Chapter 9
Trish couldn't sit idle.
Two days in the compound, and she was crawling out of her skin with uselessness. She'd paced her room. She'd read the same paperback chapter three times without absorbing a word. She'd stared out the window at the motorcycle-filled lot until her eyes blurred.
Enough.
On the third morning, she walked into the common room, surveyed the situation, and made a decision.
"Where's your laundry?"
Fang looked up from his whiskey—at nine in the morning, which she wasn't going to comment on—and stared at her like she'd spoken a foreign language.
"What?"
"Laundry. Dirty clothes. The things you wear and then take off." She crossed her arms. "I've been watching you people for two days. Half of you are wearing the same shirts you had on when I got here. That's disgusting."
"We're bikers."
"You're human beings with access to soap and water. Where's the laundry room?"
Fang pointed toward a hallway she hadn't explored yet. His expression suggested he wasn't sure whether to be offended or amused.
Trish found the laundry room in the back corner of the building—two industrial washers, two dryers, a folding table covered in dust and someone's abandoned socks from what looked like three months ago. The machines were decent. The organization was nonexistent.
She got to work.
Within an hour, she had sheets washed, the clubhouse towels replaced, and a folding station set up in the back hallway where she could work without being in anyone's way.
The machines hummed. The dryers spun. The smell of clean fabric started replacing the usual compound scent of leather and motor oil.
Fang dropped off his laundry without a word. Just set the bag by her station and walked away, like she'd been doing this forever.
Lakeshore was next. Then Stockyard, who actually thanked her in a gruff mumble that suggested he wasn't used to thanking anyone. Then a prospect whose name she didn't catch, who looked at her like she was some kind of miracle.
By noon, she had a system.
The old ladies found her around one, drawn by the sound of dryers and the sight of a woman who clearly knew what she was doing.
"You've been busy," Claire said, leaning against the doorframe with a cup of coffee in her hand.
"I was going crazy doing nothing." Trish folded a shirt with practiced efficiency—snap, fold, stack. "This I know how to do."
Molly appeared behind Claire, her red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. "The boys are going to get spoiled. They've never had someone actually take care of their stuff."
"Then they're overdue."
The women settled into the laundry room—Claire on a stool she'd pulled from somewhere, Molly perched on the dryer. They watched Trish work with the comfortable silence of women who understood that sometimes company was enough.
"You're fitting in faster than most," Claire said eventually.
"I run a laundromat. This isn't exactly a stretch."
"That's not what I mean." Claire's eyes were knowing. "Most women who end up here—they fight it. Try to change things, or change the men, or pretend it's temporary. You just... started working."
Trish paused mid-fold. "What else would I do? Sit in my room and feel sorry for myself?"
"Some do."
"I'm not some." She resumed folding. "I've been taking care of things my whole life. My aunt's business, my husband when he was sick before the accident, myself after he died. Sitting still makes me crazy."
"That's what makes you right for this life." Molly hopped off the dryer. "These men need women who can carry their own weight. Who don't break when things get ugly."
"Things already got ugly."
"Things are going to get uglier." Claire's voice was matter-of-fact. "Warren isn't done. He lost ten men and his main muscle. He's going to hit back."
Trish's hands stilled on the shirt she was folding. "Stockton said he'd handle it."
"Stockton will. But that doesn't mean it won't be messy." Claire stood, setting her coffee cup aside. "Just... be ready. These men protect what's theirs, but protection comes with a cost. You have to be strong enough to pay it."
She left before Trish could ask what, exactly, that cost looked like.
The afternoon passed in rhythm—wash, dry, fold, repeat.
Brothers came and went, dropping off laundry like it was the most natural thing in the world. Some of them thanked her. Most of them just nodded, the kind of acknowledgment that said they'd accepted her presence without needing to make a big deal about it.
It felt good. Useful. Like she was contributing something instead of just hiding.
Around four, she took a break and wandered into the common room to refill her coffee. The space was busier than usual—brothers gathered around tables, voices low, the tension in the air suggesting something was happening.
She spotted Stockton immediately.
He was standing near the bar, deep in conversation with Alpha and Razor. His posture was tense—not aggressive, but alert. Ready. The way he'd looked that night at the safehouse, right before everything went to hell.
As if he felt her watching, he looked up.
Their eyes met across the crowded room. Something passed between them—acknowledgment, reassurance, the unspoken communication of two people who'd been through something together. He gave her a small nod, then turned back to his conversation.
