Chapter 17
Nyxa
The rejection emails blur together now.
We’ve decided to move forward with another candidate.
Unfortunately, your experience does not align with our requirements.
Thank you for your interest, but…
I slam my cell phone on the couch before I can read the rest. My chest feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, each refusal tightening it.
It’s the same damn story every time, no experience, no qualifications. Like the years I spent dancing, the medals, the hell I crawled out of, don’t count for shit.
Word spreads fast in the clubhouse that the BB’s looking for a new bartender, and for a few minutes, I actually let myself hope. It’s here. It’s close. It’s something.
I find Iron in the back lot of the clubhouse, wiping down his bike. “Hey,” I say, forcing myself to sound casual. “I heard you’re looking for a new bartender.”
He smirks before I even finish. “We are.”
“Give me a shot.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and then he laughs, loud enough to draw a few curious glances. “Yeah, sure. You behind the bar? Place would shut down in a week.”
I cross my arms. “Why?”
“Because, sweetheart, if anyone so much as looked at you wrong, half the men in here would start digging graves.” He leans closer. “And the other half would be in them.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “That’s exaggerated.”
“It’s reality.” He still grins like this is funny. “Talk to North if you really want it. But,” he tilts his head, “don’t think Prez would let you work behind a bar full of drunk assholes who’d spend the night trying to get in your panties.”
His words dig under my skin like splinters. I want to snap that North and I aren’t even together in that way, or at least not officially, but the truth is murkier than I want to admit.
I walk away before my pride makes me say something I can’t take back.
I wander back into the Blacktope Blood area, my steps lighter than my mood.
The music’s low, a lazy hum under the chatter, and the smell of fried food lingers in the air.
A few of the Candies are gathered at a corner table, counting cash from the afternoon poker game.
“Hey, future bartender!” Cherry calls, grinning like she just solved world hunger.
“Future unemployed, more like,” I mutter, sliding into the booth beside her.
“What happened?”
I shrug, fiddling with a stray beer coaster. “Iron thinks I’m too much of a liability.”
“Meaning?” Jules asks, already smirking.
“Meaning apparently if a guy so much as looks at me wrong, we’ll have bodies stacked like firewood out back.” I roll my eyes, but my tone is brittle. “Guess I’m too dangerous for customer service.”
They all laugh, but it’s not mean, it’s the kind of laugh that says they get it. They’ve heard the same crap, lived the same crap.
“Sweetheart, behind this bar, you wouldn’t have to pour a single drink,” Cherry says. “Half these guys would line up just to hand you their wallets.”
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “But I’m not trying to start a savings account with someone else’s blood money.”
Jules leans back, eyeing me over the rim of her beer. “So what’s the plan, then?”
“I’ve got a plan.” My voice is steady, even though the truth is I’m just stringing stubbornness into something that sounds like certainty. “Save up. Take some courses. Get my dance qualifications. I’m not asking North to foot the bill.”
“You could, though,” Cherry says softly. “Ask him.”
I shake my head before she even finishes. “I can’t. He’s done more than I deserve.” The words taste sharp on my tongue, bitter.
They don’t push.
Instead, Jules smirks and nudges me with her shoulder. “Well, if you change your mind, you can always join my side hustle. Pays cash, no experience necessary, and the clients tip better than most of the guys in here.”
I snort. “Please tell me it’s not stripping.”
“Exotic cardio,” she deadpans, and we all laugh, the sound spilling over the table like a relief valve.
But when they turn back to counting bills and swapping stories, I lean back in the booth, my smile still fixed but my mind a thousand miles away.
Every rejection email, every polite no, every job that won’t give me a chance, it’s starting to pile up. And I hate how much it feels like I’m standing still while the whole damn world keeps moving.
I want a life that’s mine. I just don’t know if I’ll get it without him.
And that scares me more than I want to admit.
By the time I leave the clubhouse, the air is getting chilly that makes you pull your jacket tighter even if you’re not cold.
North’s at the far end of the room when I glance back, arms crossed, head bent toward Rook and Soul, deep in whatever business the Saints' are chewing over tonight.
I tell myself I’m fine with slipping out without saying goodbye.
It’s not a lie, exactly.
The walk home feels longer than it should. Every step is a chance for my mind to chew on itself—on the rejections, the stupid pride, the way I keep building this wall between myself and asking for help.
The house is quiet when I step inside. I kick my boots off at the door, drop my jacket over the back of the couch, and head for the kitchen.
That’s when I see it.
A folder. A laptop. And a neat stack of glossy flyers spread across the table like someone laid out a hand of cards.
I freeze.
The flyers are for courses, both online and in-person. Dance pedagogy. Studio management. Early childhood movement education. The kind of qualifications the schools kept telling me I didn’t have.
The prices make my stomach drop. They’re not just expensive—they’re the kind of numbers you don’t even say out loud unless you’ve already made peace with the debt.
Right in the middle of it all, on top of the folder, is a yellow sticky note in his sharp, blocky handwriting. Two words: Do it.
My throat closes up before I can even blink.
The first tear slips hot down my cheek, then another, until I’m gripping the edge of the table just to keep from falling apart.
I’d been so sure he didn’t care. That if he wanted to help me, he would’ve already. That he was too busy, too distracted, too wrapped up in the hood. But he’d been giving me space. Letting me decide for myself.
And then showing me—without fanfare or a speech—that he’s there. Even through my stubbornness. Especially through it.
I swipe at my cheeks, but more tears follow.
The laptop’s already on, screen glowing with a blank application page.
I sit down and start typing. Not just one form, but three.
Every school that’s even remotely possible, I’m filling it in.
My fingers hover over the last box, the one asking for a reference.
