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“Better. Now get the fuck out of here,” I shout, pulling him away from the building and tossing him to the gravel parking lot.
He scrambles to his feet and runs off. Once he’s a good distance away, I turn to look back at Clover. She’s staring in the fuckwads directing, rubbing her arms, still looking scared out of her mind. When I take a step toward her, she backs away. Realizing what she’s done, she shakes her head sadly. I know that look. I saw it one too many times from my mom when my dad would beat on her. “Thank you,” She smiles timidly.
“He shouldn’t bother you again. If he does, let me know, and I’ll take care of him.”
“You don’t have to worry about it. Jimmy is just my stupid ex. I’m sure you scared him off for good this time.” She laughs sadly.
“He may be stupid, but if he comes back, I want to know about it. You hear me, Clover.”
Her eyes widen when I say her name. “Who are you?” She asks slowly, looking me over.
“My club calls me Ghost.”
She eyes my cut for a brief moment before she looks up at me with a warm smile playing on her lips. “Ghost? Like Casper?” She laughs.
I shake my head slowly. "Most folks don't find me particularly friendly, Darlin'," I reply, a hint of wry humor in my tone.
She cocks her head to the side, her curiosity piqued. "Why's that, Ghost?" she asks.
I shrug nonchalantly. "Well, for starters, I'm not the most talkative person. I tend to keep to myself, and I'm not one for small talk."
She nods thoughtfully as if considering my words. "I can understand that," she says. "Sometimes, silence can be powerful."
I raise an eyebrow, "You think so?"
"Absolutely," she agrees. "There's a beauty in the unspoken."
I’d never thought of silence that way before, but she was right.
She bites her lip, and it makes my dick jump. Fuck, she’s sexy, but Joker’s right, she’s off-limits, for now. She needs time to heal from her past before I can fully claim her as my own. That doesn’t mean I’m going to wait to tell my club brothers about her. They’ve all seen her. I don’t want them to get the wrong idea and try to make a move on her once she’s ready.
Mark my words, for from this moment forward, Clover Moore shall forever belong to me.
TWO
CLOVER MOORE
THREE MONTHS LATER
In the heart of Hells Deep, stands a legendary biker bar named "The Rusty Sprocket." Its weathered wooden sign and the faint smell of leather linger in the air, inviting people in.
My cousin, Lavender, works here as a waitress. One evening, as I sipped my soda at a corner table, she walked up to me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "Hey, Clover, guess what?" she exclaimed, rubbing her hands together. I knew whatever she was about to say, I wasn’t going to like, "We need a bartender, and I think you'd be perfect for the job!"
“No,” I told her adamantly. A biker bar didn’t seem like the place for someone like me. I’d stick out like a sore thumb. I’d always been a bookworm, more comfortable with the scent of old pages than the roar of motorcycles.
Sensing my reservations, Lavender took my hand. "Look, you’re the one who keeps saying you need to get a job before your savings run out. I know it might seem like an unusual fit, but trust me, this place is more than just a bar—it's a family. Your kind heart and quick wit will fit in perfectly around here."
I was curious. Perhaps there was more to The Rusty Sprocket than met the eye. I decided to take a chance. As I stepped behind the bar for the first time, I was greeted by a motley crew. There were burly bikers with tattoos adorning their arms, grizzled old-timers nursing their whiskey, and even a few off-duty police officers, who I later learned worked with the MC.
Beneath their tough exteriors, the bikers were surprisingly friendly, sharing hilarious stories of life on the open road. The old-timers had tales of their own, filled with wisdom and humor. And the police officers, despite their stern uniforms, had a mischievous twinkle in their eyes.
As the days turned into weeks, I began to feel a sense of belonging at The Rusty Sprocket. I learned how to pour a perfect pint, mix classic cocktails, and even handle the occasional rowdy customer with grace.
But more importantly, I discovered a hidden world of acceptance and friendship. People from all walks of life, came together to create a community where everyone felt welcome. It was a place where laughter filled the air, stories were shared, and bonds were formed.
I continued to work at The Rusty Sprocket, grateful for the opportunity to be part of something special. A biker bar, despite its rough exterior, could be a place of warmth, acceptance, and unexpected friendships.
When I started working here, I was scared of my own shadow. Jimmy is to blame for that, but I harbor my own guilt for putting up with his shit for so damn long. It turns out Lavender was right, I love working here. The guys are crude and rough around the edges, but I’ve never seen them lay a hand on a woman in anger. That says a lot in my book.
