Chapter Seven
Derby
My house ain’t built for a woman.
It’s damn sure not built for a kid.
I realize that about thirty seconds before I pull into the drive with Amelia following in one of the club’s SUVs, Sophie in the passenger seat beside her, and August strapped in the back like I have accidentally joined a family parade from hell.
My place sits ten minutes outside town, tucked off a side road where the trees grow close and the gravel drive curves just enough that anybody coming in has to show themselves before they reach the porch.
I bought it for that reason. Not charm. Not comfort.
Not curb appeal. I bought it because a man can see danger coming if danger has the decency to use the driveway.
It’s a one-story block of weathered wood and old stone with a metal roof, a sagging porch, and a garage bigger than the living room because I know my priorities.
There are no flower beds. No porch swing.
No cute wreath on the door. There is a rusted firepit out back, two security lights, a stack of tires by the garage, and an old dog bowl near the steps even though I haven’t had a dog in three years.
The dog left me too.
Well, technically, he died, but that sounds dramatic, and I’m already hauling enough drama today.
Oaks stands by the porch when I pull in, arms folded, beard still damp from the morning rain.
Wildcat is half-buried under the hood of Amelia’s truck near the garage, cussing at it like it owes him money.
He and Oaks hauled it over from the clubhouse while we were still trying to convince Amelia that my house was the best bad idea on the table.
Two prospects are parked off the main road where they can watch without being seen.
I clock all of it before I cut the engine.
Good.
Secured.
Manageable.
Then August opens the back door of the SUV and yells, “Is this your house?”
And just like that, nothing feels manageable.
I get off my bike and pull my gloves free. “No. It’s a theme park.”
He stares at the house, unimpressed. “It doesn’t look fun.”
“Most things worth surviving don’t.”
Sophie gives me a look from the passenger side.
“What?” I ask.
“He is five.”
“And already a harsh real estate critic.”
Amelia gets out slower.
That pulls my attention off the kid.
She looks better in daylight and worse at the same time.
Better because she is in her own jeans and a clean top Sophie dug out of her things.
Worse because daylight doesn’t flatter exhaustion.
Her face is pale, eyes shadowed, hair pulled back in a messy knot that makes her neck look too delicate.
She holds herself straight, but I can see the effort it takes.
Pride is a heavy thing when fear rides on top of it.
She looks at my house the way a woman looks at any unfamiliar place after spending years learning that walls can turn against her.
Windows.
Porch.
Tree line.
Garage.
Driveway.
Door.
Exit.
She maps it without meaning to.
I pretend not to notice because she deserves at least one person not pointing at her fear like it’s a stain.
Sophie doesn’t pretend. She just steps beside her. “It’s more comfortable inside than it looks.”
I snort. “No, it ain’t.”
Amelia’s mouth twitches.
Small.
Barely there.
Still worth the lie I did not tell.
Oaks pushes off the porch. “House is clear. Back door sticks. Left bedroom is full of parts and what Wildcat called a mechanical crime scene.”
“It’s organized,” I say.
Wildcat’s voice comes from under the hood. “It’s a junkyard with walls.”
“I’ll hurt you in my own driveway.”
“You’ll have to fix this truck yourself then.”
I shut my mouth.
Amelia looks toward the truck immediately. “How bad is it?”
Wildcat leans out and wipes his hands on a rag. He has grease on his cheek and an expression that says he is trying to be polite because Sophie is here. “Tire’s easy. Engine ain’t happy. It’ll run, but it’s been neglected.”
Amelia stiffens. “I did what I could.”
Wildcat stops.
That sentence did something. To him. To me. To every man within hearing who has ever had less money than problems.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, softer. “Just means I’m going to make it less likely to strand you again.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “Thank you.”
He nods, uncomfortable, and disappears under the hood again.
Sophie’s eyes flick to me.
See?
I ignore her.
I’m too busy noticing Amelia looking at her truck like it ain’t a piece of junk but a lifeline. It’s more than transportation to her. It’s proof she can leave. It’s hers in a life where too many things got controlled by someone else.
I understand that.
Maybe more than I want to.
I lift my chin toward the house. “Come on. Let’s get y’all inside before the neighbors start thinking I joined society.”
August looks around. “Where are the neighbors?”
“Far enough to mind their business if they like living.”
“Derby,” Amelia says.
I glance at her. “What?”
“Maybe fewer threats before breakfast.”
“It’s almost lunch.”
“Still.”
I open my mouth, then close it.
Sophie smiles.
