“Why?”
“I imagine it’s because your mama taught you. Or maybe you paid attention in school.”
My frown deepens. “Huh?” She’s making no fucking sense.
“You asked why you could count. I—”
“Fuck, Scarlett, today is not the day for this. I asked why there are only two names on the list.”
“Oh, my bad. Well, that’s easy to answer. Because it’s Brody’s birthday this weekend and you gave everyone not working the okay to go away with him for the weekend. Remember that?” She cocks her head. “Remember the conversation you and I had about that where I told you that was a bad fucking idea?” She nods. “Yeah, me too. I remember that convo. It was one of my faves with you.”
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
I’m a man who can admit when he’s wrong, but fuck, that takes on a whole new level when Scarlett’s involved.
I eye her. “You finished?”
“Maybe.” When I work my jaw, she adds, “Yes, all finished.”
“You figure it out with the staff. Just make this happen, okay?”
She makes my morning for the second damn time when she nods and says, “I’m on it.”
I do my best not to track her body when she leaves the kitchen again but fail miserably. For some reason that I don’t have the brain capacity to figure out right now, my eyes are dedicated to Scarlett’s body in a way they haven’t been since I first met her. Back then, I found it hard to drag them from her, but once we started working together and I became closely acquainted with her moods and attitude, that stopped. Today, it’s like my eyes don’t even belong to me. They’ve got a life of their own and an agenda I’m not aware of.
That shit needs to end, and it needs to end now.
Scarlett is my employee and that’s all she’ll ever be to me.
More than anything, though, she’s so far from the kind of woman I’m into it’s not funny.
I might like my women to have some fire and grit, but Scarlett doesn’t just have fire; she is fire. The kind that burns and decimates. The kind no man needs to get close to. The kind I absolutely do not need in my life.
3
Scarlett
Thank God I didn’t drink much last night. Dealing with this break-in while hungover would be hell. As would dealing with Wilder in that state. I’ve had to do that a few times in the past and it wasn’t fun. It’s like he can sense weakness and isn’t afraid to use it against me. One needs to always be at the top of their game when with that man.
“How are you so alive?” Harlow grumbles when she joins me in the kitchen an hour after Wilder tasked me with figuring out our staffing problem. A problem I’ve almost sorted.
“I didn’t inhale that green shit you did last night.” She looks like death and smells like every cell in her body is made from booze. “Where are your kids?”
“Sharon has them today.”
I like her mother-in-law. Not as much as I like her mother, but almost. They’re women who don’t waste time on bullshit.
“So why aren’t you in bed sleeping off your hangover?”
“Scott asked me to come and help you guys.”
“He doesn’t know how hungover you are, does he?”
She arches a brow. “You seriously think I can keep anything from my husband?”
She’s got a point. He didn’t get to be a motorcycle club president by missing details all over the place. Scott Cole sees every damn thing.
“Right”—I grab a glass and flick the tap on—“you need to guzzle some water before you’ll be of any use to us.”
She takes the glass once I’ve filled it, her gaze dropping to the shirt I’m wearing. “Isn’t that Wilder’s shirt?” Her eyes meet mine again, flaring with interest I don’t want anything to do with. I know how Harlow’s mind works. I know it’s racing in the wrong direction.
“I spilled tea on mine. I borrowed his. End of story. Now, drink that water fast. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
“It’s been a hot minute since I worked with you. I forgot how bossy you are.”
It has been a while. Harlow had her son, Keaton, seven months ago and now has two kids under nineteen months; she doesn’t come in anywhere near as often as she did when I first started working for the club around the time she had Aurora.
“Hey, you two,” Chelsea says, coming into the kitchen, glammed to the max. Gunnar’s old lady wears shit for a casual catch-up that I’d wear to a fucking ball. Well, maybe a slight exaggeration, but still. I can never judge where she’s going or what she’s doing by what she’s wearing.
“Is Wilder finished with that dude?” I ask. I need to speak to him but don’t want to interrupt their conversation if they’re still talking.
“Liam?”
“Yeah, the tall guy who left his sense of humour at home.”
Chelsea smiles like she knows exactly where I’m coming from. “He’s pretty serious, isn’t he?”
“Pretty? More like serious on steroids.”
“They’re still talking.” Chelsea glances around the kitchen. “What have you got that I can eat? Gunnar dragged me out of the house before I got breakfast.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She frowns. “Huh?”
“You don’t eat before you spend all that time dressing and getting ready?” Who does that?
“It doesn’t take long to get ready.”
“I’m thinking your idea of not long and my idea of not long are vastly different. I’d be curled up dead of hunger on my bathroom floor if I got ready to that level before eating breakfast.”
Chelsea laughs. “I love you, Scarlett. Please tell me you have something I can eat. Anything.”
Yeah, no, she doesn’t love me. She barely knows me. If she did know me, she’d know I don’t have time for women who throw out “I love you” as casually as they throw out disposable coffee cups.
I look at Harlow, who’s fading like it’s three in the afternoon rather than ten in the morning. “Make yourself useful and feed Chelsea. I have to round up a few more staff to come in.”
Without waiting for a response, I exit the kitchen, glad to be alone again. It amazes me that I work where I work. With a team. Of people. Actual humans who I have to tolerate. But here I am, a year and a half in, still showing up each day.
Before I worked for Storm, I stayed off-grid, working markets, selling T-shirts. I worked for myself. Answered to no one. And was broke as fuck. Especially since my brother’s drug habit ate up most of my cash when I had to pay off his debts. Harlow literally saved me from living on the streets by giving me a job here.
She had to drag me kicking and screaming, though. I’m a stubborn bitch at the best of times, and I did not want a thing to do with the Storm MC. Bikers and me go way back, and not in a good way. I’ve discovered these ones aren’t too bad if you don’t get on their wrong side. Their old ladies are another thing, though. Way too fucking friendly and always trying to get me in on their shit. I mean, can’t a girl just be a girl without having to hang out with the squad? Why must we prove our girliness in that way? Jesus.