9. MARCY
MARCY
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s how to deal with grumpy men.
And lucky for CJ, he’s about to get a masterclass.
The man barely looks at me when I walk into The Den the next day, just grunts and keeps his arms crossed like he’s waiting for me to spontaneously combust. Every time I pass him, he sneers like I’m a damn roach scurrying across his floor.
So, naturally, I give it right back.
He scowls? I smile.
He mutters something under his breath? I say, “Sorry, old man, didn’t catch that. Your grumbles are getting quieter.”
The corner of Ryder’s mouth twitches at that one, and Hawk full-on chokes on his drink.
CJ? He just glares at me harder.
I wink.
Yeah. I can do this all day.
I may not know much about biker bars, but I know work. Hawk and Ryder didn’t throw me straight into bartending—probably because they figured I’d spill beer everywhere—but they did give me some grunt work.
I wipe down tables, clean glasses, restock the napkins and cutlery. It’s simple, repetitive, and easy to mess up if you don’t pay attention.
But I do.
Because I don’t just want to be here. I want to prove I can be.
I move quickly, diligently, humming to myself as I clear away some empty glasses. The bar is mostly empty this early in the day, just a few of the regulars sipping their beers, throwing the occasional glance my way like they’re still deciding whether or not I belong here.
CJ is still glaring from his usual corner.
I roll my eyes. Seriously?
I grab a rag, walk over to his table, and slap it down in front of him. “You done sulking, or should I bring you a juice box?”
Hawk lets out a loud laugh from behind the bar. Ryder hides his smirk behind his coffee mug.
CJ, to his credit, doesn’t react much. Just leans back in his chair, narrows his eyes, and says, “You missed a spot.”
I blink, then look down at the already spotless table.
Oh, this bitch.
I lean in slightly, smiling sweetly. “You know, for someone who didn’t even want me here, you sure are invested in my performance.”
His lips twitch. Not in a smile—CJ doesn’t smile—but in that “I’m barely tolerating you” way.
“I just like to see people earn their keep,” he mutters.
I straighten, tossing the rag over my shoulder. “You’re gonna love me, then.”
CJ just shakes his head, clearly done with me, and goes back to his drink.
I turn back to the bar, where Hawk is grinning like I just performed some Cirque du Soleil act.
“You are trouble, sweetheart,” he muses, resting an arm on the counter.
I smirk, wiping my hands on my jeans. “That’s what they keep telling me.”
Ryder, still sipping his coffee, gives me a slow once-over before saying, “You’re not bad at this.”
I pause. Not bad?
Not bad?
I grin, dramatic as hell, and press a hand to my chest. “Ryder,” I gasp. “Was that a compliment?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
I lean against the bar, giving him a pointed look. “You should be careful. Keep saying nice things, and people might start thinking you like me.”
He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t say anything.
Hawk, meanwhile, just shakes his head. “You are gonna be fun to have around.”
I smirk, satisfied, and grab the rag off my shoulder.
I’m wiping down one of the tables near the front of the bar, humming along to the classic rock song playing overhead, when a voice stops me cold.
“Is that you, Marcy?”
I turn, rag still in hand, and blink in surprise.
Standing in front of me is Angela Torres, an old colleague from the event planning firm I worked at last year.
She’s dressed in her usual sleek style—blazer, crisp blouse, high heels way too nice for a place like this—and she’s staring at me like I just grew two heads.
“Angela?” I say, forcing a smile. “Wow. Long time.”
Her eyes flick to my apron, the rag in my hand, the empty glasses stacked on the tray next to me. She arches a perfectly plucked brow. “You work here?”
I wipe my hands on my jeans, trying not to bristle. “Yeah. Just started.”
Her mouth opens slightly, like she wants to say something, but stops herself.
I tilt my head. “What brings you here?”
“Oh, my fiancé wanted to check this place out,” she says quickly, nodding toward the guy waiting for her by the door. A clean-cut, preppy type, shifting uncomfortably like he’s afraid the bar itself might taint him.
She turns back to me, lips pressing together. “I, um… I heard you were looking for work.”
My fingers close around the rag. “Yeah. I was. Listen, Angela, I actually wanted to talk to you about something.”
Angela sighs, giving me a careful look. “Marcy, I know what you wanted to talk about. You applied to our firm last week, right?”
I nod, my stomach dipping.
She shifts on her feet, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but… we were actually considering you. Your resume is great. But then… we got a call.”
My breath catches. “A call?”
