He looks down. Soapy footprints across the floor he mopped ten minutes ago. “Shit.”
“Start from the back. Work forward. Walk out. Don’t walk through it.” Shelby ticks each step off on her fingers.
Trapper leans on the mop handle. “I know how mopping works.”
“Your footprints say otherwise.”
He grumbles and drags the bucket toward the back wall. Shelby catches my eye across the bar, and her chin drops, fighting a grin.
The front door bangs open at two-fifteen, and Saber walks in with Viper behind him. Saber is impossible to miss. Six-foot-three, president’s patch, a face built for intimidation. He crosses the bar in four strides, drops a kiss on the top of Shelby’s head without breaking his conversation with Viper, and keeps walking toward the back hallway.
Shelby doesn’t pause. She keeps clearing plates, but her whole body shifts, orienting toward where he disappeared.
I know that pull. My body does the same thing with Duke. Every room, every doorway, every time a bike rumbles into the lot, my entire nervous system pings, and I know where he is before I turn around.
Viper stops at the bar. Quieter than the other guys. Dark hair, strong build, ENFORCER stitched on his cut. He leans against the bar with one elbow, scanning the room.
“Water.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it.
I set a glass in front of him. No ice, because he never asks for ice. He picks it up, drinks half of it, and sets it down.
“Duke is on his way. Twenty minutes.” He’s already pushing off the bar.
Crash comes down the back hallway a few minutes later. The VP is the opposite of Viper. Tall, dirty blond, and a grin that has gotten him out of and into trouble in equal parts. He drops onto a barstool and drums the bar top with both palms.
“Violet. My love. Light of the bar.” He spreads his hands wide. “Wings. Hot sauce. And don’t skimp on the ranch.”
“You run this place. You know where the ranch is.”
“Yeah, but it tastes better when you bring it to me.” He winks.
I grab a ramekin, fill it, and hand it to him.
“And she brings the ranch.” He takes it with both hands like I’ve handed him a stack of money. “Marry me.”
I toss a napkin at him. “You can’t afford me.”
I put in his wings order, pull him a draft, and set it down.
“You’re good for him, you know,” Crash says before taking a pull of his beer.
I set a coaster down in front of him. “Duke and I are not together.”
“Mm-hmm. Whatever you say.”
The door opens at two-forty. Duke.
I have really grown to love his road name. I didn’t always. His real name is Lennon. He earned Duke at a poker table his first month as a prospect, from what he told me. He cleaned out every patched member in one night, like royalty.
He’s got Leo on one hip and a diaper bag over the opposite shoulder. The combination of a six-foot-one tattooed outlaw in a leather cut carrying a toddler and a bag covered in cartoon dinosaurs is the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen.
My stomach does a full revolution, and I grab the edge of the bar. Duke has been kind enough to watch Leo, until I can find a reliable babysitter.
Leo spots me immediately. “Mama!” Both arms out, fingers grabbing at the air between us.
Duke sets him down. I come out from behind the bar. Leo runs to me on unsteady legs. I crouch and catch him, and he smashes his face into my neck and pats my back with both hands.
“Were you good for Duke?” I wipe a smear of something off his cheek with my thumb.
