I scan around the rest of the room, and everyone else is having a good ole time, but one person, in particular, is staring right at me. She’s a clubwhore, but she sure as fuck doesn’t seem like one when you talk to her.
Nama’s been with the club for a couple years now. She came in barely nineteen years old and is Japanese. I don’t know too much about her backstory, but I know she left from the East coast to escape something. She wanted protection, and in exchange for her keeping us happy, we’ll keep her safe. She’s the type of woman you can just talk to. Her taking care of us or keeping us happy doesn’t necessarily mean sex, whereas, with the others, it typically does.
I motion with my head for Nama to follow me, and she rises from her seat on the couch. I have my fourth whiskey on the rocks in my hand, and I walk down the hallway toward my bedroom. Once I’m there, Nama starts at the end of the hallway while I’m entering the code to get access to my room. The door pops open, and I walk inside, holding the door open for Nama. She walks inside, and I allow the door to shut behind her.
“I can see the pain in your eyes tonight, Falcon. Is something troubling you?” When Nama speaks, it’s like she isn’t a twenty-one-year-old woman. It’s like she’s been around for hundreds of years.
“There’s just a lot on my mind, Nama,” I tell her, and she offers me a soft smile. She’s quiet for a few moments and then speaks up.
“You’re the Prez of the entire club. Isn’t there always a lot on your mind?” she questions with the same soft smile, and I even crack one.
I nod my head once. “Yeah, you’re right about that.” I find more times than not, I’m worrying about things within the club or even my brothers. Very recently, I haven’t had to worry about our enemies since they’ve been dealt with, but I know better than to relax. It’s in those moments when something comes up that’ll surprise you, and not in a good way.
I’ve come a long way since my PTSD diagnosis years ago, but as I go to my bed and sit on the edge of it, my hands begin to shake. They haven’t done this in so long, and I hate how the simplicity of my hands shaking makes it seem like I don’t have my shit together.
Nama comes over to the bed and sits beside me. She takes my hands in hers and lets out a loose breath. “Want to try it with me?”
I follow her in breath and then exhale at the same time she does. We do this a few times over and over again until my hands stop shaking. “Wow. I didn’t think that would work.”
Nama squeezes my hand. “I never thought it would work either until I gave it a go. I’m glad to have been some help.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it more than you know.”
Nama shakes her head. “No, you appreciate it, and I see every bit of your appreciation. You never, not even for a moment, let me doubt it. That’s one of the things I love about you, Falcon. You always make sure the people closest to you know that you care about them.”
“You’re too kind to me, Nama,” I tell her, and I mean it. Maybe she sees me in a different light, one I didn’t even know I had.
“I’m not kind unless I’m forced to be. I’m only being honest with you. What is it you’d like to do tonight?”
It doesn’t take me long to answer her. But first, I finish my whiskey. “I just want to not be alone.”
“Okay,” Nama says, not giving me an ounce of pushback for not fucking her. If it were Feisty, I’d never hear the end of it. Thank God for Nama. She’ll never be anything more than she is right now, but it’s all I need for her. One day she’ll make the perfect woman for a man, but that man isn’t me, and she knows it.
CHAPTER ONE
Hermoine
“Fluffy, white bullshit,” I mutter to myself, taking a rare spare moment to stare out of the large windows in the front of the shop. I wouldn’t say that I hate the offensive flakes that fell from the sky a few days ago, but I’m not a fan, either. Unless it’s Christmas Eve, and I’ve got a mug of spiked cocoa in my hands as I snuggle in front of a roaring fire—that’s the only acceptable time for snow. Not the beginning of February.
Turning away from the view, I sigh as I look around The Java Zone—the coffee shop I bought a few years back after scrimping and saving for years. It’s my pride and joy, but today has been absolute chaos since two of my girls called out sick with the flu, and I’ve barely had a moment to breathe, let alone tidy up the place. And believe me, it shows. With a quick glance around the shop to make sure no one needs my immediate attention, I set course for the machines along the back wall and begin tidying up around them, desperately trying to make them look more presentable. After this, I need to head out to the dining room and clear a few tables that patrons have already abandoned and maybe grab the broom from the back room for a quick sweep.
As I run through my to-do list again, the bell above the door jingles twice in rapid succession, and I suck in a breath as I peek over my shoulder. Two new customers are waiting at the register to place their orders, and I smile as I clock the man leading the line. Harold and his wife, Maisy, have been regular customers since the day I opened the place four years ago, coming in every day to enjoy an afternoon cup of coffee and spend a little time together. Maisy once told me it was their secret to a long, happy relationship—setting aside special time for each other—and that she looked forward to their coffee date every single day.
Since both sets of my own grandparents passed away before I was even born, I kind of adopted the couple and looked forward to their visits each day. Maisy was a firecracker of a woman, even in her old age, and I admired the way she commanded respect from people with just a look. And watching Harold look at his wife like he was still a young man, freshly in love with the woman in front of him instead of the sixty-eight-year-old guy the rest of the world saw made me smile every single time.
Unfortunately, we lost Maisy a few months back, and Harold was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s just a few weeks later, so his visits have become more sporadic, but I know he still tries to make it in at least a couple of times a week.
“Afternoon, old man,” I call, walking up to the cash register with a smile on my face, and Harold wags a finger at me despite the grin he’s fighting.
“Now, don’t you start with me, young lady.”
I feign ignorance, placing a hand on my chest. “Me? I was just saying hello.”
“If you think I’m buying that act for one minute, Hermoine,” he says before slowly tapping the side of his temple, “then you may be the one losing your senses.”
“Just trying to keep you sharp, Harold,” I tell him, flashing him a wink. “You know what you want today?”
His gaze darts to the menu board above my head. “Hmm, let’s see . . .”
With a grin, I lean against one of the display cases that hold assorted pastries and wait for him to make up his mind. Harold is a creature of habit in some ways, but he likes to switch it up when it comes to his coffee orders and try new things. The customer behind Harold lets out an exaggerated sigh of annoyance, but I ignore him. The last thing Harold needs is to feel rushed because it could cause him to have an episode, and I don’t want that.