Brittany
I flip the paper over.
There’s more.
You passed out hard last night. You didn’t do anything wrong.
I took your boots off because you were about to break your ankle trying to keep them on.
I didn’t touch you. Nobody else did either.
Your keys are on the hook by the door. Your bag’s on the chair.
Drink the water. Take the aspirin. I’ll be gone before you wake up.
Oaks
I read it twice.
Then a third time, slower.
My throat tightens in a way I don’t understand. Relief and something darker tangle together in my chest. Gratitude. Embarrassment. A flicker of disappointment I shove down hard like it’s a shameful thing.
I sit there longer than I should, staring at the handwriting like it might tell me more if I look hard enough.
Then I move.
Quietly, carefully. I pull my boots on with hands that still feel unsteady. I grab my bag, slip my phone into my pocket, hook my fingers around my keys. I open the door without a sound.
The clubhouse is different in the morning.
No music. No laughter. No smoke. Just the low hum of the building itself, like it’s breathing without an audience.
Sunlight leaks in through high windows, catching dust in the air.
The bar is wiped down. Chairs are stacked.
It smells like cleaner, old wood, and something faintly metallic underneath it all.
I keep my head down and start toward the front.
“Enjoy your sleep?”
The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.
I stop. Slowly, I turn.
She’s standing by the bar.
Dark hair pulled back tight. Cut on her shoulders. Arms crossed. She looks like she hasn’t slept at all, eyes sharp and bright with something ugly.
Oaks’ wife.
I know it before anyone says it. I’ve seen her in Official before, in the places where women like me don’t belong. Perfect lipstick. Perfect posture. Perfect everything.
“I…” My mouth goes dry. “I was just leaving.”
“Oh, I know.” She steps closer. “Everybody knows. You were seen with my husband last night.”
My stomach drops.
“I didn’t…” A memory flashes through my mind, sharp as a slap. My hands around his neck. His hands on my hips. His breath in my hair. Laughing, twirling, dancing like I had the right. My cheeks go hot.
“Save it.” Her eyes flick down to my boots, my jacket, the way I’m holding myself together by sheer will. “You think you’re special?”
“No,” I say, because lying feels pointless. “I think I messed up.”
She laughs once, sharp and humorless. “That makes two of us.” She doesn’t blink when she says it.
I dig into my pocket before my courage runs out, pull out the folded note, and hold it out between us like a shield.
“He left me this,” I say. My voice shakes, but I push through. “Nothing happened. I swear.”
She snatches it from my hand, eyes scanning fast. Her jaw tightens. Then tightens more.
For a long moment she doesn’t speak.
Finally, she hands it back to me like it bit her. I put it away to try to make peace.
“Lucky girl,” she says quietly. Not kind. Not cruel. Just tired. “You walked away with your dignity intact. Not everyone does.”
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
She snorts. “You never do. That’s how men like him get away with it.”
She steps aside and gives me a clean path to the door.
“Go,” she says. “Before I change my mind.”
I don’t argue.
I push out into the daylight, heart slamming against my ribs, lungs burning like I ran even though I didn’t. I don’t slow down until I’m halfway to my car.
That’s when I feel it.
That prickle between my shoulders. That sense of weight behind me.
I glance over my shoulder.
Nothing.
But my skin crawls anyway, because I know this much for sure. Whatever I stepped into last night didn’t stay at the clubhouse. It followed me.
Lottie’s kitchen smells like coffee, bacon grease, and judgment.
I sit at her little round table with my head in my hands, sunglasses still on even though I’m inside, because the light hurts and so does my pride. My stomach rolls every time I move. I sip coffee like it’s medicine.
Lottie doesn’t say anything at first. She just watches me over the rim of her mug, one eyebrow lifted like she’s waiting for me to get to the point.
“You left me,” I finally say.
She snorts. “I didn’t leave you. I checked on you.”
I lift my head slowly. “You disappeared.”
“You were having a damn good time,” she says. “Laughing. Dancing. Talking with everybody like you owned the place.”
“I passed out.”
“Eventually.”
I glare at her.
“Why would you leave me there?”
Lottie sighs and sets her mug down. “Because I knew Oaks was working the door.”
My stomach tightens. “You what?”
She leans back in her chair. “He was the bouncer last night. He always is when things get rowdy. I saw him clock you the second you started wobbling.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It should,” she says. “Ain’t a man in that clubhouse who’d cross him and live easy after. And he don’t let anyone take advantage. Period.”
I stare at the table. The memory of the note presses against my ribs again.
“So,” I say carefully, “you trust him.”
Lottie’s mouth quirks. “Trust is a strong word.”
“But…”
“He’s too old for you,” she cuts in. “And he’s a hound dog.”
That makes my head snap up. “A what?”
“A hound dog,” she says. “Pretty women, bad decisions, and no sense when it comes to either.” She squints at me. “You didn’t know?”
“I thought he was married.”
“He is.”
My chest tightens. “Then why…”
“Because that marriage ain’t what you think it is,” Lottie says flatly.
I wait.
She sighs like she’s about to say something she shouldn’t. “Bethany came with the debt.”
“What?”
“Her family bailed the club out years ago. Old president wanted influence and money. Bethany wanted Oaks.” Lottie shakes her head. “Girl always wants what she can’t have.”
“And Oaks?”
“Oaks did what the club needed. He didn’t do it because he loved her.”
I swallow. “Does she know he cheats?”
Lottie laughs once, sharp and bitter. “She knows. She just don’t care as long as he don’t leave.”
Silence stretches between us.
Finally, she points at me. “And that’s why you watch your back.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “Bethany don’t need facts. She just needs a target. And club women don’t miss when they aim.”
That makes my hangover feel worse.
I leave not long after, my head pounding harder with every step, and unlock the pawn shop with shaking fingers. The bell jingles when I step inside, loud as hell in the quiet.
I flip the sign, turn on the lights, and lean on the counter, breathing through the ache behind my eyes.
Bad idea.
The door opens. The bell rings again.
My spine goes stiff before I even look.
Boots. Heavy. Slow. Familiar.
I straighten, heart slamming against my ribs.
Oaks stands in the doorway.
Sunglasses on. Hands easy at his sides like he didn’t walk into my damn thoughts on purpose. He takes one look at my face and tilts his head.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says.
He closes the door behind him without looking back, and my headache suddenly ain’t my biggest problem anymore.