Chapter 5
Bethany Cole talked like other people breathed.
Trawler had known this, intellectually, since the night she'd spent twenty minutes downloading her entire life story while he wiped blood off his knuckles. But knowing it and experiencing it were two different things.
"So you're putting the camera there because of the angle, right?
Because you can see the whole parking lot from that corner.
That's smart. I never would've thought of that.
I mean, I've seen security cameras before, obviously, everyone's seen security cameras, but I never really thought about placement.
Is placement the right word? Positioning? Configuration?"
"Placement's fine."
"Cool. Cool cool cool." She was perched on a barstool, knees drawn up, watching him work with the intensity of a cat tracking a laser pointer.
"What about that other corner? The one by the dumpsters?
Because that's where Tommy Braxton puked last St. Patrick's Day, and I feel like if someone was going to sneak up on the building, they'd probably come from the dumpster side.
Puke corner. That's what I call it now. Puke corner. "
Trawler bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "Already got that angle covered."
"Of course you do. You've probably got angles I don't even know exist. Are there secret angles? Hidden angles that only security people know about?"
"No."
"That sounds like something someone would say if there were secret angles."
He finished mounting the camera and climbed down from the ladder, wiping his hands on his jeans.
The Rusty Hook's exterior now had three cameras covering every approach, motion sensors on both side entrances, and a better lock on the back door.
It wasn't fortress-level security, but it would give them warning if Jessup's crew came calling again.
"What's next?" Bethany hopped off her stool, trailing him as he moved back inside. "Interior cameras? Trip wires? Landmines? I'm kidding about the landmines. Mostly. Though there's a guy in Port Mason who probably knows a guy who knows a guy who—"
"No landmines."
"Right. Zoning laws. Very responsible."
The interior assessment took another hour, Bethany narrating his every move like a sports commentator covering a very slow golf tournament.
He checked sight lines from the bar—clear view to both exits, blind spot behind the jukebox that needed addressing.
He mapped fallback positions if things went sideways: the office had a solid door and a window facing the alley, the storage room was a death trap with only one exit.
"You're doing that thing again," she said, watching him examine the office window. "The squinty-calculator thing. Where you look at something and math happens behind your eyes."
"Math doesn't happen behind my eyes."
"Sure it does. You're calculating escape routes. Or bullet trajectories. Or how many bad guys could fit through that window at once." She tilted her head, dark hair escaping from its ponytail. "Two, right? Maybe three if they're skinny?"
Trawler stared at her. "How did you—"
"I've been running a bar for six years. You learn to read people." Her smile was quick and sharp. "Also, you just confirmed it. The squinty-calculator thing is real."
He should be annoyed. Any other person running commentary on his work would have gotten a growl and a glare, a clear signal to back off and let him concentrate.
But Bethany's chatter didn't feel like interference.
It felt like... company. Like background noise that somehow made the silence less heavy.
"Window stays unlocked," he said, turning back to his assessment. "Emergency exit if you need one. Keep a bag under your desk—cash, keys, phone charger. Anything you'd need if you had to run."
"Cheerful."
"Practical."
"Practically cheerful." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with those dark eyes that saw too much. "You've done this before. Not just the security stuff—the protecting-someone stuff. Making sure they have escape routes and bug-out bags."
Trawler's hands stilled on the window latch. "Once."
"What happened?"
The question hung in the air between them. He could feel her attention like weight on his skin, that relentless curiosity she aimed at everything in her orbit. Most people, he'd shut down. Walk away, silence as answer, conversation over.
But she'd told him about her mother. About the folding and the breaking and the stubborn determination not to end up the same way. Seemed only fair to give her something back.
"I was protecting a woman. Client, back in my security days." The words came out rough, unpracticed. "Trusted the wrong people. Was watching the wrong door when they came for her."
"She got hurt."
"Yeah."
"But you're still doing this." Bethany's voice was soft but not pitying—curious, like she was fitting puzzle pieces together. "Still protecting people. Still watching doors."
"Different now." He met her eyes. "With the club, I know who to trust. Brothers have my back, I have theirs. Nobody's watching the wrong door because we're watching all of them."
"And with me?"
The question landed like a physical thing, pressing against his chest. With me. Like she was already part of something, already included in the circle of people he'd kill for, die for.
"With you," he said slowly, "I'm watching every door there is."
Her breath caught. He saw it—the slight hitch, the way her lips parted. Something sparked in the air between them, electric and dangerous, and Trawler knew he should step back, should put distance between himself and this woman who talked too much and saw too clearly.
A truck rumbled past outside. Trawler's head snapped toward the window, body going taut with recognition.
"What?" Bethany was instantly alert, picking up on his tension. "What is it?"
"Dunlap." He watched the truck cruise past the bar, slow enough to be deliberate, fast enough to claim innocence. White Ford F-150, mud on the plates, wiry silhouette behind the wheel. "Driving by. Checking if we're here."
"Is that bad?"
