Chapter 4
The rumble of Harleys woke Bethany from the first real sleep she'd had in a month.
She'd passed out on the couch in her office around three AM, after scrubbing blood off the floor and righting overturned chairs and telling Mickey and the others to go home, she'd handle it from here.
The shotgun was propped against the cushions beside her, loaded, safety off.
Old habits from a childhood spent in neighborhoods where trouble came knocking after dark.
The engines cut off outside, and she was on her feet before her brain caught up with her body. Three bikes. She could tell by the chorus of rumbles dying in sequence. Her hand found the shotgun's stock as boots crunched across gravel toward the front door.
A knock. Polite. Unexpected.
Men who came to hurt you didn't knock.
Bethany crossed to the window and twitched the curtain aside. Three motorcycles gleamed in the morning sun, chrome catching light like scattered diamonds. And standing at her door—
Trawler. Plus two others she didn't recognize, both wearing the same leather cuts with the same Salt Blood patches.
One had the weathered look of a ship captain, steady blue eyes taking in her bar like he was assessing its worth.
The other was built like a soldier, military posture even standing still, with a broken nose and the kind of smile that probably came right before someone started bleeding.
She set down the shotgun and opened the door.
"You came back."
Trawler's dark eyes swept over her—cataloging, she realized. Checking for damage. Something warm flickered in her chest at the realization.
"Told you I'd make calls." He stepped aside, gesturing to his companions. "Anchor. Hurricane. President and VP."
President. She was looking at the president of an outlaw motorcycle club, standing on her doorstep at nine in the morning like this was a social call.
"Bethany Cole." She stuck out her hand because her mama had raised her with manners, even if her mama had also taught her to never trust men who traveled in packs. "I'd invite you in, but the place still smells like blood and Pine-Sol."
Anchor's handshake was firm and brief. "Trawler says you've got a problem."
"Trawler says a lot for a man who barely speaks." The words were out before she could stop them—nerves making her mouth run, same as always. "Sorry. I talk when I'm nervous. And when I'm not nervous. Basically I just talk."
Hurricane laughed, a low rumble that matched his engine. "I like her already."
"Can we come in?" Anchor asked. Not demanding. Asking. Like her permission mattered.
Bethany stepped back and let them enter.
The Rusty Hook looked worse in daylight. The broken pool table sagged in its corner like a wounded animal. Chairs she'd straightened were still crooked, and there was a dark stain on the floor she'd missed—blood, dried to rust brown, right where Trawler had dropped the first guy.
She watched the three men take in the damage, their expressions unreadable.
Trawler positioned himself near the door, arms crossed, watching the parking lot like he expected trouble to roll up any second.
Hurricane prowled the perimeter with that predator's grace, checking windows and exits.
Anchor just stood in the middle of the room and waited.
For her, she realized. He was waiting for her to talk.
So she talked.
"Carl Jessup. Runs protection rackets from here to Norfolk—squeezes small businesses for two grand a month, burns them down if they don't pay.
He's been working Port Mason for about two months now.
Hit the bait shop first, then the convenience store on Route 17, then me.
" She moved behind the bar because standing still made her twitchy, and started making coffee because her hands needed something to do.
"First visit was a month ago. Four guys, friendly smiles, explaining how the world works. I told them to get bent."
"And the pool table?" Hurricane asked.
"Second visit. Week later. They wanted to make sure I understood the consequences of poor decision-making." Her jaw tightened at the memory. "Three of my regulars tried to step in. Jessup's boys put them in the hospital."
"But you still didn't pay." Anchor's voice was neutral, but something flickered in those steady blue eyes. Respect, maybe. Or assessment.
"I don't fold." The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the silence.
"My mama spent her whole life folding. Bending over for bosses, for landlords, for every man who thought he could take what wasn't his.
She died tired and broken and owing money to people who didn't deserve a cent of it. I swore I'd never live like that."
"Even if it gets you killed?"
Bethany met Anchor's gaze and held it. "Even then."
Silence stretched between them. Hurricane had stopped his prowling, watching her with new interest. Trawler hadn't moved from his position by the door, but she could feel his attention like heat on her skin.
"Last night," Anchor said finally. "Walk me through it."
"Four of them. Same crew as before, led by a guy named Wayne Dunlap—Jessup's main collector." She poured coffee into four mugs, not bothering to ask how they took it. "They wanted my answer. I gave them the same one I've been giving for a month. Dunlap grabbed me, and then—"
Her eyes cut to Trawler.
"And then your guy stood up."
Something passed between the three men. A look, quick and loaded with meaning. Hurricane's eyebrows rose slightly. Anchor's expression didn't change, but his attention sharpened.
