Page 11 of Wolf.e

His gaze is hot, like a branding iron held too close to my skin, and he stares at me without regret, like he has the right to know exactly who I am and why I’m here.

I cross my leg over the other and force myself to break the trance he holds me in, doing my best to be casual and focus on the mural wall of the coffee shop, pulling my sunglasses down and willing my heart to stop beating so fast.

The group of them is close now and one of the other men speaks to him. I feel it pull his stare away. I breathe out deeply as he moves out of my direct sight. I can’t hear what they’re saying but there’s no question to me that the man I can’t keep my eyes off of is in charge. He commands everyone’s attention and as he talks to the other men at the vacant building next door. I can smell his leather and spice scent mixed with a hint of smoke. I eye the patch on his chest when he isn’t looking.

President.

The president’s voice is deep and steady. They spend the next few minutes talking to a man in a suit while I drink my coffee and pick at my blueberry muffin. They move as they talk about the exterior of the buildings. When I see that they’re heading inside, I stand and gather my purse to escape as fast as I can into the dress shop next door.

I blow out a breath and try my best to push the president’s startling presence from my mind. Any questions I have about him will probably always go unanswered because I’ll never ask them out loud.

He looks like the kind of dark mystery I would drown in.

I sift through the aisles and select some dresses for trying. As my breath returns to normal, I tell myself maybe I’m building these people up in my mind.

My parents didn’t force a sheltered life on me, but they definitely preyed on fear to keep me safe. Fear of God, fear of unsavory people, fear of my own choices. Probably to keep me away from Hounds of Hell members or people like them.

I don’t know why on Earth I do it, but I listen to Layla and go with a light blue dress, almost the color of my eyes. It’s off the shoulder with long billowy sleeves structured at the waist where it flairs outward and lands at my mid thigh. It’s shorter than I’d normally choose for my life in Atlanta but I feel sexy in it… and screw it, I have no one to appease but me. It’s just the kind of dress Evan would have said is “a little inappropriate” and something about that makes me want it even more. The best part is the back, it’s wide open to almost the center, and I hold my hair up in the mirror to see how it would look if I wear it up.

I select another for the rehearsal dinner, equally as short and revealing, but this time it’s pale yellow and strapless, it makes my breasts look amazing and has a chiffon-like feel to it and a high-low hemline.

I thank the cashier and internally cry over the fact that the two dresses cost over two hundred and fifty dollars I don’t really have. I remind myself that’s looking up, since I might have just scored a job and maybe can fix up my dad’s old truck to sell.

I push the front door open, stuffing the receipt into my purse, making a beeline for my car. I glance around but don’t see the bikes or the bikers that were talking beside the coffee shop anymore. It’s probably a good thing. As captivating as he was, something about his eyes shook me to my core. The last thing I need, for my safety and my heart rate, is to be on the radar of the Hounds of Hell president.

“You look hot! Wait—do you have a tan already?” Layla squeals as she looks over my yellow strapless dress I bought for the rehearsal when I knock on her door the following Friday evening.

“I’ve been doing yoga outside.” I shrug, forcing the carefree tone to my voice. And I’ve been wandering the halls of my parents’ barren mansion, getting through orientation at Crimson Homes after they called last Saturday and offered me the job, trying not to text Evan simply out of habit, and trying not to cry myself to sleep every night over my derailed future.

And more than I care to admit, I’ve been trying not to think of the haunting Hounds of Hell president who Layla told me was named Wolfe when we had lunch the other day. True story.

That’s his actual name.

Layla smiles back, she can’t know any of my struggles by my tone. I’m a pro after growing up with my parents.

I force a big happy smile and hug her. I don’t know what I expected when she gave me her address to an older part of town, but it was not this. This little pocket of hundred-year-old homes on sprawling properties has been totally revived. It looks like new families have moved in and everything is up kept and very Hallmark-ish. Layla's house is no exception. It’s a 1920’s Craftsman style house and has been fully renovated. I’m pleasantly surprised and remind myself this doesn’t look like the home of a criminal. Layla’s house is rustic and girly but somehow still smells like leather even though her fiancé isn’t here. I look over the photos that line the table in the living room. The man Layla is marrying looks like the other club members I’ve seen around town since I’ve been home. The only one I haven’t seen again is their club president. And for some reason, I’ve been looking every time I hear the tell-tale rumble of a Harley on Main. If anything, just to show myself he isn’t as captivating as I remember.

I smile at a photo of Layla and her fiancé where his arms are wrapped around her waist and he’s biting her earlobe. Layla’s man has her name tattooed under his left eye. It’s small but that’s commitment if I’ve ever seen it.

I toss my hair over my shoulder as I kick my heels off so I don’t mark up their shiny hardwood floor.

I’m determined to push down my worries about where I’m going and just try to have some fun this weekend.

I called the contractor Mr. Kennedy gave me this afternoon and he flat out told me I’m looking at thousands to fix the porch.

It’s just the type of problem I’m not prepared to worry about until Monday.

“Okay, we have time for one toast and then we need to go. I have to see what these boys did all day… God, I knew I never should’ve left Sean in charge of décor,” Layla says nervously.

Something else I learned over lunch the other day is that Layla’s fiancé has a real name. Shockingly, he wasn’t born as Ax.

“Shelly will help him and make sure it’s beautiful,” Chantel says.

Layla nods. “Yes, you’re right. Okay, one shot then we’ll go!” she calls out.

I can’t help but notice how beautiful she looks tonight in pale pink silk. Her hair is upswept and she has glittery pins holding it in place. It’s a shame her parents didn’t live long enough to see her wedding day; although, I know they wouldn’t approve of her marrying into the MC anyway, so maybe it’s for the best.

I take my shot and knock it back the way the other girls do as we all take a seat in Layla’s comfortable living room. The shot is surprisingly sweet and sugary. Chantel sets her shot glass down and asks me if I’ve ever been to a clubhouse before.

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