She cheers her excitement, joining in the next song as we finally make our way through town. Her voice fills the car, loud and off-key, and for a minute, the day feels lighter regardless of extra things added to my plate.
Before long, I’m pulling into the fenced-off lot of the clubhouse. Gravel crunches under my tires, pinging off the undercarriage far louder in the unusual quiet.
With most of the guys gone, it looks like a ghost town, not the regular lively spot. The main building’s closed up tight, and the shop that always has its bay doors open, music blaring, is too. It’s slightly unsettling.
“Can I stay in the car?”
“No, ma’am. Unbuckle and let’s go.”
She lets out a dramatic sigh only a kid can manage, but still obeys, scrambling out with her hand held up high for me to take.
Any other day, if the club was in town, I’d walk right in, head for the kitchen, and be back out without a second thought, but something makes me stop and knock. The place feels different without the usual tools whirring at the shop and laughter spilling out the doors from the guys cutting up. I doubt Vik had time to let whoever’s supposed to be here know I was heading over.
We wait, Haley’s small hand in mine, our arms swinging back and forth to give her something to do to get the energy she’s brimming with out somehow. Her ponytail brushes against my elbow every time she leans into me. She humsunder her breath, unable to stand the silence for more than a few seconds before needing to fill it.
Finally, the door pulls open, and Blaze gives me a nonchalant chin lift before he turns on his heels and disappears back to whatever he was doing. No question about why I’m here or if I need anything, but at least it wasn’t one of the new guys who might not recognize me off the bat.
The smell of old cigarette smoke deep in the walls greets us, the same as it was the first time I walked in here almost a decade ago.
“Come on, let’s go find that cupcake pan.”
Now that we’re inside, Haley runs ahead to the kitchen, as if she owns the place. But she would think so, considering she’s been coming here her entire life.
The clank of metal on metal hits my ears before I break through the old school saloon doors. The room is dimmer than usual, with only one overhead light on. It glints off the industrial metal appliances we use for big cookouts and gatherings.
“Find it?”
“Not yet! You’re sure it’s here?”
“Yep, keep looking.”
I lean against the doorway and watch her dig through the cabinets with determined focus. Pots and pans rattle from her efforts, like she’s on a treasure hunt.
Just as I’m about to step in so we can get going, a thunderous pounding sounds from the front door. Their hard, impatient knocks boom through the whole building. Whoever it is seems intent on getting someone’s attention.
“Blaze!” I holler down the hall, pitching my voice over the steady beat behind me, but after a while, he doesn’t appear.
The assault against the front door continues, rattling the frame with every hit, and I really don’t want to open it. Thesound sets my nerves on edge. For all I know, it could be someone’s scorned hook-up.
A cat fight is the last thing I want to get into today.
This place sees enough drama without me volunteering for more. It just usually happens when the place is bustling during a Friday night rager.
“Hey, baby, stay here. I’ll be right back, okay?”
Haley gives me a double thumbs up and goes back to looking for the cupcake pan, this time digging through another cabinet at the back of the kitchen. I cringe at the clatter of the pots and lids as she rummages, completely unbothered by the unease flittering through my system.
I stomp down the narrow hall, my sandals sticking with every step against the filthy concrete. It’s eerily quiet, just my footsteps and that damn knocking.
Drawing in a deep breath, I do my own rendition against Blaze’s door—at least I think it’s his. All the doors down this hallway look the same. The scuffs and scratches in the wood from years of rough living are the only marks of character between them. No squeak of an old metal bedframe shifting or bootsteps sound from the other side.
“Blaze, open this damn door. Someone’s here, and I’m not about to fucking open it with the way they’re trying to bust in.”
Another stretch of quiet greets me. Typical. When I actually need the guy, he’s nowhere to be found. I huff and turn on my heels, irritation crawling up my spine. I’m not about to pound on every door, looking for him. There are too many lining the hall, and the basement has always given me the creeps.
All I wanted after a full day at work today was to go home and relax. I don’t know what I did to piss off the universe, but it’s definitely laughing at this turn of events.
I ignore the sound at the front door again. They’re still there. But their determination must be waning, because they only knock a couple of times before pausing a while. Then they start back up. It’s like they’re arguing with themselves about whether it’s worth it to keep trying.