"Trawler handled it," she continued, because silence made her nervous and nervous made her talk.
"Four against one, and he put them down in less than two minutes.
Told Dunlap to stay away, sent them crawling out the door.
Then he asked what I was into, and I told him.
Everything. Probably talked his ear off for half an hour. "
"Twenty minutes," Trawler said from the door. "Maybe twenty-five."
"Same thing." She slid coffee across the bar toward them. "Look, I don't know how this works. MC stuff, I mean. I've heard things—rumors, stories, whatever—but I'm not connected, I'm not anyone's sister or daughter or girlfriend. I'm just a woman who owns a bar and pissed off the wrong people."
"Port Mason's not our territory," Hurricane said, accepting the coffee. "Technically."
"But protection rackets are our business." Anchor's voice carried the weight of a man used to making decisions that stuck. "Anyone squeezing small businesses in the tidewater is a problem. We've been hearing rumors about Jessup's operation for months. Didn't have enough to move on."
"You've got enough now," Trawler said.
More of that silent communication. Bethany was starting to understand the language—looks and micro-expressions carrying whole conversations without a word spoken. Hurricane's mouth curved slightly. Anchor tilted his head, considering.
"You're volunteering?" The president's question was directed at Trawler.
"Yeah."
"To take point on this."
"Yeah."
Bethany watched Hurricane's eyebrows climb higher. Watched Anchor's steady gaze sharpen into something like surprise.
"You don't volunteer for things," Hurricane said slowly. "Ever. In three years, you've never once raised your hand for anything outside your designated responsibilities."
Trawler's jaw tightened. "I'm raising it now."
"Why?"
The single word hung in the air. Bethany felt her heart rate kick up, felt the weight of the question pressing against her chest.
Trawler was silent for a long moment. Then his eyes found hers across the room, dark and unreadable and somehow burning.
"Because she didn't fold."
Anchor nodded slowly, like that answer meant something she couldn't quite grasp. "Okay. You've got point. Hurricane, get with Compass about patrol routes—I want eyes on Port Mason around the clock. We'll need to know Jessup's operation, his crew, his patterns."
"On it." Hurricane drained his coffee and set the mug down with a decisive click. "Anything else?"
"Yeah." Anchor turned back to Bethany, and for a moment the steady captain's mask slipped, revealing something warmer underneath. "Miss Cole. Until this is handled, you're under Salt Blood protection. Anyone touches you, touches your bar, touches your people—they answer to us. Understood?"
Bethany opened her mouth. Closed it. For once in her life, words failed her.
"That's not—I can't pay you," she finally managed. "I'm barely making rent as it is. If Jessup finds out I've got backup, he'll escalate, and then I'll really be—"
"We don't want your money." Anchor's voice was firm. "We want Jessup. You're going to help us get him."
"How?"
"By doing exactly what you've been doing. Running your bar. Standing your ground." His mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. "Being too stubborn to fold."
Hurricane laughed again. "She'll fit right in."
They finished their coffee and moved toward the door, the meeting apparently concluded. Bethany followed, still reeling, watching these dangerous men exit her bar like they hadn't just changed the entire trajectory of her life.
At the threshold, Trawler paused. His brothers kept walking toward their bikes, but he turned back, filling the doorway with his massive frame.
"Lock up after we leave. Don't open for anyone you don't know. I'll be back tonight—need to assess your security, figure out how to keep this place safe."
"I thought you said they weren't fighters," she said. "Jessup's men. That they ran when someone pushed back."
"They did." His dark eyes held hers. "But Jessup won't send the B-team twice. Next time, it'll be worse. We need to be ready."
We. Not you. We.
"Why are you doing this?" The question came out smaller than she intended. "Really. I'm nobody to you. Just some mouthy bartender who couldn't keep her head down."
Trawler was quiet for a moment. Then he reached out and did something that made her breath catch—brushed a strand of hair back from her face with surprising gentleness, his scarred knuckles grazing her cheekbone.
"You're not nobody."
He dropped his hand and walked to his bike before she could respond. Bethany stood in the doorway and watched the three Harleys roar to life, watched them pull out of her parking lot and disappear down the coastal highway, chrome glinting in the morning sun.
Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. And for the first time in thirty-one days, the feeling flooding her chest wasn't fear.
It was hope.
She touched her cheekbone where his knuckles had been, still feeling the ghost of that contact. The mountain who didn't speak had just promised to keep her safe. His president had just declared her under club protection. His brother had said she'd fit right in.
Bethany closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and leaned against the wood with a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep in her chest.
She was in so much trouble.
But for the first time since Carl Jessup walked into her bar, she felt like she might actually win.