Page 84 of Manic

I force myself to walk away, heading for the main room of the clubhouse.

The familiar sights and sounds wash over me—the low hum of conversation, the crack of pool balls, the faint strains of rock music from the Bluetooth speakers.

It's home, has been for years.

I make my way to the bar, nodding at the few brothers scattered around.

Bodul is behind the counter, polishing glasses with a rag.

He looks up as I approach, a knowing glint in his eye.

"The old lady kick you out of the kitchen?" he asks, reaching for a bottle of whiskey.

I grunt, sliding onto a stool. "Something like that."

He pours a generous measure into a glass and slides it across to me. "You look like you need one."

I knock it back in one swallow, relishing the burn. "Thanks, brother."

Bodul leans on the bar, his voice lowering. "How's she holding up?"

I shrug, tracing patterns in the condensation on the bar top. "As well as can be expected. She's tough, you know?"

He nods, refilling my glass. "That she is. And your kid?"

A smile tugs at my lips despite myself. "Tindra's good. She's strong, just like her mother."

"Gets that after the both of you," he says with a wink.

I snort. "God, I hope not. She deserves better than that."

Suddenly, there’s a loud commotion coming from the kitchen.

I slide off my barstool and head inside, making sure the ladies are okay.

Once I’m in the doorway, I see everything is fine, besides a dropped pile of dishes. “You all good in here?”

Meghan looks up from where she kneels on the ground, picking up what she dropped. “Yeah, just me being clumsy.”

Starla makes some sort of remark that I don’t hear, and Meghan laughs at it like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

For a moment, I'm struck by how normal it all seems—how dangerously close to the life I've started to imagine for us.

My stomach growls. “Fuck, it smells so good.”

Starla beams, always proud of her cooking. "It’s going to be a keeper, that’s for damn sure. Oh, by the way," she adds, her tone casual, "are you excited about Meghan going back to work tomorrow?"

The question catches me off guard.

I blink, looking at Meghan. "You're going back to work tomorrow?"

Meghan nods, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Yeah, I was going to tell you later. Your dad said the prospects will be there to keep an eye on things."

I feel a flare of irritation—both at Meghan for not telling me sooner, and at my father for making decisions without consulting me. "Prospects? That's not good enough."

Meghan sighs, a hint of exhaustion creeping into her voice. "Tor, don't you think you're being a little dramatic? It's just work. The prospects will be right there if anything happens, which it won't."

I step closer, lowering my voice. "Meghan, your father is still out there. We can't take any chances."

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