Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Pride. The realization hits me as clearly as sugar does my blood. The warmth I feel is pride.
“Well he’s found his best investment yet.” She reaches over to squeeze my knee. “From scholarship girl to business mogul. You're building something real, Mel. Something that's all yours.”
Her words settle on me. All mine. Something no one can take away.
“After everything…” she goes on, her voice softening. “You know. The shit from Uni. Most people would've crumbled, but you, you turned that shit into pastries.”
My throat constricts. We never talk directly about what happened. Not the assault. Not the beating. Nothing. But Phoebe knows. She's the only one who knows every detail, because she was there through it all, from a distance.
“I'm proud of you,” she says, the words simple but heavy. “Like, genuinely in awe sometimes.”
“Stop,” I mutter, uncomfortable with the spotlight on my past, even if it's just the two of us in the car.
“I'm serious.” She turns the music down as we approach the clubhouse, gravel crunching beneath the tires and the low hum of her racer engine. Living up to her nickname Speedy is a full-time job. “You're the strongest person I know.”
I don't feel strong. Most days I feel like I'm held together with spite and sugar.
Phoebe parks between two massive motorbikes and kills the engine. Before opening her door, she turns to me with a mischievous smile. “By the way, where did you disappear to last night anyway? One minute you were downing tequila, the next, poof. Gone.”
“Mmmm…” I shrug, even though Phoebe can read every inch of me. “Can't remember?”
The clubhouse is an industrial-sized barn retrofitted with reinforced steel doors and blacked-out windows. No amount of string lights or occasional cookouts can soften its fortress-like appearance. Woodsman's Own territory, through and through.
“Remember planting these?” I touch the rough bark of the nearest pine as we walk. “Blake made us dig holes for eight hours straight.”
“Worth it,” Phoebe laughs. “They're the only thing that makes this concrete jungle look less like a prison yard.”
She's not wrong. We planted them all crooked and out of place, but you wouldn’t be able to tell, now that they stretch over the parking lot of the bikes.
There are no warning signs posted, no “Private Property” or “Keep Out” notices. They're unnecessary. One glance at this place tells you everything you need. This isn't for civilians. The message is written in every fortified inch, every security camera, every watchful gaze that tracks visitors from the moment they approach, or, on the wrong night, the odd stray flying bullet.
Phoebe chuckles, shoving so hard I almost fly into a shrub. “Did my classy bestie fuck a biker?.”
“Fuck you,” I whisper, flipping her off as our heels become liabilities with every step over gravel.
She sighs. “His name is Hella, if you're referring to the man you eye-fucked last night, which I'm praying that you're not. I'm always kept out of club business, especially since dad, but from what I do know, the Northland chapter are on a whole different playing field.”
I inhale each word, but stay quiet. Phoebe is an open book. It's how we became such good friends to begin with.
“Not sure what you'd expect, what with them being the mother charter, but I'm serious, Melissa. Whatever...” Her hands fly out over her shoulder. “Deep-rooted therapy you're trying this month, sex with one of them should not be on that list.”
Zane's voice carries across the gravel before we even reach the threshold of heavy steel doors. His words blur together, something about territory and safety, but the tone is unmistakable. Business.
“Shit,” Phoebe mutters. “He's already started.”
We slip inside, staying close to the back wall. Leather, motor oil, and that particular brand of cigarettes fills the air. Home, in its own fucked-up way.
Only this time it’s packed with more bodies than usual. Most of the crowd clusters around the small stripper stage where Zane is standing, his cut worn, even under the overhead lights. To our right, the pool tables sit abandoned, cue sticks scattered across green felt like someone left mid-game. The bar runs along the far wall, bottles catching light.
My eyes land on the staircase to the second floor. Those steps carry history. Phoebe and I scaling them as giggling kids, later as stumbling drunk teenagers, and finally as an adult, when the world had broken me and I needed those fragments of the past to remember anything good existed. Even in their current state, shitty, with several treads missing, those stairs hold more than just wood and nails.
Phoebe nudges me toward an empty spot near the wall, where we can blend into the shadows and pretend we've been here all along.
When we know we’re good and not caught, Phoebe leans into me. “Which one? Just to be sure I have it right and I'll tell you how fucked you really are.”