Page 4 of Thor

For the next, painful hour, I rebuilt the quarterly tax documents from scratch, cross-referencing receipts and bank statements, correcting errors, and creating a system simple enough that even the numerically-challenged receptionist could follow. The work absorbed me completely, the familiar dance of debits and credits soothing my nerves.

I barely noticed Lena coming back until she leaned against the desk.

"You get this look when you're working," she said. "Like nothing else exists."

I blinked, surfacing from the number-trance. "Sorry. Almost done."

"No rush. But . . . " She hesitated. "Duke’s on his way. The Prez. He heard you were around. He wants to go over some investment options while you're here. If you're up for it?"

My stomach tightened. Duke Carson. President of the Heavy Kings. I'd never met him, only heard stories—some that made him sound like a ruthless outlaw, others that painted him as a community protector. Either way, he wasn't someone you said no to.

"Of course," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Where?"

"King's Tavern. It's just a few blocks up."

I saved my work and packed up my laptop, mentally switching gears from tax accountant to . . . whatever I was when I worked with the MC. Financial consultant to outlaws? The thought should have terrified me more than it did.

We walked the three blocks in comfortable silence, the evening air cool against my face. The tavern appeared ahead, a large brick building with "KING'S TAVERN" in illuminated letters above the entrance. A row of motorcycles lined the front, chrome gleaming under the streetlights like sentries standing guard.

"Don't look so nervous," Lena nudged me. "They don't bite. Well, most don't."

Her attempt at humor didn't help. I smoothed my blouse and straightened my posture as we approached the door. The sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and classic rock spilled out when Lena pulled it open.

The interior was dimly lit, with dark wood paneling and motorcycle memorabilia covering the walls. Men in leather cuts emblazoned with the Heavy Kings crown patch dominated the space – some playing pool, others gathered around tables with beers, a few at the bar. A few women mingled among them, equally comfortable in this rough environment.

Every head turned as we entered. I felt their curious stares—some dismissive, others evaluating, all noting my obvious outsider status. My designer jeans and carefully styled hair screamed "not from around here" louder than any words could.

Lena guided me through the crowd, nodding greetings to several men who called her name. I kept my eyes forward, trying to project confidence I didn't feel, until a massive figure at the bar caught my peripheral vision.

I couldn't help but look. He stood head and shoulders above the others – tall, broad-shouldered, with long blond hair tied back from his face. A thick beard framed strong features, and intricate tattoos covered his forearms where he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves. His cut identified him as an officer of the club from the patches I could see.

Then he turned, and his ice-blue eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. Those eyes assessed me in an instant—sizing me up, seeing through me in a way that made me feel both exposed and strangely seen.

Thor Eriksson. The Viking. It had to be. Lena had mentioned him before– the club's enforcer, Sergeant at Arms, the one even other members approached with caution.

I looked away first, my cheeks burning, heart pounding with a confusing mixture of intimidation and something else—an unmistakable, unwelcome attraction that I immediately tried to squash. Men like him were dangerous in every possible way.

"Duke's in the back," Lena whispered, pulling me toward a hallway.

I followed, but I could still feel those blue eyes tracking me across the room, leaving a trail of heat down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature in the tavern.

Duke Carson didn't match the image I'd constructed in my head. I'd expected someone hulking and intimidating like the men in the bar, but the MC president who rose to greet me was all controlled power—tall and built, yes, but with an unexpected grace and intelligence in his steel-blue eyes. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, and when he extended his hand, I noticed the heavy silver rings adorning his fingers, each one looking like it could double as a weapon.

"Ms. Wright," he said, his voice deeper than I expected. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. Lena speaks highly of your skills."

The back office of King's Tavern was surprisingly well-appointed—a long conference table of polished wood, comfortable leather chairs, and walls lined with framed photographs of motorcycles and club members through the years. A large Heavy Kings emblem dominated one wall.

"Happy to help," I replied, proud that my voice didn't betray my nerves. I set my laptop bag on the table and pulled out folders of financial documents I'd prepared. "Lena mentioned investment opportunities?"

Duke gestured for me to sit. "The club has certain . . . profits . . . that need legitimate channels."

I understood immediately. Money laundering, though neither of us would say those words aloud. My heart beat faster, but I kept my expression neutral. This crossed a line I'd been careful to avoid, but the envelope Duke slid across the table caught my attention.

"A retainer," he explained. "For your continued discretion and expertise."

I didn't open it, but it wasthick. Thick enough to pay for months of Amy’s treatment.

"Well. I can think of several investment options that offer reasonable returns without excessive scrutiny," I said. Professional Mandy took over. “Lucky I brought my laptop. I can talk you through some options. Now, I know that you own a few businesses, but have you considered rental properties?”

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