I shouldn’t get mixed up with a younger guy, anyway, and the fact that I apparently hadn’t quite learned my lesson made me a little uneasy. I’d really thought I had something special last time, and the blow had been devastating when it ended. I wasn’t about to get roped into something like that again.
“Earth to Dante,” Mary said, waving her hand in front of my face.
I blinked, pulling myself back to Stella’s kitchen. “Not sure. Mal and I left before they checked it out.”
“That’s a shame,” Mary said. “I’m sure it was a big hit, though. You make the best cakes. And the best muffins, too.” She eyed them with interest.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said.
“You didn’t drop any on the floor? No stragglers I can rescue from the snack bin?”
“You wish. Don’t you have a display to finish setting up?”
Mary glanced at the clock, and then her eyes widened at the time. She quickly returned to plating the rest of the pastries, scurrying around in her rush to make sure the front of house was ready for customers.
I shook my head fondly and started boxing up the muffins to take to Elkin Lake later that day. It’d be better for my sanity if The Kid wasn’t there, but a stubborn, traitorous part of me couldn’t help but hope I’d get to see him again. Even if he wanted nothing to do with me, he sure was easy on the eyes—and surely it couldn’t hurt just to look…
2
Heath
I woke up and took a slow, deep breath, stretching as fully as I could on the sheets. Finally, after two weeks, I wasn’t in immediate pain upon waking. My ribs were still a little tender, aching if I moved too quickly in certain ways, but it was manageable.
It had only been two weeks since I’d watched Crave hold a gun to Jazz’s head—since I’d tackled Crave off Jazz and gotten my ass beaten for doing so.
I had no regrets, none at all, but it sure felt like more than two weeks past, though. Since then I’d been patched in as a full member of the club, and moved from my shitty, tiny apartment near campus into a room in the clubhouse. It felt real, now that I was living in the clubhouse. Plus, I had my own en-suite bathroom—and that was a very welcome change from my previous apartment.
I crawled out of bed and shuffled into said bathroom to examine my injuries. The dark navy fabric of my boxers made my already pale skin look even paler, and the nasty bruise on my ribs had faded to a broad green smudge, like I’d rolled shirtless in a freshly mown lawn. In a few more days, it’d be gone. I sighed and prodded it carefully, and was happy to find it hardly hurt at all. And even though I hadn’t been able to work out since the attack, there was still a hint of firm muscle over my ribs, instead of just skin and bones, like it used to be.
Training with Jazz had paid off. Not only had I learned more than a few moves—actual usable moves, not the stuff I’d learned when I was younger that didn’t work for people my size—I’d also toned up a little. I wasn’t big, by any means, and I was still the smallest guy in the club, easily. I had an inch on Jonah, but he was toned like a dancer, whereas I was just narrow all over.
So I couldn’t help doubting myself sometimes, even though I’d spent two years prospecting and gotten patched in earlier than I’d ever expected. Despite all the work I’d put in at Custom Ankhs and in club duties, part of me was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, halfway expecting Blade or Gunnar to reveal this was all a big joke, and I was never going to be strong enough or tough enough to be a real member of Hell’s Ankhor.
But I was. I’d proven myself, and I’d gotten my patch. Even if it felt like a dream—even if I knew my brothers would still find some way to laugh if they knew—I allowed myself to be proud of it.
I got dressed quickly and shrugged on my club leather before heading downstairs. It hung a little loose on me—it’d felt like a costume when I first got it, but now I liked the way it hung off my shoulders casually. It looked… cool. Downstairs, some of the guys were already up and making breakfast. Tex and Jazz were lingering near the stove, and Raven, Gunnar, and Blade were on the back porch with the door propped open to let in the cool summer morning breeze.
“Yo, Heath,” Jazz said as I descended the stairs. “Glad to see you’re finally up. How are you feeling?”
Jazz was like a brother to me now, and he’d taken it upon himself to monitor my healing with a laser focus. Every morning, he checked in, and this morning, he was scrambling what looked like a full dozen eggs.
I grinned at him as I poured myself a mug of coffee. “Pretty good. No pain.”
“That’s our Kid,” Tex said over his own mug of coffee. “Tough as nails.”
“Kid’s up?” Blade called from the porch. “Morning, Kid!”
“Morning,” I called back. Affection made my chest clench.
It had seemed counterintuitive, at first, for me to want to join Hell’s Ankhor. For one, it was filled with the kinds of guys that usually made me nervous: big, broad, boisterous, aggressive men who could easily snap me in half if they wanted to. I’d almost turned down the job at Custom Ankhs when I’d gotten it, about three years ago now, because Maverick’s sheer size had spooked me.
But he’d been so kind, and I’d been determined to get over some of my stupid hang-ups. I didn’t want my past to have that much power over me anymore, and the only way to do that was to face what I was afraid of. So I’d accepted the job, and what was supposed to be just a part-time job to hold me over while I was in school became so much more.
I’d always needed structure to thrive, and for a lot of my life, I hadn’t had much. But I performed my best when I knew exactly what was expected of me, and when I had others around me to lean on for support and instruction. School provided some of that, and the club filled in the gaps. Suddenly I went from floating aimlessly into a business degree, unsure of what I was going to do with it, to having a trajectory. A plan, a focus.
To having a family again.
“Oh, by the way, I’m supposed to tell you to hang around for a few minutes after breakfast instead of heading straight to Custom Ankhs. Blade wants to have a quick meeting with you.” Jazz glanced at the oven. “Aw, shit, Tex, will you get the toast out?”
Tex swore and hurried to pull the sheet pan of toast out of the oven, but all of it was basically blackened already, and the kitchen filled with the acrid smell of charred bread.
“A meeting?” I asked, tuning out the chaos. I wasn’t nervous, per se, but I didn’t love going into meetings blind. I preferred to have at least an idea of what was on the agenda. “What about?”
“Dunno, I’m just supposed to keep you from being your workaholic self and leaving for work early.” Jazz grimaced at Tex. “Any of it salvageable?”
“I’ll eat it,” I said, laughing. “Nothing wrong with a little smoky flavor.”
“Love your positive attitude,” Jazz deadpanned. “It’s all yours.”
As Tex fixed plates for the three of us, I couldn’t help but wonder what my dad and my brothers would think of me now. They’d always been so confident that I’d never be a real man, too sensitive and small and bookish—and yet here I was, a fully patched-in member of a motorcycle club. Against all odds.