Page 5 of Seven

By the time Memphis turned and walked back inside, things had already settled back down, and everyone’s attention had returned to the dancers on the various stages. Harley had made her way back over to the bar and looked completely unfazed. I wasn’t surprised. Our girls knew we had their backs and wouldn’t let anyone fuck with them. For us, it was a blessing and a curse.

I walked over to Memphis as he dusted off his hands like he’d just taken out the trash. “You good?”

“Better now.” He gave me a smirk. “That asshole has been pushing it for months.”

Trouble was standard at the Vault.

It was expected with the booze, drugs, and the temptation that came with so many scantily dressed or outright naked women. We wouldn’t be the club we were if it wasn’t for Memphis and the other brothers. They took care of the issues and took care of them swiftly—which helped keep the cops at bay.

I gave Memphis a nod as I told him, “Appreciate you taking care of him.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Well, it could’ve gotten messy.”

“It was messy.” Memphis’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “You might wanna talk to Harley before her mouth gets her into more trouble than she can handle.”

I nodded and started over to her. The second she spotted me coming toward her, she glanced up at the ceiling and shook her head. She knew why I was coming, and I could tell by her expression she was going to give me hell about it. Damn. It was going to be another long night.

2

TALLIE

I’d finally done it.

After years of blood, sweat, and tears—lots and lots of tears, I’d finally opened my very own art studio. It wasn’t much, just a nine-hundred-square-foot room with exposed brick and charm for days. Twinkling lights hung from the ceiling, and a heavy scent of paint and clay was lingering in the air.

Sunlight poured through the large front window and highlighted the various shelves. I smiled, knowing that this was where my vases and bowls would soon sit. I couldn’t wait. My shop was on the main strip in Hot Springs. It was a known hot spot for tourists, and I hoped the rustic ambiance of my quaint little shop would draw them in.

I just stood there, taking it all in. I was relishing in the feeling of pride and excitement when Ford, my seven-year-old son, came storming in from the back room. He was sporting his infamous pout, and his dark curls bounced with every exaggerated stomp. He bounded over to me with his favorite stuffed dinosaur clutched to his chest and whined, “I wanna go home.”

“Oh, come on, Ford. We just got here.”

“Uh-uh.” His brows furrowed. “We’ve been here forever, and there’s nothing to do.”

“What about your iPad or those coloring books I bought?”

“Those are for babies, Mom.” I laughed softly, glancing at the array of clay creations that lined the shelves. “Okay, how about this? You can help me make something. I’ll show you how to use the wheel, and we can make a bowl together. It’ll be our special project.”

"Can I make itreallybig?” A hopeful smile spread across his face as he asked, “Like, big enough for a bear?"

"How about big enough for a really hungry cat?"

“Does that mean we can get a cat?”

“Oh, we have a lot more unpacking to do before we can even think about getting a pet.”

“What about after we finish unpacking?”

“Maybe. But only if you promise to help me take care of it.”

“Promise!”

“Okay, deal," I said, holding out my pinky.

“Deal.”

He hooked his tiny finger around mine, sealing our pact.

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