Chapter 2
BONNIE
Gravel crunches under our tires as we pull into Rusty’s parking lot. Two dozen motorcycles are already lined up outside, chrome catching the last of the daylight. This is where everyone comes when they need to forget something.
Ash holds the door open, and I walk past him into the dim interior, eyes adjusting to the low light. Neon signs advertise brands of whiskey, casting blue and red shadows across scarred wooden tables and a floor that’s probably sticky with decades of spilled alcohol.
It’s early enough that the place is mostly empty. A few regulars hunched over the bar nursing drinks, some college kids playing pool in the back corner, and—there. Two familiar figures occupy a booth near the far wall.
Ghost and Titan. Of course they’re already here.
Jacob “Ghost” Miller sits with his back to the wall, scanning the room in that way he never quite turned off after leaving the military.
He’s been with the club for five years now, joined right after his discharge when the VA couldn’t do shit for his PTSD and he needed a brotherhood that understood what it meant to kill for your family.
He taught me the move where you hit fast and end it before they know what’s happening. But I’ve touched myself more times than I can count while thinking about those hands doing entirely different things to me.
Titan’s harder to miss. Nate Brooks, all six-foot-six of him, crammed into a booth meant for normal-sized humans. Sergeant at arms, the club’s main enforcer, the guy who sheds blood so the rest of us don’t have to.
I’ve known him since I was twelve, back when he first patched in and started treating me like an annoying little sister he couldn’t shake.
I’ve also spent countless nights wondering if he’s as rough in bed as he is in a fight, imagining what it would feel like to have all that power focused on making me scream his name.
They’re Jackal’s closest friends, which makes them the most forbidden men I could possibly want. But I do want them—these three men who’ve starred in every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had.
Ghost sees us first. His head turns slightly, dark eyes tracking our movement across the room. He doesn’t wave or smile, just watches with that unnerving stillness that earned him his nickname.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Titan calls out as we approach, that trademark grin spreading across his face, a beer in one hand and his phone in the other. “Didn’t expect to see you here, princess.”
I slide into the booth across from them, Ash settling in beside me. “Don’t call me that.”
“Touchy tonight.” Titan sets his phone down, studying my face with more attention than he usually bothers with. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Bullshit.” Ghost’s voice cuts through the bar noise, quiet but sharp. “You look like someone kicked your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“You know what I mean.”
A waitress appears at our table. She eyes Ash with obvious interest before reluctantly turning to me. “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey. Double. Neat.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly. “ID?”
I fish my fake ID from my pocket and slap it on the table. She studies it, decides it looks real enough, then looks at Ash.
“Same,” he says.
“Make that four,” Titan adds, draining his beer. “And keep them coming.”
The waitress nods and disappears toward the bar. Ghost leans back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, still watching me with those dark eyes that see too damn much.
“So,” Titan says, breaking the silence. “You gonna tell us what’s going on or do we have to guess?”
I glance at Ash. He gives me a slight nod—your call.
Fuck it. They’ll find out eventually anyway.
“Dad’s marrying me off to Marcus Stone.”
The words land like a grenade on the table. Titan’s grin vanishes. Ghost goes even more still than usual, which I didn’t think was possible.
“Say that again,” Ghost says quietly.
“You heard me.”
“The hell he is.” Titan’s voice rises, drawing looks from nearby tables. “Marcus Stone? The same psycho who—”
“Yes, that Marcus Stone.” I cut him off before he can list all the reasons this is insane. I’ve already spent the afternoon doing that math myself. “Dad says it’s the only way to end the war between our clubs.”
“That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.” Titan slams his palm on the table, making the saltshaker jump. “Your father’s lost his goddamn mind.”
The waitress returns with our drinks, sets them down, and retreats quickly.
I grab my glass and down half of it in one swallow. The whiskey burns going down. “He thinks a marriage alliance will bring peace. Merge territories, combine resources, stop the bleeding.”
“By bleeding you out instead.” Ghost picks up his glass but doesn’t drink. “Marcus doesn’t do peace. He does domination.”
“I know.”
“So don’t do it,” Titan says, like it’s that simple. “Tell your dad to go to hell.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“Because the club’s dying. We’ve lost too many members, too much territory. Dad’s desperate. And desperate men make desperate choices.”
Ash finally speaks up beside me. “I tried talking him out of it this afternoon. He won’t budge.”
“Then we make him budge.” Titan leans forward, all that playful energy gone, replaced by the cold fury that makes him so dangerous in a fight. “We don’t let this happen.”
“How?” I drain the rest of my whiskey, reach for Ash’s glass since he hasn’t touched his yet. “Storm Dad’s office and demand he cancel? That’ll go over real well.”
“Better than watching you get handed over to a monster.”
Ghost sets his glass down with careful precision. “When?”
“In one week.”
His jaw tightens, the only visible sign of emotion on that stone face. “Not much time.”
“No shit.”
The waitress reappears with another round. I’ve already finished three glasses and I’m reaching for my fourth. The edges of the world are starting to soften, the panic and rage dulling to a manageable roar.
“This is wrong.” Titan’s hands curl into fists on the table. “On every possible level, this is wrong.”
“Welcome to my life. If I refuse, the war continues. More brothers die. More families get destroyed. And eventually, the Ruthless Devils cease to exist. So yeah, I’m going to do this. I’m going to marry that psychopath and smile while I do it, because that’s what’s best for the club.”
“Fuck the club.” Titan’s voice is low and dangerous. “What about what’s best for you?”
“That stopped mattering when I was born with a vagina instead of a dick.”