A pocket name. I stare at it for a solid minute before I realize I can’t put North.
Looking through the tabs I realize he made sure to research everything, even on how to run a dance school. Licensing. Insurance. Rent. Mirrors. Floors. The whole damn thing.
Even if the thought of telling him thank you makes my chest ache in ways I don’t have words for.
When the door opens, I jump a little. He steps inside, his eyes flick over the table and that smirk tugs at his mouth. Not the smug, I’ve got you cornered one. The softer one. The one that’s dangerous because it feels like it sees too much.
“You filling them out?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, chewing the inside of my cheek. “But they need a real name. Yours.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s weighing something. Then he leans against the counter, arms crossed, and says, “Vincent. Vincent Addare.”
I repeat it under my breath, letting it roll on my tongue. Vincent. It fits him, sharp and solid, but somehow softer than North. “I like it.”
Something flickers in his eyes before he looks away. “Use it. Makes it official.”
I nod, but the guilt gnaws at me until I blurt, “It’s a loan. I’ll pay you back.”
The corner of his mouth curves into a smirk that says he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Sure you will, Firefly.”
“I mean it, Vince,” I press, and my chest does a strange little flip at the way he watches me when I say it. Oh, shit.
He steps closer, palms braced on either side of my chair, crowding into my space until my heartbeat is a drumline in my ears. “And I’m serious when I say you’re not paying me back.”
I try to glare. It comes out more like a pout. “You can’t just…”
“Yeah, I can.” His voice dips, final, and then he straightens. “C’mon. Grab your jacket.”
“What? Why?”
“Need to clear my head. We’re going for a ride.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the back of his bike, arms wrapped tight around his waist. The engine’s deep rumble settles somewhere low in my stomach, a constant vibration that makes it impossible not to melt against him.
The wind whips my hair into tangles, stings my cheeks, and steals every thought except one: I could stay like this forever.
He’s different tonight. His hand leaves the throttle more than once to skim down my thigh, fingers splayed warm and possessive through my leggings. Once, he runs his knuckles up the inside of my arm, slow enough that goosebumps explode across my skin.
By the time we pull off onto a dirt track and wind through a tunnel of trees, I’m practically humming from the mix of adrenaline and something a hell of a lot more dangerous.
We stop in a small clearing lit only by moonlight. There’s a bluff at the edge, the whole city sprawling below like a bed of fallen stars.
I swing off the bike, helmet in hand, and just… stare. “This is beautiful.”
He shrugs, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. “Come here when I need to shut the world out.”
It’s not lost on me what it means for him to bring me here. This isn’t the bar, or the clubhouse, or even the house. This is his.
I step closer and tug lightly at the leather of his cut, testing the boundary.
His brow cocks. “You trying to steal this off me?”
“Maybe.” My voice is lighter than I feel.
He stares for a beat, then leans in. The kiss is unhurried but deep, the kind that drags the breath right out of your lungs. His hand slides up my spine, anchoring me in place like he’s not ready to let me go.
And for once, I’m not afraid of that.
The night is still. Too still.
The engine’s off, but I swear I can still feel the hum of it under me, or maybe it’s just him. North’s body is all heat and control, caging me where I straddle his bike, the moonlight catching the hard lines of his jaw.
His place and secret. And now mine too.
He doesn’t say a word when his hands grip my hips and drag me forward, until I’m flush against the front of him. The thick ridge straining against his jeans leaves no question what he’s thinking. My breath snags, and I swear my pulse matches the phantom rumble of the Harley beneath us.
He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “Still want to play stubborn?”
A shiver slices down my spine. “That depends… on the rules.”
His low chuckle is pure sin. “The only rule is you hold on.”
Then the zipper’s down and he frees himself, and Jesus, I forget how to breathe. The metal of his piercing catches the faint light, and my thighs clench.
I’m about to move but he keeps me in place. “You won’t tear my damn leggings.”
He smirks but lets me get down and take one leg off but before getting back I bend down and grab his cock.
Wrapping my lips around it makes him suck through his teeth.
The reaction reaches right between my thighs.
I tease the piercing with my tongue until he fists my hair and keeps me in place while fucking my mouth like a possessed man.
Each thrust makes my pussy clench, feeling it get even wetter.
He yanks me back and I get lost in those stormy eyes.
I let some saliva drip on his dick, making him curse.
“Hop here, Firefly.”
I do because I need him deep in me.
He drags my panties aside, not tearing this time, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he fists my hair and yanks my mouth to his in a kiss that’s all teeth and claim. His other hand guides me down onto him, the blunt head stretches me, forcing me open until I take every inch.
The bike rocks under us with the force of it, the leather seat slick against my thighs. My nails dig into his cut, my forehead pressed to his as he starts to move, deep, deliberate thrusts that make the world dissolve into sound and sensation.
“Vince…” His real name slips out before I can stop it, the one I only just learned, the one that feels too intimate to say out loud.
He freezes for a second. Just one. His eyes lock on mine like I’ve just cut through every wall he’s ever built. Then he snaps his hips up, burying himself so deep I swear I see stars.
“Say it again,” he growls, voice jagged.
“Vince, oh, fuck…”
He fucks me harder, the metal of his piercing dragging against every nerve inside me, each thrust building until I’m a mess of breathless moans. The night air is cool on my overheated skin, the scent of pine mixing with leather, sweat, and him.
When it hits, it’s violent, my body seizing around him, my voice breaking into a scream that’s half pleasure, half surrender.
His own release crashes into me seconds later, a guttural sound tearing from his throat, his grip bruising on my hips as if he can keep me anchored while the world falls away.
We stay like that, breathing hard, my cheek against his shoulder, his hand still tangled in my hair. And even though he says nothing… I can feel it. Something shifted.