13. MARCY
MARCY
No, this… this is chaos.
The bar is packed—loud, rowdy, the air thick with the smell of roasted turkey, stuffing, and cigars.
Laughter echoes off the walls, chairs scrape, glasses clink, and a dozen conversations fill the air.
It’s the busiest I’ve ever seen the MC. There’s barely room to move between the tables, and everyone’s got a drink in hand and a full plate of food.
And I helped pull it off.
For the last two weeks, I’ve worked my ass off alongside Ryder, Hawk, and CJ to make sure tonight went off without a hitch.
I planned the menu, organized the shopping runs, even prepped half the damn side dishes last night.
And now here I am—hair pulled back, apron on—serving plates like I belong here.
I weave between the tables, offering smiles and plates, nodding at faces I’ve come to recognize.
There’s Mack, one of the older guys, grizzled with a deep smoker’s voice.
He’s sitting with his wife, Denise, the kind of woman who’d stab a man with a fork if he looked at her wrong.
Tito is posted near the bar, nursing a whiskey and throwing me a wink every time I pass.
Deeks, younger and always grinning, flirts with anything that moves but has a soft spot for CJ’s kid.
And speaking of Sam, he’s happily wedged between CJ and Ryder, stuffing his face with mashed potatoes and laughing like this is the best night of his life.
“Girl,” Bianca hisses, grabbing my arm as I pass by with another tray. She’s wide-eyed, taking in the scene like she’s stumbled onto a movie set. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
I laugh, setting a plate down. “Warn you about what?”
She glances toward the table where Hawk and Ryder are seated, both men catching her stare. Hawk smirks at her lazily, Ryder gives a nod, and Bianca turns back to me with a dramatic whisper, “Those men.”
I snort. “That’s Hawk and Ryder.”
“I gathered that.” She swallows. “They look like trouble.”
“They are.”
“And him?” Bianca tilts her chin toward CJ, who’s barking a laugh at something Mack says, his usual scowl nowhere to be found.
My stomach twists. “That’s CJ.”
She looks back at me, eyes narrowing. “And that is the man you told me hated your guts?”
“Yeah… about that.” I clear my throat, pretending to focus on adjusting a napkin.
She leans in. “Which one’s the one you?—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I cut her off quickly. “Just… don’t.”
She grins. “Noted.” But I catch her sneaking another look at Ryder, biting her lip.
Typical Bianca. I let her marinate on her thoughts. I know exactly how my best friend will react if she finds out which one of the guys took my virginity, and I don’t want that reaction on Thanksgiving.
It’s been two weeks since that night. Two weeks since I ended up in CJ’s bed—his hands on me, his mouth claiming every inch. Two weeks since he took my innocence. And not once since then have we talked about it.
The next morning, Hawk and Ryder saw me in the kitchen, wearing CJ’s shirt. Hawk’s jaw ticked while Ryder’s eyes darkened. Neither said a word, but I knew they understood. How could they not? CJ bailed on poker the night before, leaving Hawk and Ryder at the table, stone-faced.
But watching them now—Hawk, Ryder, CJ—all avoiding each other’s gaze when I pass through, I know they know. They’re just… not talking about it.
So I don’t, either. Instead, I keep working, laughing when Bianca fans herself every time Hawk winks at her. Even CJ throws me a thumbs-up.
I shake the thoughts off as I pass by Mack, the gruff bartender who’s been here longer than half the club. He grunts his approval as I drop off a plate.
“Food’s good, girl. Better than last year’s slop.”
I smirk. “Don’t tell Lena that. She made last year’s.”
Mack chuckles, nodding toward the bar where Lena—blonde, pierced tongue—is pouring drinks like she owns the place. She catches me looking and flashes a grin.
“Looks good, Marcy,” she says. “Maybe next year, I’ll let you do the whole thing.”
Nothing has happened between the guys and me since, but I’ve come to understand them better.
There’s a sweetness beneath Ryder’s gruff exterior.
Hawk is the charmer. And CJ? While he still doesn’t seem one hundred percent on board with me, I’ve seen him staring at me every time I look his way. Every time, without fail.
I’m not even sure where I stand here right now. Am I CJ’s girl? The same CJ who hasn’t touched me since taking my innocence, but the same one I heard scaring away the prospects when one of them wanted to ask me out?
Or am I Hawk’s girl? Hawk, who makes me laugh till I can’t breathe, whose maddening touch keeps me up at night?
Or Ryder’s? Whose every thought I want to read and then climb into his lap and…
No! I’m not going to think about that.
