12. Chapter 12
twelve
Sadie
Itightened my grip on the mic, let my curls bounce with the rhythm, and gave myself over to the song.
By the second verse, I wasn’t thinking about Parker, the guy who had been flirting with me all night, or the dare or whether my dress was clinging too tightly in the wrong places. I was just feeling it—each note tugging something loose in my chest that had been wound up tight for weeks.
The crowd clapped along. A couple of girls near the bar raised their glasses and cheered. Even Parker looked a little stunned.
But it was nothing compared to what was happening near the back, just inside the hazy glow of the bar’s ancient neon signs.
Diesel.
He was standing there like some sort of storm cloud in a leather jacket, arms crossed, face unreadable—except for his eyes.
Something was burning in those eyes.
They scorched me.
And for a second, I thought maybe… maybe Amy was right. Maybe there was something there.
But the song ended, and the bar erupted in whistles and applause, and I took a little curtsy and blew a dramatic kiss to Parker—because why not?
And when I glanced back toward the shadowy corner where the brooding mechanic had been—
He was gone.
I didn’t let my heart sink; instead, I sashayed to the guy who was showing me he was interested, and that is where I would keep my focus. Parker handed me another drink with an easy, warm smile, and I took it without hesitation.
“Okay, so that was hot,” he said, raising his glass in salute.
I laughed because it was fun. “I’m pretty sure I hiccuped through the first verse.”
“Only made it better.” He winked, and we slipped into casual conversation. He asked about the bakery, and I gave him my best glitter-drenched pitch. He even promised to stop by for one of the bacon tarts. Said he’d never met a woman who could bake and belt Queen like that.
It was nice. Simple. The kind of attention I’d been craving. The kind that didn’t come with unreadable silences or stormy glares from across the street.
But even as I smiled and flirted, even as I laughed at Parker’s terrible jokes, my mind wandered.
To a pair of dark eyes that had been locked on me like I was trouble wrapped in lace.
To arms that had lifted a hundred-pound booth like it was a throw pillow.
To a man who hadn’t said a single sweet word to me, but who’d looked like he might burn the world down if I got too close.
I forced myself to stay rooted in the now.
This was my choice.
I had a whole life to build here, and it didn’t have to revolve around a grumpy biker who couldn’t even say thank you after I gave him cookies.
Parker smiled again. “Wanna put your name in for another round?”
“Why not?” I said, draining the last of my drink. “Let’s keep the night going.”
But in the back of my mind, Diesel Callahan’s ghost still lingered—watching, waiting, just out of reach.
Diesel
I shouldn’t have gone.
That bar was too loud, too crowded, too full of people who didn’t know how to shut the hell up.
And then there was her.
Sadie Winslow, standing on that stage as if she owned it. Pink curls bouncing, hips swaying, voice a little wobbly at first, but hell if she didn’t find her rhythm and make the place go quiet.
My throat went dry watching her.
The drink in my hand tasted like shit—cheap whiskey. But I kept sipping it, pretending I didn’t give a damn. Pretending I hadn’t just spent the last week watching her move around that shop like she belonged to the sun itself.
Then came that guy.
All clean lines and pretty boy charm, leaning in like he had any right to touch her. Any right to look at her like that.
And the worst part?
She let him.
She smiled. Laughed. Looked like she belonged in his arms.
That was when I stood up and walked the hell out.
Didn’t look back.
Now I was at the clubhouse, alone with a beer I didn’t want and a shitty playlist Skunk left on the speakers. Ghost was upstairs, probably ignoring the world like usual. And me? I was pacing.
Angry at her.
Angrier at myself.
Because I had no right.
No claim.
And what was I gonna do? Show up with a bouquet of apologies and confess I’d been dreaming about her since before the glitter dried on her floors?
I dropped down onto the worn couch in the corner and leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing a hand over my face.
I could still hear her laugh.
Still see the way her hips moved in that fucking dress.
She didn’t need someone like me.
But God help me, I wanted to be the one she sang to.
Not some Pretty Boy.
Not some placeholder.
Me.
I growled and pushed up off the couch, the old cushions groaning beneath me like they understood the weight I was carrying.
My boots echoed across the concrete floor as I stalked toward the bar Beck built—polished wood, neat rows of glasses, and a cluster of empty bottles that looked a little too much like the thoughts rattling around in my damn skull.
I grabbed one.
Then another.
Then all four.
Out the back door I went, the cool night air hitting me like a slap to the face. It smelled like oil and pine and the kind of quiet that usually calmed me.
Not tonight.
I launched the first bottle toward the rocks near the back fence.
CRASH.
It shattered, sharp and satisfying.
The second followed.
CRACK.
The third slipped from my fingers too early, but I didn’t care. The last one? I stared at it for a second longer. Watching my reflection in the dark glass, I see the distorted curve of my jaw. My eyes looked haunted.
Because I was.
Then I threw it.
Hard.
BOOM.
Glass everywhere.
But the tension? Still there. Coiled tight in my chest. My fists clenched at my sides, jaw grinding until my teeth ached.
She was probably still with him. Laughing. Dancing. Letting him put his hands on her waist.
Why the hell did that thought hit harder than the bottle did?
I dropped to sit on the steps out back, my forearms on my knees again.
“Fucking Wrecker,” I muttered, even though this wasn’t his fault. Not really.
It was mine.
Because now someone else was making her smile.
Then my shoulder sagged under the realization.
She deserved someone better than me.
Someone who didn’t carry around ghosts and guilt like it was part of their fucking wardrobe. Someone who didn’t look at softness like it might break in his hands. Someone who knew how to laugh easily. Talk without effort.
She deserved the guy with the terrible jokes and the smiles at the ready.
Not the grumpy asshole who couldn’t even choke out a compliment without sounding like he was being tortured.
Not the man who kissed like he needed to forget something.
Not the man who still had Jessie’s voice in the back of his head whispering you’ll never be enough—even after all these damn years.
I rubbed a hand down my face and leaned back against the cool siding of the clubhouse, eyes scanning the night sky like it had answers.
It didn’t.
Maybe she’d have a good night with that pretty boy. Maybe she'd kiss him. Maybe she’d fall a little bit in like.
It could be good for her.
It may be easier if I let her.
But something twisted in my gut at the thought.
Jealousy?
Regret?
Didn’t matter. I couldn’t do anything about it.
Could I?