16. MARCY #2
Bianca’s eyes narrow. “Are you kidding me? This place has mushrooms growing in the bathroom grout and a raccoon living in the attic. You should be paying her to live here.”
“Hey, now,” Ralph says, defensive. “That raccoon’s part of the charm.”
Bianca groans. “You mean part of the biohazard.”
I feel the sting in my throat, the humiliation creeping up my cheeks, but I force myself to stand tall. I can see it now—this isn’t about me. It’s about my last name. My father.
He’s still pulling strings. Still trying to control me.
But not today.
I lift my chin. “Thanks, anyway, Ralph. I hope you and your raccoon have a lovely life together.”
Bianca adds with a saccharine smile, “Be sure to tell your next tenant to bring mold-resistant shoes.”
I slump into the passenger seat beside Bianca, arms folded, jaw tight. The rejection still stings more than I want to admit. The apartment was barely holding itself together, and yet… it felt like a start. My start.
But my father doesn’t just take things away. He erases entire options.
“I should just leave town,” I mutter, staring out the window as Bianca drives. “Start over somewhere my last name doesn’t ruin every damn thing.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bianca says, her voice dry. “Got any towns in mind that haven’t heard of Jake Hollingbow and his televised crusade against everyone with a tattoo?”
I sigh. “Good point.”
My phone buzzes, and I glance down to see Ryder’s name lighting up the screen. It’s a FaceTime request.
I hesitate, but hit accept.
His face appears instantly—rugged, concerned, and definitely not calling just to say hi. “Did you leave the bar early?” he asks, brows pulled together.
“I… yeah. We were looking at apartments,” I admit, shifting so the disappointment isn’t written all over my face, but I know I’m not fooling him.
Ryder’s expression shifts. “Marcy, where are you?”
“Heading back,” I say, voice thin. “We found one I liked, but… long story short, I got rejected. Again. And I think I know why.”
He leans back, the camera shaking slightly like he’s sitting down somewhere. “Talk to me.”
And I do. I tell him about the apartment I liked. About Ralph’s weird vagueness. About how I know my dad’s still pulling strings. About how exhausting it is to want something so small and basic—a place to call my own—and not be able to have it without a fight.
Ryder listens. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to fix it right away. He just… listens, the way he always does when it really matters. His face stays unreadable for the most part, but his jaw ticks once or twice. I know that means he’s mad on my behalf.
Finally, he says, “You’re not wrong, you know. Your dad’s scared of losing control. That’s why he keeps pushing.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“You’re stronger than him,” Ryder says, his voice quieter now. “You just need to keep moving forward. You’ll find a place. And if it comes down to it… you’ve got backup now.”
He doesn’t say me. He doesn’t need to. It’s implied in every word.
And then I realize… he’s changed.
When I first met Ryder, he was the strong, silent type. All rough hands and unreadable expressions, a man who kept everything close to the chest. But now? There’s something different in the way he talks to me. More open, more grounded.
And God, it makes my chest ache in the best way.
“Thanks for checking in,” I say, smiling at the screen. “You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, I did,” he replies, voice low. “I’ll see you tonight, alright?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Tonight.”
The call ends.
The second the screen goes dark, Bianca lets out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, I know you’re juggling three broody biker demigods, but if you had to choose…” She turns to me with a smirk. “I vote for the listener.”
I laugh, tucking my phone away, though the warmth Ryder left in my chest lingers. “Yeah,” I murmur. “He’s… something.”
But deep down, I’m not sure I can choose.
Because what I have with each of them feels different. Feels real.
“Screw your dad,” Bianca announces, tossing her phone onto her lap. We’re parked outside her apartment, the engine still warm. “He’s made your life miserable long enough.”
I snort, staring out the window. “Easier said than done, Bi.”
Bianca sighs dramatically, leaning back against the seat. “Well, how about we get a drink? Drown our sorrows in something stronger than your father’s bull.”
I give her a look. “Have you forgotten I literally work at a bar now?”
She grins, waggling her eyebrows. “Which means free drinks, obviously. Plus, the biker dudes are so hot. There’s something about tattoos and piercings that just…” She fans herself like a Victorian lady in need of smelling salts.
