10. CJ
CJ
My backyard is a sprawling stretch of grass and trees bordered by a tall wooden fence. There’s a stone patio built off the house, a well-worn grill in the corner, and a few old chairs that have seen better days. It’s nothing fancy. Just a place to sit and breathe under the open sky.
The house itself is a solid, single-story ranch-style place.
I inherited it from my old man when he passed.
Barely changed a damn thing except fixing the leaky roof and painting the walls.
The living room is comfortable enough—a battered couch, a coffee table, some shelves crammed with Sam’s books and games.
The kitchen opens up into the backyard through a sliding door, so I can stand at the grill and still see what the kid’s up to.
Speaking of the kid… Sam’s in the treehouse, perched high in the thick branches of the old oak that’s been here longer than I’ve been alive. I built that treehouse with my father when I was barely tall enough to hold a hammer. Now it’s Sam’s domain. His little fortress.
I’m at the grill, flipping a couple of burgers, the smoke rising in slow curls around me. Normally, this is the kind of routine that calms me down—focusing on the smell of the cooking meat, the crackle of the flames, the distant hum of traffic.
But right now? My mind is too tangled for peace.
I keep seeing her face.
Marcy Hollingbow.
Blond hair, soft around her cheeks. Full curves that she doesn’t bother hiding, as if she’s daring the world to judge her for it. A mouth that sasses back without hesitation. Eyes that can go from vulnerable to defiant in a heartbeat.
Hawk and now Ryder… they’ve both had their hands on her.
I take a slow swig of my beer, staring at the scorch marks left on the grill.
The memory of Marcy with Hawk hits me like a punch to the gut.
The way she leaned into him, how her lips parted like she wanted to devour him right then and there, oblivious to the fact that she was in my bar—our bar.
She looked like she needed him, and Hawk was all too ready to oblige.
I shake my head, rubbing a hand over my mouth.
That was bad enough. Seeing Hawk—my VP, my brother—tangle himself up with Jake Hollingbow’s daughter.
Part of me wanted to snarl at him to back off, to remember what we owe to the men we lost because of her father.
But a bigger part just wanted to yank her away, tell her she didn’t belong here.
Then I think about the next time. When I really should’ve walked away. When I caught a glimpse of Marcy and Ryder, and didn’t just see some harmless flirting.
That door was open a crack, and fuck if I didn’t get an eyeful.
Her hand was wrapped around Ryder’s cock, her cheeks all flushed, eyes half-lidded with raw need.
She looked wrecked—and reckless. And Ryder?
He had that same starved, hungry look Hawk had worn, like he’d take her right then and there if she let him.
Goddamn traitorous body of mine. I hated myself for it, but seeing her like that—barely covered, her hand tight around him—made my blood thunder south, making my jeans get uncomfortably tight. It made me furious that my body could betray me like that for her, of all people.
I told myself it was just shock. Nothing else. But deep down, I knew better. There was something about the way Marcy’s face twisted in pleasure, how her lips parted on a silent moan, that hit me harder than any punch. And I hated it.
I pop the top off another beer, taking a long swig, the bitterness coating my tongue.
The fact that my first reaction to seeing her—Jake Hollingbow’s daughter—like that was to get hard?
It pisses me off more than anything. It’s like I’m betraying myself, betraying the memory of my best friend, the promise I made to his kid.
And for what? Because she’s curvy in all the right places and doesn’t take shit from anyone?
She’s weaving her way into our lives like it’s second nature, taking whatever she pleases. People like her father do that—just care about themselves. She doesn’t give a damn about who she steps on. Doesn’t care about her friends, either. Just wants the thrill, the rush of power.
Because why else would she be here?
She’s a Hollingbow.
My jaw clenches at the thought, and my grip on the spatula tightens. The burgers sizzle angrily, as if echoing my mood.
“Dad!” Sam’s voice calls from above. “Meat’s burning!”
Shit.
I jerk back to reality, flipping the burgers just in time. Smoke billows as the flames lick at the edges. One of them is already charred.
I exhale through my nose, yanking the skillet off the grill. Dammit. I never burn the food. I scrape at the blackened edges, trying to salvage something edible.
Sam rushes forward, bright-eyed and eager. “Don’t worry, Dad. I can still eat ’em. I’ll get it!”
“Hey, careful!” I warn sharply as he reaches out. “It’s still hot, buddy.”
