I've been watching her for two weeks.
Not in a creepy way. At least, that's what I tell myself. But when you've spent nineteen years learning to notice things — patterns, movements, anything out of place — it's hard to turn that part of your brain off. Especially when the thing that's out of place is a woman with scared eyes and a kid who deserves better than whatever put that fear there.
She moved in fourteen days ago. I wasn't home when the U-Haul pulled up — club business had me out of town for three days. By the time I got back, she was already settled. Curtains up, car in the driveway, kid's bike leaning against the porch.
But I noticed things.
I noticed the way she checks the street before she gets out of her car. Every time. Head on a swivel, looking for something — or someone. I noticed the way she keeps her curtains drawn during the day but cracks them at night, like she needs to see what's coming.
And yeah, I noticed her watching me through the kitchen window. Hard not to, when I can feel her eyes on my back every time I'm out here working on the bike.
I like it more than I should. Find myself working on the bike longer than I need to, just to give her something to look at. Taking my shirt off when the sun's not even that hot.
Forty-two years old and I'm showing off for the pretty neighbor. Pathetic.
Today was different, though. Today I actually talked to her.
Gracie. And she babbles when she's nervous in a way that shouldn't be as endearing as it is. She's young — late twenties, I'd guess. I'm forty-two. Fifteen years between us, give or take. That should matter.
Doesn't seem to stop me from thinking about the way she looked at me on that porch. The flush on her cheeks when her kid outed her. The way her eyes dropped to my chest before she caught herself.
Doesn't stop me from wondering what other sounds I could get her to make besides that flustered little laugh.
I'm in the clubhouse now, nursing a beer at the bar while the brothers shoot pool and talk shit behind me. It's a Thursday night, which means it's quieter than usual. King's in his office handling club business. Rogue's holding court at one of the tables, telling some story that's making the prospects laugh. Lock's in the corner, silent as always, watching everything and everyone.
Home. This place has been home for five years now, ever since I got out and needed somewhere to land. The Army gave me structure, purpose, brotherhood. The Sons of Ruin gave me the same things, minus the bullshit bureaucracy.
"You're quiet tonight." Rogue drops onto the stool next to me, beer in hand. "Quieter than usual, I mean. Which is saying something."
"I'm always quiet."
"Yeah, but this is brooding quiet. This is 'something's on Diesel's mind' quiet." He takes a pull from his bottle. "Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"What's her name?"
I don't react. Don't give him anything. "Who says there's a her?"
"Brother, I've known you for five years. You don't brood over club business. You don't brood over money. The only thing that puts that look on a man's face is a woman." He grins. "So. What's her name?"
I take a long drink of my beer. Consider telling him to mind his own business. But Rogue's like a dog with a bone — he won't let it go until he gets something.
"Gracie," I say. "New neighbor."
"Yeah?" He raises an eyebrow. "She hot?"
I give him a look.
"What? It's a valid question." He holds up his hands. "Fine, fine. She's clearly hot, or you wouldn't be sitting here looking like someone kicked your puppy. What's the problem?"
"There's no problem."
"Diesel."
I set my beer down. "She's got baggage. The kind that makes a woman jumpy."
Rogue's grin fades. He's a smartass, but he's not stupid. "Ex?"
