You forgot there were two?”
“You know what?” I say. “It’s karma hitting me back. Serves me right for trying to hook up with Hawk when I obviously led Rockweiler—I mean, Ryder—on.”
Bianca winces. “Didn’t he used to shave his head or something?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point. He’s built like a truck, and he’s hotter than an inferno,” I say, trying not to fan myself when I think of Ryder.
“Wow,” Bianca says. “But I have a feeling you’re not stalking him.”
I sigh. “No, it’s the other one.”
She frowns, sinking back onto the couch beside me. “The one who yelled at you?”
I nod, flipping my phone over in my hands. “I don’t even know his name. Just that he hates me.”
Bianca whistles low. “Damn, babe. You really took a man interrupting your sex life personally.”
I huff. “It’s not that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not!” I insist, but she just smirks, waiting. I groan, shifting to face her. “Look, I don’t get it. I walked into that bar completely unaware of who he was, and in less than five seconds, he looked at me like I’d personally run over his dog.”
Bianca’s brows knit together. “And you definitely don’t know him?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “But he sure as hell knows me. Or at least, my last name.”
Bianca’s lips part slightly. She knows as well as I do that my last name comes with baggage. The kind of baggage that comes from being a politician’s daughter. As my dad says, you can’t keep everyone happy.
“So you’ve been deep-diving?” she asks, gesturing to my phone.
I nod. “Yeah. Trying to find out more about him. About the 12 Devils MC, too.”
Bianca lets out a low whistle. “And?”
I exhale. “Not much. Some news articles about them, but nothing concrete. A couple of police reports—some minor weapons charges, bar fights, a few incidents with the cops, but nothing crazy. And absolutely nothing on him.”
Bianca leans her head against the back of the couch, eyes thoughtful. “You think your dad knows them?”
I scoff. “Please. My dad barely acknowledges people who work for him, let alone bikers.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” she muses.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I don’t think Jake Hollingbow ignoring some outlaw biker club is enough to make one of them look like he wants to murder me.”
Bianca shrugs. “Maybe not. But clearly, something about you—or your family—set him off.”
I frown, staring at my phone. Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.
Bianca nudges my foot with hers, a determined look on her face. “Alright, enough moping. You’re getting up.”
I groan, sinking deeper into the couch like if I become one with it, she’ll forget I exist. “Hard pass.”
She snatches the throw blanket off me. “Get up, Marcy.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I squint at her. “What’s in it for me?”
Bianca scoffs. “The ability to regain your dignity.”
I sigh dramatically. “That ship has sailed, babe.”
She rolls her eyes but softens slightly. “Come on, at least take a shower. You’ll feel human again.”
I hesitate, but before I can argue, she crosses her arms. “Or I can post a video of you crying into a pint of ice cream last night and caption it ‘woman in crisis.’”
I gasp, sitting up. “You would not.”
She grins. “Try me.”
I glare at her, but she just stares me down with that evil “best friend knows best” expression. Finally, I grumble, standing. “Fine.”
“Good girl,” she sing-songs as I trudge toward the bathroom.
The hot water hits my skin, and I do feel better—annoyingly so. The tension in my shoulders eases, and as I scrub shampoo into my hair, I realize I don’t feel quite as horrible as I did before.
I can’t help but ask myself the question—why does it bother me that this guy might not like me?
It shouldn’t. It really shouldn’t.
I barely know him. He barely talks. And when he does, it’s mostly clipped warnings and sharp, withering glances—like he’s constantly measuring me and finding me lacking.
But still...
It’s there. That little knot in my chest, tight and low and stupid.
Because it’s not just about liking, is it?
By the time I towel off and step out of the bathroom, Bianca has transformed the apartment. The clutter is mostly gone, the surfaces cleared, and the soft hum of music drifts from the speakers—some indie playlist she always puts on when she’s cooking.
And something smells good.
I pause, inhaling deeply. “Are you… bribing me with food?”
Bianca grins over her shoulder from the stove. “Absolutely.”
My stomach rumbles, betraying me instantly. I cross my arms, trying to maintain some dignity. “I’m still mad at you.”
She scoffs. “Please. You’re always mad at me when I force you to be an actual human.”
I sigh, then make my way over to the kitchen. “What are we making?”
Bianca hands me a wooden spoon. “You tell me, birthday girl.”
I roll my eyes. “My birthday was three days ago.”
She points a ladle at me as if to make a point. “Exactly.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to get out of my head for a bit. And if that means letting my best friend boss me around while we cook dinner? Fine.
Bianca tosses me a knife and a bell pepper. “Chop,” she orders, pointing at the cutting board.
I make a face but grab the knife, anyway. “This feels like unpaid labor.”
Bianca grins as she stirs something in the pan. “Consider it therapy. Chopping is good for stress. Try not to imagine it’s your dad’s face, though. Don’t want you going full psycho on me.”
I snort, slicing through the pepper a little too aggressively. “No promises.”
She eyes me as I work, then says casually, “So… are we gonna talk about them?”
I pause for a fraction of a second before continuing. “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb,” she says, bumping me with her hip. “The bikers, Marcy. Hawk and Ryder.”