As if on cue, I catch Ryder and Hawk gazing at me, their faces filled with anticipation. Something is going to happen tonight, when there’s no excuse for preparing for Thanksgiving anymore. I can already feel myself getting wet at the thought.
Bill, the youngest prospect, jogs past, carrying a tray of drinks. “You’re a machine tonight, Marcy. If you don’t marry one of these guys, I might propose.”
I wipe my hands on my apron and take a second to breathe, leaning against the wall as I scan the room. The planning, the cooking, the running around—I made this happen. For the first time in a long time, I’m not just existing. I’m doing something.
I’m getting my life back together.
It’s been weeks since I heard from my father.
No calls. No texts. No more condescending voice mails pretending he gives a shit.
Not after I made it clear I wasn’t coming back.
Sure, he tried—he sent a couple of his goons to Bianca’s, tried to scare me into crawling home.
But I didn’t budge. I’m done being his pawn.
And honestly? This is the happiest I’ve been in years.
“Hey,” a low voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I glance up to see Hawk standing there, that lazy, half-smile on his lips.
“You’re running yourself into the ground, sweetheart.”
Before I can argue, he presses a glass into my hand. A whiskey, neat.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the empty bar stool. “You look like you’re about to drop,” he adds, flashing me that lazy grin. “Drink. You earned it.”
I smirk, shaking my head. “I’m fine.”
“Marcy.” His tone drops, soft but firm. “Drink. You did good. Real good.”
I blink at him, swallowing hard, but I sit. Because dammit, I am tired. My body aches, my feet are screaming, but this is the fullest I’ve felt in years.
Hawk leans in, lips brushing my cheek—soft and warm—and whispers, “Proud of you, Marcy.”
My gaze drifts past Hawk toward the back corner, where one of the long tables is packed with women, maybe six or seven of them. Tight jeans, low-cut tops, perfect hair. Biker girlfriends, club regulars. Old blood around here.
They’re all watching me.
One leans in, whispering something that makes the others smirk. Another outright sneers, her eyes dragging over me like I’m something she scraped off her boot. The blonde in the middle doesn’t bother hiding the way her gaze flicks to Hawk and back to me with pure judgment.
They all saw that kiss.
And now, every last one of them is sizing me up, silently asking the same question: What the hell is she doing here?
A tight knot forms in my chest, burning slow. I clutch the whiskey glass a little tighter, forcing a smile. “Thanks, Hawk,” I manage, voice steady even as my stomach churns.
Hawk follows my gaze, eyes narrowing when he catches what I’m looking at. For a second, I think he might say something, but instead, he just nods once.
“Come find me when you’re done,” he says. “You need a break.”
Then he’s gone, fading back into the crowd like none of it touches him. And it doesn’t because he’s a part of this place, and I’m not.
I stand there, drink in hand, heat creeping up my neck. I shouldn’t care. I know I shouldn’t. Those women don’t know what I’ve survived. But it still stings.
For a moment, the thought creeps in. So soft, so familiar, it feels like an old friend.
Maybe I should just stop. Go back. Apologize to my father, smooth things over, and get my life—the comfort, the security—back.
I bite my lip, staring down at the whiskey in my hand. That’s the voice of fear, I tell myself. That’s not me. Not anymore.
I’ve fought too hard to be here—to build this—even if half the damn room wishes I wasn’t here.
“Hey.”
I glance up as Ryder appears. His voice is low, rough in that way that makes my stomach flip. He’s the first person who welcomed me here with open arms.
“You okay?” he asks, his eyes scanning me like he can see right through whatever mask I’m wearing.
“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a small smile. “Just taking it all in.”
He nods slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe me but won’t push. Instead, he reaches down, fingers brushing against mine, then sliding between them, interlacing.
It’s so simple… and yet intimate in a way that makes my breath hitch.
“You did good tonight,” he murmurs. “The place… the food… it’s all you, Marcy.”
Ryder rarely talks more than he needs to, but when he does, I know how much it means.
Before I can say more, someone calls his name—one of the older guys needing help hauling another keg from the back.
Ryder leans in, brushing his nose against mine so quick, so subtly, no one sees it but me. “I’ll be back.”
And then he’s gone.
I blink, still caught in the moment, until that cold prickle slides down my spine.
I glance up. They’re watching me again, the same table of women. Their stares are harder now, their faces twisted in something close to rage. One even scoffs and shakes her head, muttering something I can’t hear.
Jesus. I feel it. This ugly wave of shame, of being the outsider no one wants here.
I need air.
I move fast, slipping through the crowd until I find the bathroom and duck inside. My hands shake as I push into the stall, closing the door behind me.
For a minute, I just stand there, my back against the door, breathing deep.
Get it together, Marcy.