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Sophia’s hands trembled as she held the scrap of paper. It felt as heavy as if it were made of lead.
Dear Lodger,
My name’s Wolf and I’m the owner of this bar, although I hadn’t set foot in this place for a long time — until now.
So, I found your stuff. Don’t worry, I don’t blame you for living here. I’ve had troubles myself. I know what it’s like to need to feel like you’ve got a home and a family. The things you’ve got in here seem precious, and I can respect that.
Having said that, thisismy bar, and Iamgoing to need to clear it. So, here’s what I propose. I’m gonna be back tomorrow night at 7pm for a few hours. Then, I won’t be back for two more days. Take the time you need to move your things away, but please, move them away. After that, the refurbishment will start in full, and I’ll need to remove anything that remains.
P. S. Love your stuffies.
She’d read the note a hundred times. She could barely believe this was happening.
After five years, her home was under threat. Not just under threat — it was over. She wasn’t angry. After all, it was only fair that the owner of the bar was coming back to refurbish it. But she was deeply, deeply sad.
The only time she’d cried more than this had been on the day of her sixteenth birthday as she waited for her life to end. Back then, her lavish room had felt like a cage. Now, though, it felt like the whole world was a cage, and the only freedom available was right here in this grimy bar she’d called home.
She hadn’t been able to sleep, of course, for fear that they would return. She’d tossed and turned in her sleeping bag, ready to bolt at any second if she heard them again.
Bikers. Why did it have to be bikers?
Stinky, mangy, nasty, foul-mouthed, bikers.
Sophia avoided bikers like the plague for quite a few reasons. For a start, she didn’t like to be around anyone who reminded her of the event that had ruined her life. When she saw leather, faded denim and black boots, she thought of Hank Groat. She thought of the disgusting way he’d looked at her, and of the way he’d wanted to possess her. But the other reason was more practical. She knew that bikers often operated in loose clubs — more like gangs, from what she understood. There was a chance that any biker she saw could be in Hank’s club.
It was a big part of the reason she’d come to New York from Boston. She needed to keep out of the reach of the insidious tendrils of her father’s organization, and she wanted to avoid bumping into someone who knew Hank. She’d always felt safe in New York because she knew that her father had enemies in the city.
Now, confronted by the foul-mouthed bikers, that feeling of safety had evaporated.
Luckily for her, she’d thought about and prepped for this kind of situation many times over the years. For someone moving on in her territory. She had a secret hidey-hole — something she’d built almost as soon as she’d moved into the place. It was a hidden door in the wooden paneling of the wall in the gents’ toilet. It had taken her ages to make it seamless, and in truth it wasn’t totally invisible, but thankfully it had fooled the bikers tonight.
Wolf, Rainer, and Baron.
What a bunch of corny, fake names. ‘I mean, is Baron even a name?’ Sophia pondered. She was sitting at her table, a cup of tea in front of her as she tried to work out what on earth she was going to do. ‘He must have made it up to seem tough. His real name was probably… Benjamin. Or Billy. And how about Rainer? Sounds like an action figure from the eighties.’ She had a couple of her stuffies — Terry the Tortoise and Wilfred Wolf — sitting with her for moral support. ‘And don’t worry, Wilfie,’ she said to her wolf plushie, ‘there’s only space in my heart for one alpha pack hunter, and that’s you.’ She patted him kindly. ‘Probably Poodle would be a better name for that joker.’ Sophia forced out a laugh, trying to reassure herself.
Of course, when she’d seen him through the spyhole in her secret door, hehadseemed tough. He had this hard-edged look to him, like he’d been battered over and over again and it had just made him stronger. He had a shock of silver hair, and a short, dark beard. Plus, he had piercing blue eyes — mostly serious, but occasionally, when laughing with his friends, incredibly warm and kind-looking.
If he hadn’t been a biker, and if he hadn’t been trying to kick her out of her home, she would have found him attractive in a rough-and-ready sort of a way. And she found that fact intensely annoying.
Get a grip, Sophia. He’s a biker. A criminal. A lowlife. There’s no way someone like that could be attractive, even if he was a ripped silver fox with a killer smile.
Urgh. That smile.
It was the kind of expression that could make your heart melt and your panties catch fire in the same instant.
It wasn’t just that, either. He knew about Littles. The way he’d spoken about her, about her stuffies — it made her feel like maybe there was a soft heart hiding behind that hard, leathery exterior.
‘What am I going to do, guys?’ she asked. The stuffies, however, didn’t have any big ideas. How were they meant to help? They were just fabric, stitching, and glass eyes.
Hmmm. That gave her an idea.
She took out a sheet of paper from a little pink pad she had on her desk. Normally, she used this pad to write out shopping lists and sketch out designs for her restoration projects. But not today. She put pen to paper.
Sorry, Mister. I’m working on it.
*
‘Right now, we stand on a precipice. Step away and go back to cowering in the shadows or press forward into a dangerous new future.’
