He hasn’t mentioned the house again; I am still on birth control and we still live in the clubhouse.
I grab my bag, take a deep breath, and step inside.
The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into the wood, burned-out cigarettes, sweat, and something cloyingly sweet clinging to the air from cheap perfume.
The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising with each snore.
Music still thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody, as if they didn’t party enough last night and they just had to keep it going. Or someone passed out before turning off the music.
Down the hallway, a door bangs against the plaster. A woman’s laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall.
Two brothers, only one of whom I recognize, stand near the kitchen, talking over a half-empty bottle.
“The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities,” one of themsays, dragging on a cigarette. “You don’t bring club girls to your room. That’s for ol’ ladies.”
I love how they think that means something, that they came up with a rule that separates where you fuck your spouse from where you pass around one of the club girls.
I swallow my reaction and keep walking. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout.
This is the parthedoesn’t see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection, and family. This is exactly whatIsee when he talks about babies and families.
I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn’t disappear. It seeps through walls, through doors, and skin.
I keep my eyes down, but still see a brother fucking Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall.
This is where he wants to raise a family.
Our room is halfway down on the right. I pause long enough to unlock the door and step inside. It’s barely bigger than a college dorm.
The bed is pushed against the wall, with a dresser with a cracked mirror framed on top and a small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. That is pretty much it: no kitchen, no couch… no living space for us to exist separately from the club.
Just a mattress and the ache of everything we could be, but still aren’t.
Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter, shirtless, ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the one chair in the corner of the room. His boots lay kicked off near the wall.
His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He doesn’t look like he’s slept yet.
Declan looks up, and something in him softens. “There you are.”
His voice holds that quality that he only shares with me: lower, softer, and stripped of bravado.
He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waistbefore I can put my bag down, pulling me into him as if he’s anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck.
“Missed you,” he murmured.
I close my eyes, not because I’m melting, but because I’m tired… on so many levels. He smells of whiskey, smoke, and the inside of this building.
His hands move under my shirt, fingers rough and sure.
“Declan,” I start.
He hums against my skin in response.
“I just worked twelve hours in trauma.”
“Then let me take care of you.” His tone is confident in what he wants. Like this is simple, like what I want or need right now is secondary.
I step back, putting space between us, and his hands pause mid-motion.