My eyes narrow. “Did you... hook up with someone from the bar?”
Bianca’s lips curve into an impish little smirk, and she wiggles her shoulders in a silent admission. “I might have... chatted... with a certain prospect.” At my raised brow, she bursts out laughing. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! You’re the one juggling three MC hotties at once.”
I open my mouth to protest, but my phone buzzes in my lap. Dad’s name flashes on the screen, and my stomach drops.
“Oh, God,” I groan. “What now?”
Bianca falls silent, watching me as I swipe to open the text. There’s a link to some sleazy online gossip site, followed by a few words from him:
What have you done, Marcy?
My heart pounds as I tap the link. The headline reads:
ASPIRING HOPEFUL SENATOR’S DAUGHTER CONSPIRING WITH WELL-KNOWN BIKER GANG. FAMILY DRAMA?? OR MORE…
Pictures load—grainy but clear enough to show me at The Den, flirting with Hawk at the bar, smiling way too close for plausible deniability. Another shot from a different angle, my hand on his arm, definitely more than a friendly pat.
The article includes a link to an audio recording. With my heart in my throat, I click on it.
CJ’s voice, low and rough. “Don’t make me wait, Marcy. You know what happens when you keep me hanging.”
My voice, breathy as I laugh shyly. “Look, I’m on break. I can’t just disappear every time you?—”
CJ interrupts with a dark chuckle. “Really? Because last night, you had no problem sneaking away.”
My voice, quieter. “I can’t just… keep doing this, CJ.”
He exhales, the sound intimate as if he’s right next to me. “Then why are you still here, Marcy? You know exactly what I want.”
There’s a click, like someone fumbled the recording device. Then static, and it ends.
My heart stutters, cheeks burning. There’s no question what that conversation implied. Anyone listening would know it’s more than just innocent flirting. And whoever leaked it clearly wanted to start a scandal.
A rolling wave of nausea hits me out of nowhere, sharp and sudden. My stomach churns viciously, the urge to heave choking off my next breath.
“Bianca, pull over,” I manage, voice tight, eyes screwed shut.
“What?” She glances over, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Just stop the car, please,” I gasp, pressing a hand to my mouth.
Bianca doesn’t hesitate—she jerks the wheel, easing us to the curb in a squeal of brakes. The second we stop, I fling open the door and stumble out, my pulse pounding in my ears.
The cold air smacks me in the face, but all I can focus on is the violent twist in my gut. I barely make it to the sidewalk before everything in my stomach comes rushing out, splattering onto the pavement. My eyes sting with tears, my throat burns.
Behind me, Bianca’s voice trembles with concern. “Marcy? Oh my God. Are you okay?”
I stay crouched over, coughing, spitting out the awful taste. My stomach clenches again, but there’s nothing left to give. By the time I straighten, my head is swimming. I feel shaky, unsteady on my feet.
Bianca hurries to my side, one hand bracing my shoulder, the other rubbing circles on my back. “Hey, hey, breathe. You’re all right.”
I nod, closing my eyes against the dizziness, trying to will my heart to slow down. “Sorry,” I mumble, voice raw. “I… I don’t know what’s… what’s happening.”
She gently pulls me away from the mess on the pavement, supporting me until I can lean against the car. “You’ve been under a ton of stress,” she says softly, eyeing me like she’s worried I’ll collapse again. “I’m not surprised your body’s freaking out.”
I swallow hard, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My legs feel like jelly. “I’m fine,” I lie, but my voice quivers, betraying me.
Bianca purses her lips. “No, you’re not.”
She’s not wrong. My head spins with the meltdown my life has become—the leaked audio, my father’s accusations, the bar, the men… all of it feels too big, too impossible to handle. And now my body’s revolting on me, too.
“Just give me a minute,” I whisper.
She nods, rubbing my arm. “Take all the time you need.” Then, hesitating, she asks, “Should I call someone? Take you to a doctor, maybe?”
I shake my head quickly, though the pounding in my temples doesn’t ease. “No. I’ll be okay. Just let me breathe.”
And right then, I’m not sure if I’m convincing her or myself.