Ghost flinches slightly at my language. Good. I’m tired of pretending to be the nice girl who doesn’t say what she’s thinking.
I grab another glass—I’ve lost count of whose is whose—and take a long swallow. The alcohol is hitting harder now, making my head swim in a way that’s almost pleasant. At least when I’m drunk, I can pretend this isn’t happening.
“I had it all figured out when I was younger,” I hear myself saying, words slurring slightly. “Thought I’d end up being the old lady of one of you guys. Couldn’t decide which one I fancied most, so I figured I’d just let fate decide.”
Great. Said it out loud. Shouldn’t have. Definitely shouldn’t have. But whiskey’s got the wheel, and my filter checked out two drinks ago.
Titan stares at me. Ghost’s eyebrows have climbed toward his hairline. Ash shifts beside me, and I can feel his eyes on the side of my face.
“Shit,” I mutter, reaching for another drink. “Forget I said that.”
“Not happening.” Titan’s grin is back, but different now. Sharper. More interested. “You had a crush on us?”
“Have. Had. Whatever. Past tense. Ancient history.” I wave my hand dismissively and nearly knock over a glass. “The point is that it was a stupid teenage fantasy and this is reality. In one week, I become Mrs. Marcus Stone, and there’s not a damn thing any of us can do about it.”
“Is that what you want?” Ash asks quietly. “To marry him?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what do you want?”
The question stops me cold. What do I want? I want to rewind time. I want Mom back. I want Jackal home. I want the war to end without me having to sacrifice myself. I want a lot of things I can’t have.
But right now, with whiskey making me brave and reckless, I want something else entirely.
I turn to look at Ash, really look at him. Dark eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Strong jaw, full lips, the kind of face that’s starred in too many of my teenage fantasies.
“I want one night,” I say, the words coming out steadier than I feel. “One night where I get to choose.”
Ash’s gaze sharpens. “Choose what?”
“Who I’m with.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “What I do with my body before someone else decides that for me.”
Titan sets his glass down. Ghost goes still in that way he does before taking a shot.
“I want you.” The confession spills out, alcohol loosening my tongue.
“All three of you. I’ve wanted you for years and pretended I didn’t because you’re Jackal’s friends and I was just his kid sister.
But I’m not a kid anymore, and in one week I become Marcus Stone’s property, so if I’m going to have one night where I get to choose—”
“Jesus Christ, keep your voice down.” Ash’s hand shoots across the table, but stops short of covering my mouth. “Half the bar doesn’t need to hear this.”
“You’re drunk,” Ghost says quietly.
“Not drunk enough.” I reach for another glass, but Titan slides them all out of reach.
“What exactly are you asking for here?” Titan’s voice drops low. “Be specific.”
Heat floods my face, but I don’t back down. “I want to know what it feels like to be with someone I actually want. Someone who isn’t going to—” I stop myself before I say something I can’t take back.
The three of them exchange looks. Some silent conversation I’m not part of.
My courage starts to waver. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe I’ve just ruined whatever friendship we had by admitting I’ve spent years fantasizing about three older guys.
Then Ash shifts in the booth, angling his body toward mine. “Come here.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
My heart hammers as I slide closer to him on our side of the booth, our thighs pressed together from hip to knee.
“Closer,” he murmurs.
I don’t think. Just swing my leg over his lap and settle onto his thighs, straddling him. It’s not the first time I’ve sat on his lap—I’ve done it dozens of times over the years, playing cards or watching TV in the clubhouse, always casual and innocent.
But this time, his hands come to my hips, and I feel his breath catch.
This time, when I look down at him, his pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing green until there’s almost no color left. His fingers flex against my hips, not quite pulling me closer but not pushing me away either.
“Bonnie.” My name comes out rough. “You need to be very sure about what you’re suggesting.”
His thumb traces a slow circle against my hip bone, and the touch triggers a flash of last summer at the clubhouse Fourth of July party.
I’d been dancing with some prospect whose name I’ve already forgotten when Ash cut in, all smooth and casual like it didn’t mean anything.
But when that prospect tried to argue, tried to pull me back, Ash’s hand tightened on my waist and his voice went cold as winter.
“She’s dancing with me now. Walk away.”
The prospect had looked at Ash’s face and wisely walked away.
We swayed to some country song, his hand warm and solid on my lower back, my head barely reaching his shoulder. I felt him breathe me in, felt the way his thumb traced small circles against my spine through my thin tank top.
“You okay?” he’d asked quietly.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Guy was getting handsy. Didn’t like it.”
My stomach flipped. “You were watching me?”
“Of course, Bonnie. Someone has to.”
When the song ended, he stepped back, and it was over. But for three minutes and forty-seven seconds, his hands on me had felt like something else entirely.
I went home that night and touched myself, thinking about those hands, about that voice, saying someone has to like it meant more than just protection.
Now, sitting on his lap in this shitty bar with his pupils blown and his breath uneven, I wonder if maybe it did mean more. If maybe I wasn’t imagining the tension between us.
“I’m sure,” I tell him.
His jaw clenches. “You say that now, but—”
“I’ve been sure since I was fifteen years old and you taught me to ride my first bike.” I lean closer, hands braced on his shoulders.
“We need to get out of here,” Ghost says suddenly.
I glance at them and my breath hitches. Titan’s hand is strangling the glass, his jaw locked, his eyes following every shift of my body on Ash’s lap like he’s carving it into memory.
Ghost isn’t any better. His chest is rising too fast, pupils blown wide, control gone.
The way he stares at me pulls heat low in my belly.
“Agreed,” Titan adds, eyes locked on mine. “This conversation isn’t happening here.”