Sam freezes, his hand hovering just inches from the hot skillet. He looks up at me with wide eyes, and something twists deep in my chest. That expression is so familiar. So damn familiar that for a moment, it’s not Sam looking at me, but his father.
It hits me suddenly—a flash of memory, years ago, in a moment almost identical to this one:
“Careful! It’s still hot, idiot.”
He’d looked up at me, eyebrows raised, a cocky smirk on his face as he grabbed the sizzling steak, anyway, laughing when he nearly burned himself. My heart had nearly stopped at his recklessness, even as I’d rolled my eyes and called him a dumbass.
Sam’s just like his father. Brave, impulsive, always reaching before thinking.
I smile softly, shaking my head at the memory, the ache in my chest bittersweet.
Sam eyes me curiously. “Dad?”
I blink, realizing I’m smiling. “Nothing, kid. You just… reminded me of someone.”
Sam grins back at me. He has no memory of his parents anymore, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad.
I was waiting for Hawk and Ryder—our usual monthly thing, a chance to sit around, crack open a few beers, talk club business, maybe watch the game if one’s on. But I can’t get my head straight.
Because Marcy is messing with everything.
She’s messing with my men, my club, and my head.
Grumbling, I set the plate of burgers on the patio table. I glance toward the fence, half-expecting to see Hawk’s bike rolling in or Ryder’s truck pulling up.
Not yet.
I rake a hand through my hair, shoulders tense. Yeah, people liked Marcy’s father, Jake Hollingbow. Even admired him for his money, his influence. But they didn’t see the man behind the curtain. The manipulator, the liar. The one who’d gotten my best friend killed in that damned mission.
And now his daughter’s waltzing into our world, hooking her claws into Hawk and Ryder.
I don’t trust her. I scowl, picking up a beer bottle from the table.
My fingers curl tight around the cold beer bottle as my gaze settles on the fence line, waiting for Ryder and Hawk to roll up. But my mind’s not really here.
It’s still stuck on Marcy Hollingbow.
Hawk tried to feed me some bullshit about how she’d fallen out with Jake, how she was done with her father’s games, cut off and trying to find her own way. He’d looked me dead in the eye, earnest as hell, like he actually believed her.
But I don’t buy it. Not for a fucking second.
Marcy Hollingbow is playing a game. She’s got every move planned out, and I can see it clear as day. She walks into my bar, wraps Hawk and Ryder around her finger, and now she’s working there, acting like she belongs?
It’s all part of her plan. Her father’s plan.
My jaw clenches, anger seeping through every nerve in my body. I take another long swig of beer, trying to drown out the bitterness on my tongue.
She thinks she can slip in here, seduce my best guys, and tear us apart from the inside out?
No fucking chance.
My father spent his life building the 12 Devils from the ground up. Turned it from a group of scrappy ex-Navy SEALs looking for purpose into one of the strongest MCs on the West Coast. He sacrificed everything to give us a family, a home, a reputation.
And I’ll be damned if I let some spoiled little rich girl destroy that.
“Dad!” Sam’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He climbs down from the treehouse and jumps to the ground, a goofy smile plastered on his face as he sprints toward me. “Ryder’s here!”
I nod, setting my beer down. “Thanks, kiddo.”
He rushes past me, excitedly heading toward the gate to greet Ryder. I watch Ryder park his truck out front and climb out, followed moments later by Hawk on his Harley. They exchange a brief greeting, but I notice how Ryder’s gaze lingers on me, like he knows exactly where my mind has been.
Good. Maybe he’ll keep that in mind the next time Marcy bats her pretty little lashes at him.
Because I’m not buying into her innocent act. Not for a second.
I glance up as Ryder walks through the gate, Marcy trailing right behind him. She pauses for a split second when our eyes lock, a cautious flicker crossing her face. But then she lifts her chin, straightening her shoulders, and steps forward like she owns the place.
Damn woman.
Ryder nods at me. “CJ.”
“Ryder,” I grunt in acknowledgment, then shift my gaze back to Marcy. “And you.”
“CJ,” she says evenly, matching my tone.
Her blond hair catches the fading sunlight as her eyes immediately find Sam. Her lips curve softly as my kid waves at her with his usual eagerness.
“Hey, Marcy!” Sam says brightly, bouncing in his seat.
“Hey, Sam.” Her voice is gentle, a complete contrast to the sass I’ve seen her dish out. “Keeping your dad in line?”
Sam nods seriously. “Trying to. He keeps burning dinner.”
Ryder chuckles under his breath, but cuts off when I shoot him a glare.