I don’t.
Instead, I pour another whiskey, the same kind Carol served me before hell broke loose.It burns the same going down, but now it tastes like her kiss.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, quiet and relentless.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll take her home.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop thinking about her peppermint flavored lips.
But not tonight.
Chapter 4
Carol
The storm comes in like it’s personal.
Wind claws at the windows of the Executioners’ clubhouse, and snow thickens until the world outside turns to static.I press my palm to the glass of the small room Humbug gave me, and the cold bites straight through.There’s no way I’m walking home in this.The road disappeared an hour ago, swallowed whole.
The heater hums, but the rest of the place has gone still, voices gone, engines sleeping under blankets of white.Somewhere down the hall, I hear his boots pacing.The sound stops.Starts again.
The biker’s restless.
So am I.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the bar again.Gunmetal flashes, broken glass, his hand around my arm dragging me out of danger.I should feel scared.Instead, I feel… alive.
More than alive, I’m aching for company.
The door creaks open, and Humbug fills the frame.No knock.No warning.Just him.The biker takes my breath.
“Power’s flickering,” he says.“You warm enough?”
“I’m fine.”My voice comes out small.“You didn’t have to check.”
He leans against the jamb, watching me.The low light hits his face just enough to show the hard lines carved there.Thirty-five years of grit and bad weather shapes him.
There’s a scar under his jaw, half hidden by the rough edge of his beard, and a few streaks of gray near his temples that don’t make him look older so much as dangerous.He’s got the kind of body that only comes from real work, not gyms.Big shoulders and chest stretch his thermal and his forearms are thick with muscle and ink.He’s a man built for hauling engines and breaking hearts, not small talk.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, eyes still on me.
“Neither can I.”
He takes a step inside.Snow whips against the roof like applause.I sense him, leather, smoke, whiskey, winter air.The scent of a man who’s been out too long and carries trouble home with him.
“You should lie down,” he says.
“I can’t.”
His gaze drags over me, slow and dangerous.“Why not?”
“Because every time I shut my eyes, I see it.”
“The robbery?”
“You.”
Something cracks between us, quiet, invisible, irreversible.
