4. Kane
Chapter 4
Kane
T he conference room at Hooplas is quieter than the bustling main floor, but it still carries the same energy. The low hum of voices, the occasional burst of laughter from the bar, and the muted clatter of glassware filter through the walls. It’s the kind of background noise that’s almost soothing, except my nerves are fraying at the edges tonight, and I’m not sure why.
The guys are already here when I walk in. Hudson’s leaning back in one of the chairs, his boots propped up on the edge of the table like he owns the place—which, to be fair, he kind of does–we all do. Reid’s at the head of the table with his ever-present tablet, scrolling through reports, while Declan’s flipping through some notes like he’s prepping for a boardroom meeting instead of a casual check-in about our bar. Jax, predictably, is glaring at his phone like it owes him money.
“Look who finally showed up,” Hudson drawls, tipping his chair back farther, balancing it on two legs. “Were you out rescuing kittens from trees, or is it just fashionable to be late these days?”
“Fashionable,” I shoot back, dropping into the seat next to him. “Figured I’d give you time to impress everyone with your wit before I got here.”
“Glad someone appreciates me,” he says with a smirk, tipping his beer in my direction.
“Don’t encourage him,” Reid says without looking up from his tablet. “His ego’s big enough already after getting engaged a few weeks ago.”
“Speaking of egos,” Declan cuts in, glancing up with a smirk of his own. “Jax, how’s your latest war with technology going?”
“Shut it,” Jax mutters, jabbing at his phone like he’s hoping brute force will solve his problems.
The room fills with laughter, and for a moment, it feels like the old days—before Hooplas and fiancés, before everything got so complicated.
The waitress pops in, setting a tray of beers on the table. “Beers for everyone but Reid. Burgers and fries are on the way,” she says with a smile before slipping back out.
Reid clears his throat, ever the responsible one. “Can we focus for five minutes? Numbers first, then you can all go back to your comedy routine.”
Hudson groans but straightens in his chair, pulling his feet off the table. “Fine, hit us with it, Doc.”
Reid launches into a breakdown of the latest revenue reports, and for a while, the banter fades as we dig into the details. The bar’s doing well—better than any of us expected when we first opened Hooplas. Karaoke nights are a hit, trivia nights are bringing in a younger crowd, and the numbers don’t lie, we’re killing it.
But even as I nod along, half-listening to Declan and Reid debate marketing strategies, my focus drifts. My eyes land on the smooth surface of the conference table, and my chest tightens.
The last time I was in this room, Grace was pressed against that very spot, her body arching into mine like she couldn’t get close enough.
The memory slams into me with the force of a freight train. Her flushed cheeks, the way her nails dug into my shoulders, the sound of my name on her lips, it’s all still there, vivid, and sharp, like it happened yesterday. My pulse kicks up, and I shift in my seat, forcing my gaze back to Reid as he drones on about revenue streams.
But I can’t unsee it. I can’t unfeel it. That night wasn’t supposed to happen. It was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment—but hell if it didn’t brand itself into my memory.
“Earth to Kane,” Hudson says, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
I blink, realizing too late that everyone’s looking at me. “What?”
“You good, man?” Jax asks, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at the table for ten minutes.”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, forcing a smirk. “Just thinking about all the bad decisions you’ve made at this table, Jax.”
The guys laugh, the tension easing, but Hudson’s still watching me with that knowing look he gets when he’s about to push.
The conversation shifts to next month’s kickball game, and the room fills with more laughter as we tease each other about who’s going to trip over their own feet first. Reid mentions Sawyer’s competitive streak, Declan bets on Trevor showing up late, and Hudson predicts Parker will bring a laminated playbook.
It’s easy, this back-and-forth, but the memory of Grace lingers like a shadow. No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it.
The food arrives, and the banter continues. We’re halfway through our burgers when Reid’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, his expression shifting.
“Hospital emergency,” he says, standing. “I’ve got to go.” I watch him down the rest of his soda as he makes his way out of the room.
Declan and Jax take that as their cue to head out, too, leaving just Hudson and me in the room.
Hudson leans back in his chair, nursing the last of his beer. “You’ve been off tonight,” he says, his tone casual but pointed.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, taking a sip of my beer.
He raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Because you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re either pissed off or thinking too much.”
I shake my head, letting out a low laugh. “You’re reading too much into it.”
“Am I?” He sets his beer down, leaning forward. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain maid of honor, would it?”
The question lands like a punch to the gut, and I don’t bother hiding my glare. “What makes you think that?”
“Come on, Kane,” he says, smirking. “You’re not exactly subtle. Every time her name comes up, you get this... look. Like you’re trying to figure out if you want to fight her or?—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I warn, my voice sharper than I intended.
