Page 36 of Charger

I get up off my stool, slapping a twenty down for Tequila. “I gotta get outta here. Clear my head and shit. I’ll see you later. And tell Mags I appreciate everything.”

I make a beeline for the door, but Tank is already on my heels. “Yo, brother, wait up. I know this chill bar about five miles out. We can go there. Haven’t been there yet, but the girls like it.”

Whatever, I just need to go somewhere. Somewhere the focus isn’t on me. It’s too much right now. “Lead the way.” I gesture with my hand toward the door then follow behind.

Our rides are parked along the strip of pavement. When I reach my bike, I swing my leg over my pride and joy then start her up. Nothing beats the open road and a Harley, especially this one.

After a little while of riding, we pull up to the small honky-tonk looking bar and park our bikes. The bar is set by itself on the outskirts of a highway—a bad location in my opinion. Not a safe one. Trees and woods tower from above. I straighten my cut as we both walk up to the door—the leather cut-off is a symbol of the club. It indicates where our loyalties lie, where we belong. Each member has one, showcasing our club patch and road name.

“I thought you said this place was chill. There’s a shit-ton of people here.”

Tank reaches up, scratching behind his head. “Yeah, well, last time I drove by, this place wasn’t as busy. But we’re here now, so fuck it. Let’s go in.”

The sign above the door reads: Fallen Star. A feeling immediately kicks me in my gut.

Fallen Star.

Tank looks back at me. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. It’s fine. Let’s go.”

When we step inside, I expect some country pop shit to be playing, but it’s not. “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey is rocking out in the background. We get some stares as we walk in, but I ignore them. It’s not uncommon. People see us and automatically think we’re trouble, judging us for being in a biker club. Because of what we wear, our tattoos. People will always judge.

We approach the bar, sitting our asses down on the tiny stools. You would think whoever owned this place would be generous enough to have seats that were semi comfortable.

There’s a guy to the left of us nursing his beer; he hasn’t stopped his glaring since we walked in. He doesn’t want to find out what happens if he keeps that up. I didn’t get the name Charger for no reason.

Tank strums his tattooed fingers along the wood-grained counter top. We wait for the hot-ass bartender to turn around and serve us. Her ass in those jeans is a fucking sin. And the way her jet-black hair is pulled into a high pony reminds me of her. This place is actually worse than being back at the clubhouse.

As I’m just about to tell Tank that we need to split, the pretty little bartender turns around and heads are way. She gets stopped by the jack-hole who was staring me down, and for some reason, my protective instincts go into overdrive. But she gives him a killer smile.

That smile. Wait, it can’t be... No, there’s no way it’s her.

She walks her perfect, familiar, petite body over to us. Tank says something to me about her, but I can’t hear him. I’m lost in a trance, lost to the woman in front of me.

“What can I get you gentlemen…?” Her words trail off as she notices me. Her whole body stills, and so does mine.

No, this isn’t happening. I know it can’t be her. There is no fucking way on God’s green earth that Julianna, that my Jules, is standing here right now. In front of me. Beads of sweat start trickling down my forehead as my heart is pounding out of control. Those eyes, I would remember those gorgeous big brown eyes anywhere.

Fuck Me.

FOURTEEN

Jules

“Get the fuck out and stay out!”

Joe throws out yet another intoxicated man from my bar. “You know, Joe, if you kick out every man who attempts to grab my ass, I think my bar is going to go out of business.”

He smirks, returning to his stool. “Jules, I’ve been sitting at your bar almost every day for the past year. You’re like a daughter to me, so don’t expect me to sit here and let some drunken idiot mistreat you.”

It’s true. Joe has been like another father to me ever since day one, when I opened the Fallen Star. He’s been sitting in the same spot at the bar, drinking the same beer for a year. “Well, as much as I appreciate it, maybe just back off a little. Besides, you know I can handle myself.”

“Oh, I know, honey, but that doesn’t mean you should have to.” He takes back his Miller in one big gulp.

“You’re a very sweet man.” I place my hand on top of his, giving him a thank you smile.

There’s a clunk at the end of the bar, where Lucy exhaustedly plumps down her tray. “Hey, Luc, what do you need?”

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