Page 7 of Contracted to the Bikers

Boone grins faintly, never one to shy away from trouble. “The good kind or bad kind?”

“We’ll see,” I grunt, picking my wrench back up and getting back to work.

***

We’re freshened up and waiting in the clubhouse when three o’clock arrives. Right on time, there’s the low rumble of a sedan pulling into the lot outside the clubhouse. I’m standing by the front door when it stops. The driver’s door opens, and for a second, I forget what the hell I was about to say.

Sloane Mercer is not what I expected. She steps out of the car in a charcoal-gray suit that probably costs more than most bikes in our garage. Dark hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head, sharp cheekbones, and kohl-framed eyes that scan the compound like she’s already cataloguing exit routes. She’s controlled, composed, and beautiful in a way that leaves you speechless.

I don’t react. Years of running a club have given me a pretty good poker face. But damn.

She walks toward me like she belongs anywhere she decides to be.

Up close, I notice something else, the exhaustion buried under that professional armor. She’s hiding it well, but she’s afraid.

“You’re Rook,” she says. There’s no nerves or uncertainty in her voice.

“Yeah.” I nod, not unfolding my arms.

“Sloane Mercer.” She holds out her hand with practiced ease, she’s used to shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with all kinds. Her fingers are slender, with well-manicured yet short nails.

I shake her hand, mine engulfing hers, dirty and stained from years of working with my hands. “I figured.”

Her gaze flicks past me toward the clubhouse. “Should we go inside?”

I shrug, not moving, my frame blocking the doorway. I told the guys to wait inside, but I know they’re hovering behind it waiting for my signal. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you brought trouble with you.”

Her mouth twitches, the trace of a smirk. “Not intentionally.”

I nod toward the lot at her car. “You come alone?”

She bites her lip in a frustratingly attractive way, and I force myself to pull my gaze away from her rosebud mouth. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” I grunt, frustrated by her never giving a straight answer—typical lawyer.

She gestures toward her car. “My daughter’s with me.”

That stops me. I didn’t know there was a kid involved. That changes things. “You brought a kid to a biker clubhouse?” I ask incredulously.

“Someone tried to kill us. I’m hardly going to leave her at home, am I?” she says.

She’s ballsy, or desperate, probably both. “Bring her in,” I say.

“She’ll be okay in the car. What I have to say won’t take long.” Her eyes meet mine and I see the truth there. She doesn’t want to bring her child into this place unless she has to.

“Fair enough. I’ll have some of my men keep an eye on the car in case she needs you.” I call a few of the guys, telling them to watch the car and holler if anything happens. I push the door open, and she follows me inside. I wonder if she feels like she’s entering the lion’s den.

But instead, she walks in like she’s entering a courtroom, back straight, eyes alert. I wonder what Sloane makes of the clubhouse. I notice the peeling paint and cracked leather seats, feeling like the clubhouse seems shabbier in her presence. Although she’s not said anything negative, I find myself ready to defend our sanctuary.

Cruz is already sitting at the long table, boots propped on a chair. He lowers them when he sees her. “Well,” he says. “You didn’t mention our visitor was the one from the news.”

“Didn’t seem important,” I say.

He snorts. Boone comes in behind us, arms crossed. Sloane takes a seat across the table without being asked. For a moment, she seems ruffled in our presence, but she quickly regains her composure.