She poured her coffee and returned to the laundry room.
The next few hours, she watched him.
Not obviously—she wasn't stalking the man—but she noticed things.
The way brothers gravitated toward him when they had questions.
The way younger members listened when he spoke, leaning in like his words carried extra weight.
The way Alpha consulted him before making decisions, treating him less like a subordinate and more like an equal.
Founding member. She was starting to understand what that meant.
He wasn't just muscle or rank. He was history. Institutional memory. The man who remembered why all of this had started, and who made sure the younger brothers didn't forget.
She watched him settle a dispute between two prospects with three quiet sentences.
Watched him review something on a tablet with Scout, pointing at the screen and explaining with patient authority.
Watched him move through the compound like it was an extension of himself—comfortable, confident, completely in his element.
This was his world. Had been for twenty years.
And now she was in it.
Around seven, she was folding the last load of the day when footsteps approached her station.
She looked up to find Stockton standing in the doorway, watching her.
"You've been busy," he said.
"Your brothers live like animals."
"We're bikers."
"That's what Fang said." She snapped a shirt and folded it with practiced precision. "It's not an excuse."
He moved into the room, leaning against the wall near the folding table. Close enough to talk. Not so close that she felt crowded.
"Claire says you're fitting in."
"Claire seems to say a lot of things."
"She's the president's wife. Comes with the territory." He was quiet for a moment, watching her hands move through the familiar motions. "You don't have to do this, you know. The laundry."
"I know." She picked up another shirt—one of his, she realized, recognizing the worn fabric. "But I need to do something. I can't just sit around waiting for Warren to make his next move."
"We're handling Warren."
"I know that too. Doesn't mean I can't contribute." She folded his shirt and set it aside. "Besides, this is what I do. It's what I've always done."
"Take care of things."
"Take care of people." She met his eyes. "Through their things. You learn a lot about someone from their laundry. What they do for work. How they take care of themselves. Whether they're struggling or thriving."
"And what does our laundry tell you about us?"
Trish considered the question. "That you work hard. Fight hard. Don't spend a lot of time worrying about appearances." She picked up another shirt. "That you've been taking care of yourselves for a long time, because nobody else was going to do it for you."
Something shifted in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Or surprise that she'd read him so clearly.
"Mae used to say something like that," he said quietly. "About laundry being a window into people's lives."
"She taught me everything I know." Trish's throat tightened. "Not just about running the business. About seeing people. Really seeing them. She said everyone who walks through your door is carrying something, and your job is to make their load a little lighter."
"She was a wise woman."
"She was the best person I ever knew." Trish blinked against the sting in her eyes. "After Danny died, she was the only reason I kept going. The laundromat was the only thing that made sense."
Stockton was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rough around the edges.
"After Ellen died, the club was the only thing that made sense for me."
The confession hung in the air between them. Trish looked at him—really looked—and saw the weight he carried. The loss. The years of channeling grief into violence because he didn't know any other way.
"How long ago?" she asked softly.
"Four years." He pushed off the wall, moving to stand beside the folding table. "Cancer. Took her in eight months."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I. Every day." He picked up one of his shirts—the one she'd just folded—and turned it over in his hands. "But you keep going. That's the deal. That's what we do."
"Keep the lights on."
"Something like that."
They stood together in the laundry room, the dryer humming, the clean scent of detergent filling the air. Two people who'd lost too much and kept going anyway.
"I should let you finish," he said finally. But he didn't move.
"You could stay." The words came out before she could stop them. "Keep me company. If you want."
He looked at her. Really looked, the way Mae used to say you should look at people—seeing past the surface to whatever they were carrying underneath.
Then he nodded, pulled a stool from the corner, and sat down.
"Tell me about the laundromat," he said. "The early days. Before Warren."
So she did. She talked about Mae and Danny and the ten years she'd spent keeping the lights on. About the customers who'd become family. About the neighborhood kids who did homework in her plastic chairs and the single mothers who washed clothes at midnight because it was the only time they had.
And Stockton listened. Really listened, the way he'd listened to her that first night after closing.
She finished the last load, folded the last shirt, and turned off the machines. The compound was quieter now, the evening settling in around them.
That's when she caught him watching her.
Not the casual observation of a man making conversation. Something deeper. Heavier. An expression she recognized from her own mirror, from the nights she'd spent alone in her apartment above the laundromat, wondering if she'd ever feel less empty.
The look of someone who'd been alone long enough to forget what company felt like.
And who was just starting to remember.