Since it’s a day to put old ghosts to rest, I decide to make one more stop. The original site of the Lasting Light boardinghouse is only a couple of blocks away, and tension creeps up my spine as I come to a stop outside the charred ruins. In the fouryears since it burned to the ground, the local authorities haven’t bothered to remove the remains since this part of the city isn’t exactly on any gentrification list. All that’s left is a burned-out shell, the few remaining beams pointing to the sky like broken fingers.
I drag my boot through the ash that has sifted out into the street as I text Pitt. Like Wings, he doesn’t make me wait long and I smile as I tuck my phone away. It’s another ten-minute ride before I reach the mall, leaving my bike in a dark corner and heading straight for a boutique on the second floor. I spend money I don’t have now that I’m on forced leave, then stop in at a salon and get some highlights and a full-treatment blowout. When the technician winces at the state of my nails, I throw a little more money at a Racing Red manicure. Maybe I don’t feel like a whole new person, like the technician promised, but I turn a couple of heads as I make my way back to my bike.
I’m a little early for the bar, but Wings is already waiting in a dim corner, a couple of vodka shots in front of him. He’s facing the dance floor, so he doesn’t see me until I’m right by his side. I bump him gently with my hip, leaning down to murmur, “I slipped the bartender a twenty, so he won't pay too much attention to this corner.”
Wings tips his head back, his hungry gaze crawling from my high-heeled boots, up my leather-clad legs, to the little silk tank that perfectly matches my Racing Red manicure. “It'll take a lot more than that to keep his eyes off you, sweetheart.” He hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me down into his lap. “Jesus.” I watch his throat bob as his gaze roams over me. “I should've dressed up, huh?”
I smile as I kiss the side of his mouth. “You look amazing, like always.”
His hand strokes the leather stretched around my thigh, his scent thickening with arousal. It doesn’t take long before I canfeel his hard-on pushing at my butt. “Can we skip the bar and go straight home to bed?”
“Tempting,” I purr, wiggling a little to give us both a thrill. “But I want to dance with you before we get interrupted.”
His brow cocks as I slide off his lap and extend a hand. “Interrupted?”
I shrug, leading him onto the dance floor in front of the jukebox and wrapping my arms around his waist. He’s wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeved Henley, and I nuzzle the soft material as he pulls me close. In my boots, I’m only an inch or two shorter than him, and I love the way we fit. We sway to a Tom Petty song, his gorgeous smile growing as I lean up and kiss him. It’s little more than a tease, but he makes a purring sound, one hand cupping my ass in the tight leather while the other pulls his phone from his pocket. “I want to take this moment with me on my long, lonely rides.”
As he takes the picture, I think of the silly omegas at the lookout, wondering if this is why they seemed dizzy with happiness. “You can always video call me,” I tell him as I trace the dimple in his cheek. “I could dance for you while you snuggle in your sad little bed.”
“Well, since I’m bunking with Pitt most of the time, you might have an extra audience member.” There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes, like he knows I might be okay with that. I roll my eyes at him, but then he stiffens. “Speak of the devil.” He turns me slightly so we’re facing the bar, where two men in leather cuts are standing less than ten feet away, their eyes locked on us. “And Ark, too. Did you set this up?”
I shrug. “You wanted me to meet with him.”
He studies me for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Does that explain the pretty new blouse?”
“Armor. I don't want anyone thinking I'm still that throwaway kid.”
“Baby.” He tilts my chin up, his eyes a soft, warm gray. “No one could ever look at you and think that, I promise.”
I press my fingers into his spine, removing the last inch of space between us. I can feel my pulse skipping in my veins, and wonder if he can feel it, too. “Hold me? Just until the song ends?”
He buries his face in my hair, breathing me in. “I’ll hold you a lot longer than that.”
I close my eyes, but soon enough the other dancers are drifting away, and a pathway opens to the bar. Wings’ fingers thread through mine as we approach Pitt and Ark, my gaze lingering on the Sergeant-at-Arms as he slides two fresh shots our way. “Thanks for the invite.”
I shrug and toss the drink back, but it’s impossible to ignore the most dominant alpha in the room for long. I lift my gaze to Ark’s, feeling the past descend over me, digging into my soul with sharp, ruthless claws.
The Iron Flyers’ President has more than grown into his cut. He’s a couple of inches taller than Pitt, his shoulders heavily muscled beneath a faded black tee that can barely contain the breadth of his chest. Sleeves of ink curling up both arms, and his skin is a glossy teak, his dirty blond hair swept back in a distinctive V. My gaze tracks from his mouth to his scruff, until it settles on a pair of feathered wings tattooed on either side of his neck. It’s the Flyers’ emblem, stamped there for everyone to see. “Well, you look the part,” I murmur, tipping my drink his way. “Club president.”
“It’s not been an easy road getting here.”
It’s the first thing he’s said to me in years, but his voice is as familiar as my own. Deeper, rougher, like it’s been dragged through gravel and soaked in whiskey. “But I hear big changes are on the horizon.”
The words feel strange in my mouth; the polite small talk of strangers. But Ark’s gaze tracks slowly over me, despite the fact he just spent half a song watching me move. Maybe I’m one of his ghosts, just like he’s one of mine, and it’s taking him a beat to face me in the flesh. Although, as his midnight black eyes settle on my scent gland, his pheromones wash over me. Crushed violets wrapped in warm leather and something that sizzles on the back of my tongue.
Oh.Oh.
My thighs instinctively clench, my skin suddenly hot and tight.
“This is one of those changes,” he says, sliding something along the bar like he can’t smell the spike of my arousal. I stare hard at a business card for the Iron Flyers Corporation, but I still have to read the address three times. “You’re selling the club?”
“Just the compound. Remember what’s on Liege Road?”
It takes a moment for my stuttering mind to catch up. “The bubblegum factory?”
He nods, a flash of satisfaction in his dark eyes. “You always loved that place. Any time you went missing, I always knew that’s where you’d turn up.”
“I liked the way it smelled.” I shake my head, still stunned by the revelation. The Iron Flyers have lived out of their current compound for over fifty years. There’s so much history baked into the walls, I can’t imagine the old guard were happy to let it go. “Your dad must be rolling in his grave.”