She winces. “From your dad’s office.”
Of course.
I force my face into neutrality, even as my blood boils. “And let me guess… you didn’t want to ruffle feathers with a politician?”
Angela sighs. “I’m really sorry, Marcy. But you know how these things work.”
Yeah. Yeah, I do.
I grip the rag, my nails digging into the fabric. I should have expected this. Of course Jake Hollingbow isn’t just cutting off my money. He’s making damn sure I can’t get a job anywhere that would let me stand on my own two feet.
Angela looks genuinely sorry, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.
She glances toward the door. “I should go. But… I hope things work out for you.”
I nod, keeping my voice even. “Yeah. Me too.”
She hesitates, then turns and walks out.
I stand there for a moment, my mind spinning. Then I exhale, squaring my shoulders. I grab my tray, walk back to the bar, and get back to work. I set down the tray a little harder than necessary, still replaying my conversation with Angela in my head.
Figures.
I knew my father would pull something like this, but hearing it out loud? Knowing he’s actively making sure I can’t get hired anywhere? That stings.
I sigh, rolling my shoulders. Two weeks on Bianca’s couch is starting to feel like two years. My back is wrecked, and as much as she insists I can stay as long as I need, I can’t keep living out of a duffel bag.
I need to find something permanent. Fast.
Especially since CJ has made it very clear that I’m only here temporarily.
I reach up to rub the knot forming at the base of my neck, rolling my head to the side when I hear boots approaching. “You look about two seconds from a breakdown,” a deep voice rumbles behind me.
I jump, my head snapping up as Ryder walks toward me.
I force a weak smile. “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine.”
He arches a brow. “What’s bothering you?”
I shake my head, dropping my hand from my neck. “Nothing.”
Ryder doesn’t look convinced. His gaze flicks to my tense shoulders, then back up to my face.
“Nothing a quick massage can’t fix,” he mutters like it’s not a big deal at all.
My mouth goes dry. I remember his hands on me that night. The way he led me across the dance floor like he knew exactly how to handle me.
And now, standing here, remembering… I can’t stop staring at his hands.
Big, strong paws. Real man hands. The kind that look like they could break a person in half or fix something with just a few steady moves.
And now he’s offering to put those hands on me again?
I clear my throat. “You give massages now?”
Ryder just shrugs. “You want one or not?”
I should say no. I should come up with a smartass response, throw him off like I usually do.
But instead, I just stand there, heat crawling up my neck, my muscles aching in a way that has nothing to do with my shitty sleeping arrangements.
I nod.
Ryder doesn’t ask. He just takes my hand and leads me toward the back office, his steps sure like he already knows exactly where this is going.
And maybe I do, too.
The office is small and cluttered with paperwork. A filing cabinet has been pushed against the wall, and there’s a desk that looks like it’s been through one too many bad decisions.
He shuts the door behind us, sending a thrill down my spine.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the chair.
I do.
I’m still tense, still holding onto the stress of the day, but when his hands land on my shoulders, every single thought in my head evaporates.
His palms are huge, covering the width of my shoulders with ease, his fingers pressing into the knotted muscles at the base of my neck.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re wound up tight.”
No shit.
I open my mouth to fire something back, but then he kneads deeper, and my response dies in my throat.
I sink into the chair, my head falling forward slightly as his thumbs work slow, deliberate circles against my skin.
Holy. Shit.
I let out an embarrassingly pleased sound, and I feel him chuckle behind me.
“You like that?” he asks, his voice lower now, gravelly.
I exhale shakily, gripping the arms of the chair. “Shut up.”
But he just keeps massaging, his fingers spreading, kneading down my spine, the pressure perfect—just on the edge of painful, grounding, intoxicating.
And then something changes. His thumbs brush lower, slipping just under the collar of my shirt, his fingertips grazing my bare skin.
I suck in a breath. I should pull away. I should say something witty, teasing, safe.
But I don’t.
Because I don’t want safe.
I turn in the chair, looking up at him, and the way he’s staring down at me—intense, hungry, waiting for me to make the next move—makes my stomach flip.
And maybe it’s the stress of the past few weeks, the weight of everything pressing down on me.
Or maybe I’m just done.
Done with expectations.
Done with rules.
Done with being Daddy’s “good” little girl.
So I do something reckless. I grab him and pull him down to me.
The second my lips crash into Ryder’s, the tension that’s been smoldering between us erupts into full-blown fire. Heat surges between us as his hands instantly slide down my back, pulling me up, flush against his body.