"Means he's reporting back. Letting Jessup know the situation's changed." Trawler tracked the truck until it disappeared around the corner. "They'll be making decisions. Figuring out how to handle Salt Blood involvement."
"Decisions like..."
"Escalate or retreat. No middle ground once an MC gets involved."
Bethany was quiet for a moment—a rare enough occurrence that he actually turned to look at her. She was chewing her lower lip, that fierce defiance from before shadowed by something more complicated.
"I didn't ask for this," she said finally. "For you to get involved. For your whole club to—"
"You didn't have to ask."
"But now they're in danger because of me. You're in danger because of me."
Trawler crossed the space between them in two strides, close enough to see the gold flecks in her dark eyes, close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo under the bar smells.
"Danger's what we do. It's who we are." He held her gaze. "You didn't bring this to us. We took it on because it's ours to take. Because men like Jessup squeezing places like yours is exactly the kind of thing Salt Blood exists to stop."
"But—"
"No buts." His voice came out rougher than intended. "You're under our protection now. My protection. That means I handle the danger. You handle the bar. Clear?"
Her chin came up, that stubborn jaw setting. "I don't take orders."
"Wasn't an order. Was a fact."
They stared at each other, something crackling in the narrow space between their bodies. Trawler could feel the heat of her, could see the pulse hammering in her throat, could count every freckle scattered across her nose if he let himself look.
He stepped back before he did something stupid.
"Bar opens in two hours," he said, voice carefully neutral. "I'll be working security tonight. You need backup behind the bar?"
Working backup turned out to mean pulling drafts and washing glasses while Bethany handled customers. The evening crowd was thin—word spreading about the trouble at The Rusty Hook, keeping the cautious away—but the regulars showed up, loyal despite the danger.
Mickey claimed his usual stool, split lip healing to an ugly scab. Tom was back with his black eye faded to yellow-green. A handful of others Trawler didn't recognize, men and women who'd been drinking here long enough to consider it a second home.
Bethany moved through them like water, refilling glasses before they emptied, remembering names and stories and the small details that turned customers into family.
She laughed at Mickey's terrible jokes, commiserated with a woman named Dot about her worthless ex-husband, defused a near-argument between two fishermen with a well-timed round on the house.
And she talked. God, she talked.
"So then Richie says, 'That's not a catfish, that's my mother-in-law,' and I swear to God, the whole bar went silent for like three seconds before everyone lost it. You should've seen his face. He didn't even realize what he'd said until—Trawler, are you listening?"
"Catfish. Mother-in-law. Everyone laughed."
"Okay, you're listening, but are you appreciating? Because that story is solid gold and your face is doing the stone-mountain thing again."
"I don't have a stone-mountain thing."
"You absolutely have a stone-mountain thing.
It's like someone carved you out of granite and forgot to add expressions.
" She bumped his shoulder with hers as she reached past him for a bottle of whiskey.
"I'm making it my mission to get you to smile.
Like, a real smile. Full teeth. Maybe even a laugh. "
"I don't laugh."
"Everyone laughs."
"Not me."
"Challenge accepted."
She danced away to pour drinks for a young couple at the end of the bar, and Trawler found himself watching her go.
The way she moved, efficient and graceful.
The way her voice carried, bright and warm, filling every corner of the room.
The way she made everyone around her feel seen, included, like they mattered.
Dunlap drove past again around nine. Trawler clocked the truck through the window, noted the time, filed it away. The wiry bastard was definitely reporting back—two drivebys in one day meant Jessup was gathering intelligence, preparing for whatever came next.
Let him prepare. Trawler would be ready.
The night wound down slowly, customers trickling out in ones and twos. Last call came and went. Bethany counted the register while Trawler collected glasses, the two of them moving around each other in a rhythm that felt strangely natural, like they'd been doing this for years instead of hours.
"You know," she said, not looking up from her counting, "for a guy who doesn't talk, you're pretty good company."
"You talk enough for both of us."
"True." She finished counting and looked up with a grin. "But you listen. Most people don't actually listen—they're just waiting for their turn to talk. You actually hear what people say."
Trawler set down the last of the glasses, something warm unfurling in his chest. He realized, with a start, that he'd enjoyed tonight. Not just tolerated it, not just endured it for the job—actually enjoyed it. Her voice, her laugh, the way she made the ordinary feel possible.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed anything.
When he turned back toward her, she was watching him with her head tilted, dark eyes curious.
"What are you thinking about?"
The question caught him off guard. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
How was he supposed to explain that she'd made him feel human for the first time in months?
That her constant chatter had somehow filled holes he didn't know existed?
That standing in her bar, washing her glasses, listening to her stories had felt more like living than anything he'd done in years?
"Trawler?"
He didn't have an answer. Didn't have words for what was happening in his chest, the avalanche that had started the moment she grabbed that shotgun and refused to fold.
But the way her breath caught, the way her eyes softened like she understood anyway—
That was answer enough.