He laughs, holding up his hands in a mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying. Whatever’s going on between you two, it’s obvious.”
“There’s nothing going on,” I say firmly, but even as the words leave my mouth, they feel like a lie.
Hudson studies me for a long moment, then leans back, his grin softening into something closer to understanding. “Figure it out, man. Because if you don’t, it’s gonna eat you alive.”
I don’t respond, and after a minute, he stands, clapping me on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, brother. ”
As he leaves, the room feels quieter, heavier. I stare at the table again, my mind replaying that night with Grace for what feels like the hundredth time.
Hudson’s right—this thing between us, whatever it is, isn’t going away.
And the worst part? I’m not sure I want it to.
The porch groans under the weight of my restless pacing. A half-empty beer bottle dangles from my fingers, cold and sweating in the humid night air. The quiet is almost oppressive, pressing down on me as my thoughts churn. I take another pull from the bottle, hoping the bitterness will wash her out of my mind.
It doesn’t.
Grace.
Her name flickers through my head like a spark refusing to die. It’s been a few weeks since that night, but she’s still everywhere. I see her in the shadows cast by the porch light, hear her voice in the low hum of crickets. I’ve tried to shake her—tried to forget the way her body melted against mine, the sound of her breath catching when I kissed her neck—but she’s carved into me now.
I drain the last of the beer and set the bottle on the railing, gripping the edge to steady myself. This isn’t like me. Women don’t get under my skin. I keep things simple—fun, no strings, no regrets. But Grace? She’s anything but simple.
She’s a damn hurricane, tearing through every bit of control I thought I had.
The sharp buzz of my phone yanks me out of my racing thoughts. I fish it out of my pocket, seeing Chance’s name lighting up the screen. A distraction. Perfect.
“Chance,” I answer, my voice rough.
“Hey, you busy?” he asks, his tone tight.
“Not really,” I say, leaning back against the railing. “What’s up?”
“There’s a fire at an abandoned house over on Pine Street. It’s under control, but it’s... strange. I’ve been called to check it out. Wanna tag along?”
Strange fires. Chance doesn’t use that word lightly, and if he’s calling me, it means there’s something worth looking at. Plus, anything to get Grace out of my damn head.
“Yeah,” I say, already grabbing my keys. “I’m on my way.”
The drive to Pine Street is short, the streets eerily quiet as I pull up to the scene. Flashing lights bathe the surrounding area in red and blue, the acrid stench of smoke lingers in the humid air. My adrenaline kicks up as I spot Chance leaning against his truck, a notepad in hand.
“Kane,” he says, his expression grim as I approach. “Thanks for coming.”
“What’s strange about this one?” I ask, falling into step beside him as we head toward the house.
He gestures to the charred remains of the porch. “Point of origin doesn’t add up. It’s not near any outlets or obvious sources, and there are traces of accelerant—same as the other fires.”
I crouch near the edge of the porch, my eyes scanning the burn patterns. The fire spread fast, too fast for an accident. The scorch marks are uneven, erratic, but there’s a rhythm to them if you know what to look for.
“Someone lit this intentionally,” I mutter, running my hand over the blackened wood.
Chance crouches beside me, nodding. “That’s my read, too. Whoever’s doing this knows what they’re doing. It’s not random.”
I stand and dust off my hands, my gaze shifting to the house—or what’s left of it. The roof’s half-collapsed, smoke still curling from the rubble. This many fires don’t just happen, not in a town like Hibiscus Harbor.
“What do you think their angle is?” I ask, my voice low.
Chance exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. “Could be anything. Insurance scam, a message... hell, maybe they just like watching things burn.”
“Or it’s Torres,” I say, the name slipping out before I can stop it.
Chance’s head snaps toward me, his eyes narrowing. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
I nod. “If Torres is behind this, it’s not about fire. It’s about control. Fire’s just the tool.”
Vincent Torres. The name is a curse, a weight that hangs over everything it touches. He’s been untouchable for years, a ghost who always seems to stay one step ahead. If this is his handiwork, we’re not dealing with some firebug looking for thrills. We’re dealing with something calculated.
“Shit,” Chance mutters, running a hand through his hair. “If it’s Torres, this isn’t gonna stop with abandoned houses.”
“No,” I agree, my voice hardening. “It’s not, but I wonder why now?”
We walk back toward the trucks, the night heavy with unanswered questions. Chance is scribbling in his notepad, muttering about patterns and connections, but my thoughts drift back to the fire. Back to Grace.
Because even as I focus on the scene, even as I try to piece together what’s happening in this town, I can’t escape her.
Her fire isn’t the kind that burns houses down. It’s the kind that lingers, searing its way into every corner of my mind, refusing to let me go.