Page 13 of Debt of My Soul

He’s one of them, you idiot.

The black vest, broody behavior, and the reaction from the locals in the shop all tell me the same thing. What it doesn’t tell me—I rub where his body collided with mine—is why my skin tingles even after he’s long gone.

Chapter 7

Him

Ihate new people coming into the town. Even more, I hate it has to be a beautiful woman. The guys have already started eyeing her.

Recognizing her from the bank, I couldn’t stop but stare at her in the coffee shop. Fear exploded in her gray eyes, and even with her light blond hair pulled over her shoulders, I saw them shake.

The town wasted no time informing her of us.

I snort. I’d expect nothing less.

I head to my motorcycle and gulp down the rest of my coffee, now tasting bitter on my tongue. I toss it into the nearby trash can.

Lifting my leg, I throw it over to straddle the leather seat, then pull on my gloves before my phone rings.

“Yeah.”

“Are you prepared for a drop today?”

I sigh, looking back over at the coffee shop while memories of the woman’s freckles that dust her nose and cheeks distract me. I stiffen, and my grip tightens on the handlebar.

“Ten p.m.,” I say, then hang up the phone.

Before I can rev my bike to life, my phone rings again. It’s Darrin.

“Yes, Boss.”

Chapter 8

Fleur

Adam has moved on to the master bathroom, having demolished it completely last week. He’s since added new drywall and shower backer. Took me all of three minutes to pick out the traditional white subway tile for the shower and the black hexagon for the floor.

Last week, I went to the thrift store again after River messaged me a picture of an antique dresser that needed some love. She told me her vision of making it into a bathroom vanity, and I immediately had to look at it.

“You could add a vessel sink on top, a round bowl, and you would only need to remove part of the drawers for plumbing,” she said.

River, I’ve come to find out, has an eye for design. Her mind thinks of some of the cleverest uses for the donations brought into Double Lucky’s.

Grateful isn’t a strong enough word to describe her late-night answers to my questions or her willingness to look over my photos of the deconstructed house to get her opinion.

Today is no exception. River walks into the bed-and-breakfast in a whirlwind to pick up a load of donations Mrs.Northgate has for her. Guests have left a wide variety of items behind: coats, hats, books—after a certain time unclaimed, they get donated to Double Lucky’s.

After I help her pack the bed of her truck, I take my break for lunch, and we sit on the back porch overlooking the property.

The ducks paddle across the well-manicured pond. And Mr. Northgate rides around on his side-by-side, digging up bushes that haven’t quite made it in the heat of the summer.

“So the motorcycle club that’s in town …” I let the words hang between us. I know from my brief interaction with Pam they arenota motorcycle club. But they dress like it. Act and intimidate like one, so it’s the easiest way to segue into getting some information.

River eyes me. She waits for the rest, but I don’t continue. Crossing her legs, she looks over the hedges of the back porch and toward the wooden deck extending into the water. Adirondack chairs sit nestled on the end. It seems like she picks one and stares at it.

“They aren’t a club. And they aren’t all bad. I know this town, especially Adam”—she rolls her eyes—“will say otherwise, but many of them got caught up with Darrin or hooked on his product.”

Her gaze flits up to the cloudy blue sky and her eyelids close briefly. With a trembling chin, she turns to me and swallows.

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