I point at her. “Don’t look pleased.”
“I’m extremely pleased.”
“Your face is annoying.”
“And yet my almost-husband loves it.”
“Legend has questionable taste.”
“Legend can still hear,” Oaks calls.
I turn and see the front door open. Legend stands in my doorway like he owns the place, because apparently being president means no house is sacred. He has a phone in one hand, his cut on, and the expression of a man who has already found three reasons to kill someone before noon.
I sigh. “Everybody just make yourselves at home, I guess.”
Legend steps onto the porch. “Already did. Your coffee is terrible.”
“That coffee is for emergencies.”
“It tastes like one.”
Amelia’s eyes move between us, and there it is again. That strange, careful curiosity. She is watching how men talk when fear ain’t the thing underneath it. We sound like assholes because we are assholes, but no one is flinching. No one is measuring volume against consequence.
August runs toward the porch before Amelia can stop him.
“August,” she calls.
He halts halfway up the steps, not because she yelled, because she did not. Because that kid listens to her voice like it’s the only rope he trusts.
“Ask before running into someone’s house,” she says.
He turns to me. “Can I run into your house?”
“No.”
His face falls.
I point at the porch. “You can walk in like a civilized criminal.”
He thinks about that, then nods. “Okay.”
Amelia closes her eyes. “Please don’t teach him that.”
“Too late. He’s advanced.”
August walks up the steps with exaggerated dignity, dinosaur tucked under his arm, juice box in his other hand. Legend moves out of his way like a man confronted with a wild animal he doesn’t know how to handle.
August looks up at him. “Are you maybe my uncle?”
Legend freezes.
Amelia’s face goes white. “August. Not again.”
“What? You said maybe.”
Legend looks at the kid.
Not down at him.
At him.
That matters. I don’t know why, but it does.
“We’re figuring that out,” Legend says.
August nods. “Do you have cereal?”
“No.”
“Derby doesn’t either.”
“Derby is worse at groceries than I am,” Legend says.
I point at him. “Betrayal.”
August sighs like grown men are the disappointment of his life. “Nobody has cereal.”
Sophie steps in smoothly. “Lottie is bringing groceries.”
“With marshmallows?” August asks.
“With something that can legally be called breakfast.”
He accepts this like a man settling a contract.
Then he walks inside.
Amelia watches him cross the threshold, and I see her throat move. Not panic exactly. Not relief either. Something between. Her son just walked into my house like maybe the floor would hold.
That probably scares her more than the clubhouse.
Sophie touches her arm. “You can go in.”
Amelia nods.
Then she looks at me.
I don’t know why that look hits harder than it should. Maybe because she is asking without asking. Maybe because the house is mine, and she has spent too long learning men make rules about rooms and doors and air.
I step away from the porch, leaving the path open. “Door ain’t going to bite.”
Her mouth curves faintly. “That your version of welcome?”
“Best I got.”
She walks past me.
I smell lavender from Sophie’s borrowed soap, road dust, coffee, and something that is just her. Warm skin. Worry. Woman.
My body notices.
I tell it to shut the hell up. It doesn’t. Amelia is far too beautiful for me not to think of her that way.
Inside, my house looks worse than I remember.
It always does when another person sees it.
The living room has a brown leather couch with a rip along one cushion I fixed with black tape, a recliner that has seen better decades, a scarred coffee table, and a television mounted slightly crooked on the wall because I hung it after three beers and refused to redo it on principle.
There are boots by the door, motorcycle magazines on the table, a stack of mail I have been ignoring, and one framed picture of the club from years back shoved on a side shelf.
The kitchen opens off the living room. Dishes in the sink. Coffee pot stained. One pan on the stove. Fridge mostly empty except for condiments, beer, bacon, and questionable cheese.
I see it through Amelia’s eyes and suddenly hate every inch.
Not because I care what women think of my house.
I don’t.
I care because August walks in and immediately says, “It smells like garbage.”
Wildcat’s voice carries from outside. “Told you.”
I shout, “Fix the truck.”
Amelia’s eyes are moving over everything. Not judging. That might be worse. She takes in the taped couch, the crooked TV, the lack of curtains on one window, the boots, the empty spaces where a normal person might have pictures, plants, soft things.
“It’s nice,” she says.
I stare at her.
She winces. “That sounded fake.”
“It was so fake it insulted the walls.”
A laugh slips out of her.
There.
That laugh again.
Small and tired and dangerous as hell.
“It’s not bad,” she corrects.