Club presidents don’t lose their heads over women.
My grandfather was a patched member of the national club before he started the Ash Valley Hellborn Kings charter. My father took the gavel after him. When my father died, the members voted me in at twenty-four.
That was six years ago.
The MC is my only family now. No siblings. No mother. Just the club.
That’s why I need to put my brothers first. They’re all I have.
A president who is distracted gets his brothers killed.
I’m at the bar drinking coffee. Razor is across from me, cleaning his Glock with a rag, pieces spread across the bar top.
“Nitro’s quiet,” Razor says. “Too quiet.”
“He’s regrouping. Edge is dead, and we’ve got Bull.”
“And what about Bull?” Razor doesn’t look up from the Glock. “After days in the back room, he’s not talking.”
“He’ll talk.” I take a sip of coffee. “Or he won’t. We’ll use him as a bargaining chip when Nitro finally has a plan on how he wants to retaliate.”
“Or he’s already got a plan, and we’re sitting here with our dicks in our hands.”
“Then stop cleaning your fucking gun, and go find out,” I growl.
Razor slides the barrel back into place. Locks it. “I’ve got two guys watching the north road. Joker is running plates on anyone unfamiliar in town. But we need to talk about her.”
Every muscle in my body tightens. “No, we don’t.”
He puts both hands flat on the bar. “She can’t stay in that room forever. What’s your plan for her?”
I drain the coffee. Set the mug down hard enough that the guys flinch from across the room.
“She’s under my protection. That’s all anyone needs to know.”
Razor picks up his gun and walks away. He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t have the right to.
But he is right. I do need a plan for what to do with her.
I spend the rest of the morning in my office reviewing the inventory for the gun shipment arriving on Thursday. Route logistics. Reviewing payroll for the bar, the strip club, and the mechanic shop. Legitimate work that keeps my hands busy and my head off the woman two floors above me.
It lasts about an hour.
I come out for more coffee around noon and stop dead at the kitchen doorway.
Shelby is at the counter with her back to me. She’s wearing the t-shirt I gave her the first night, and it hangs past her thighs. My dick hardens thinking that she might not be wearing anything underneath. But when she shifts, I catch a glimpse of a pair of jean shorts from the bag of clothes I had one of the Old Ladies go pick out for her.
Her hair is down, brown and messy, curling against the collar of my shirt.
My shirt.
She’s making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Again. Even though I bought her groceries.
And she’s pressed against the counter like she’s trying to disappear into it—shoulders curled forward, elbows tucked, and taking up as little space as a human body can occupy.
Two of the sweetbutts are in the kitchen, too. One of them whispers to the other, and they both look at Shelby and then at me. I know what they’re thinking. They’ve been spreading their legs for whoever wants them for a while, and this girl walks in off the street and gets a private room and the Prez’s attention.
I stare at them until they shut the fuck up and find somewhere else to be. They’re not wrong about the attention. But they’ll never understand the difference between a woman you fuck and a woman who ruins you.