Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
He warms instantly. “You need anything while you’re here, you ask. This place can be rough around the edges, but we look out for our own.”
Holley glances up at me quickly.
Our own.
Her pulse jumps. I feel it through the air.
Before she can overthink it, Raff and Miles come over.
Miles points at her with his beer bottle. “You stole Stud’s hoodie?”
Holley turns bright red.
Raff elbows Miles. “Shut your damn mouth. You don’t embarrass someone Stud brings in. He’s the head of this club.”
“I’m not the Prez anymore,” I remind him.
“You’re still the OG,” Miles says. “Respect sticks.”
That’s when Scraper arrives.
He’s quieter than the others, presence heavier. Ex–military, same era as me. He looks Holley over once, not in a way that objectifies, but in the way a guard dog takes inventory.
“You safe here,” he says simply.
Holley nods. “Thank you.”
He tips his chin to me. “She’s good.”
“That’s why she’s here,” I say.
We move through the rest of the greetings—some teasing, some warm, all curious. She handles it with more grace than most newcomers ever manage. Doesn’t try too hard. Doesn’t shrink. Just offers small hellos, polite smiles, steady presence.
But every few minutes, she glances behind her.
Checks the doorway.
Scans the windows.
Her shoulders tighten more each time.
I don’t miss it.
None of the Hellions do either—which is saying something.
Once we reach the quieter hallway toward my clubhouse room, I stop her gently with a hand on her arm.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She tries to play it off. “Nothing.”
“Holley.”
Her eyes flicker. She hesitates. “I feel… watched.”
My jaw locks.
“For how long?”
“A few days,” she shares. “Before I left the mountains. I thought it would stop once I got here, but…”
Her gaze darts past me down the empty hall.
That protective instinct—old, deep, instinctive—fires through me fast. “You should’ve told me before you got in the car.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was being dramatic.”
“I’d rather think you’re dramatic than unsafe.”
Her breath hitches. “I’m sorry.”
I step closer. “Don’t apologize for trusting your gut.”
She looks up at me then, eyes big and uncertain. And something inside me cracks open all over again.
This woman has no idea how much space she’s taking up in my chest already.
We get her settled in my room—one of the private ones set aside for officers even after retirement. It’s not fancy. Bed, dresser, old TV, a couple of photos tucked in the mirror frame. A sanctuary of sorts.
She runs her fingers over the leather jacket hanging on the wall. The patches. The weathered Hellions logo.
“You were President?” she asks softly.
“For a time.”
“Must’ve meant something,” she says.
“It did,” I admit. “Still does.”
She studies the patch, tracing the edge with delicate fingers, then looks back at me.
“What made you retire?”
“Needed a different life,” I say. “One with quieter mornings. Less responsibility. Fewer decisions that ruin men’s lives.”
“And they still respect you.”
“Respect doesn’t go away when you step down. Neither does the responsibility.”
Her expression warms. “You’re a good man.”
I look away because compliments like that do things to me I’m not prepared for.
“Tired one,” I correct. “Not always good.”
She smiles like she knows better.
Later, we go back to the hot rod shop so I can finish work I abandoned earlier. Holley sits on a stool watching me, legs swinging, hair messy from the ride, hoodie sleeves rolled twice so her hands peek out.
She looks comfortable here.
Too comfortable.
The guys drift in and out.
Sparx leans in the doorway. “So you’re Stud’s girl, huh?”
Holley opens her mouth to protest, but I don’t give her the chance.
“She’s not anyone’s girl,” I say, voice sharp enough that Sparx lifts his hands in surrender. “She’s a guest.”
Holley’s brows knit at that, but she doesn’t argue.
When he leaves, she asks quietly, “Is it bad for them to assume I’m yours?”
I grip the wrench a little tighter. “Not bad. Just inaccurate.”
She flinches—not visibly to most, but I know her now. Enough to see the small contraction in her shoulders.
“I didn’t mean—” I start, but she cuts me off softly.
“No, you’re right. We’re… whatever we are.”
The words sting more than I expect.
She falls quiet after that.
The slow burn in the room cools to embers.
And the whole time she sits there, swinging her legs, pretending to look at parts, she keeps glancing over her shoulder.
The watching feeling hasn’t left her.
Which means it hasn’t left me either.
Night settles over the compound which is across the street from my shop. Members come and go. Music shifts from loud country to low rock to silence as the clubhouse thins out.
Holley lingers close to me, careful not to intrude but drawn to my side like gravity has its own rules around us.
When we step outside for air, she hugs her arms around herself.
“Feels different here at night,” she says.
“In a good way?
“In a quiet way.”
We walk the perimeter of the compound—lights casting long shadows, bikes parked in neat rows, the fence line secure. Nothing out of place.