"I know you're someone who could use a little help. I can help. What else do I need to know?"
"I—"
"It's okay to accept help," he said, shrugging. "Doesn't mean anything. Doesn't say anything about you either."
He meant that.
There was nothing in his voice to suggest there was any insincerity to his words.
And he was right, wasn't he?
It was what I was always trying to hammer home with Shep. It was okay to need some assistance. It didn't make you weak. It didn't make those helping you resentful. We all needed a hand sometimes.
I guess I was so used to being that helping hand that it was really difficult to accept it from someone else. Even when I desperately needed it.
"Okay," I agreed, offering him a small smile. "I really appreciate it."
"Enough to brew me a fresh pot of coffee?" he asked, grabbing a menu.
"I don't know how you drink it even when it's fresh. I tried once and I swear it burned a hole in my throat."
"How do you survive an overnight without coffee?"
"Pure stubbornness," I declared, moving away to go deal with the snapping guy.
And let me tell you something.
This man, this strange, quiet, virtual stranger of a man, he sat at his booth all night, getting up anytime I emptied a garbage pail, and wordlessly took it outside for me. He drank too much coffee. He got up to take the bussing tray from me when it got full.
Then he waited until my shift was over, took out the last of the trash, and waited for me to get in my car.
The next night was more of the same.
The night after that, he came in a little later, but showed up.
He was there the night after that too.
But that was the night he'd informed me he had church the next night and would be later than usual, but to just let the trash pile up, that he would be in eventually.
I didn't think anything about it.
Until he showed up.
And I didn't have my big, burly, kind, and distractingly good-looking protector in the back booth.
Chapter Five
Malcolm
"Oh, damn," Hope said, mouth actually falling open as the front door opened.
It was move-in day for the newest prospects.
Rowe, of course.
But two others as well.
Including the man who'd made the normally so distracted Hope forget all about her steadying dinging phone.
Cary.
"He's old enough to be your father," Seth reminded her. "Actually, he might be older than your father."
"Have you seen guys our age?" she asked, giving him a raised-brow look. "Underwhelming. Him, though? There's whelming going on," she said, smiling at Seth's eye roll.
Cary was, as Seth said, older than the rest of us, and all the prospects. A lifelong biker who just got off of an eight-year stretch for aggravated assault only to find that his club had been all but obliterated by a rival, he had been on the lookout for a club that was growing. Which was what we were doing as my Uncle Reign and Fallon worked on diversifying the club as well as growing large enough to be able to take on any future threats coming our way.
Cary was tall and fit—likely thanks to the years with nothing to do but workout—covered in ink, with a square jaw covered in a beard, dark blue eyes, and mostly silver hair.
He moved in wearing a tight brown shirt, jeans, boots, and carrying one large duffle bag.
"Tell me he doesn't have one of those annoying nasally voices."
"You talking about me, love?" Cary asked, shooting her a knowing smirk as he moved into the seating area.
"She's a club princess," Fallon told Cary as he walked past, the quiet threat clear in his voice.
"Got it," Cary said, holding up his tattooed hands. "Shame," he added, shooting her a smirk. "Would have rocked your world..."
"Hope," she supplied when he trailed off.
"Hope," he repeated. "You need to answer that?" he asked, waving toward the phone that beeped in her lap three times in a row.
"Right," she said, shaking her head like she was shaking off her momentary infatuation with him, then getting back to her phone.
"Where are the others?" Cary asked, looking around.
"The other prospects, or the rest of the club?" Seth asked.
"Either. Both."
"Rowe is in the prospect room cleaning up," Seth supplied. "Dezi is..."
"Uncharacteristically early to the party, it seems," Dezi said, moving inside wearing, I shit you not, black jeans and a black leather jacket... with no shirt underneath.
Dezi was closer to our age with wavy brown hair that brushed his shoulders, a beard, brown eyes, and tattoos that covered just about every inch of skin below his chin.
Dezi blew in from seemingly nowhere a couple months before, making his intentions to prospect clear, but getting pushed away by my uncle who wasn't sure we wanted his particular brand of complications in the club.
Ultimately, though, it had been Fallon who championed his case, and since Reign intended to fully hand the reins over to Fallon eventually, he'd gone ahead and agreed.
While there was a hint of sophistication to Cary's rough look and history, Dezi was pure chaos.
The last time I'd seen him, he'd been in a bar fight over a fucking pool game. With three guys. One-handed. Because he refused to put down his bottle of whiskey.
It hadn't ended too well, but he'd gotten up off the ground with a smile, pouring the whiskey over his busted face.
"Old lady, CW, or princess?" Dezi asked, looking at Hope.
"What's a CW?" she asked, brows drawing together as he dropped down on the arm of the couch she was sitting on. Putting his boot-clad feet on the cushion, so he could fully face her.
"Clubwhore. But that's not very progressive of me, is it?"
"Do I look like a clubwhore?" Hope asked, waving down at her dark brown jeans, green tee, and combat boots. "Not a single easy access point."
"Fair point. And it seems like you're committed to your phone, not a guy here. So, you're a princess. Who is your pops?"
"Renny," she supplied, half paying attention.
"Ah, your pops isn't a fan of me."
"Does it have something to do with your clothing choices? Or lack thereof?"
"I spilled hot sauce all over it. Didn't want to make a bad impression," Dezi declared, smirking at Hope.
"And you thought half-nudity would make a better impression?"
"Well, have you seen all this?" he declared, waving toward his naked chest and stomach. Dezi was fit, but not super cut. He clearly hit the gym sometimes, but liked his hot-sauce-topped bad food and liquor. "So, what's your name, princess?"
"Hope."
"What? Look at this? It's fate," he declared, holding out his fist to her where he had the letters of the word "hope" tattooed across his fingers.
"Yeah? What's the other hand say?" she asked, smirking when he tried to tuck the hand away.
"Hey, no need to bring that into this," he said as she reached out to grab his hand, looking at his fingers.