Page 10 of Heart of Stone
“Brandi—with an ‘i.’”
I snort, beer burning my nostrils as I cough. “You’re shitting me.”
It was a long running joke that I’d called my first bike Brandi. Loved that thing before it got wrecked after a jackass backed into it in a parking lot.
Fuck, I missed that bike.
Duck thumps me on the back. “No shit. Girl goes by Andi, though. With an ‘i.’”
I glance back across the street, considering her. She sleeps, illuminated by a small light on her porch. Her head slumps to one side, her hands resting in her lap. Her ponytail has slipped, letting dark brown-red hair fall over her shoulder and down herbreast. She wears a simple white shirt with dark-wash jeans, but that shirt is working harder than the devil to highlight her assets.
Curves. Curves for fucking days. An abundance of them that—had we met in any other circumstance—would have had me working to get her under me.
But I have new priorities now. Ones that don’t include getting involved with a woman and her kids.
“Nice girl,” Duck says offhandedly. “If you like curves, she’s a looker, that’s for sure.”
“No man?”
He shakes his head. “Never once got a hint of one sniffing around. Though the guys at the shop have tried.” He chuckles. “She puts them in their place quick smart.”
“She into girls?”
“Doubt it. Doesn’t check out the girls like she does some of the guys when they wander in. Never does a goddamn thing about it, though. Says a lot about her that she doesn’t shit where she eats.”
I lean against the porch railing. “You like her.”
He nods. “Thought about bringing her into the club for a while. She’d make someone a good old lady. Smart, organized, helpful, knows how to keep her mouth shut. But she’s cold—like ice. Puts up a wall to anyone trying to get close.” He makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. “Shame. I expect it’ll be a while before any man bothers to see if she’s worth the defrost.”
“And is she?”
Duck chuckles. “You interested?”
I nurse my beer, watching the woman sleep as I dissect Duck’s assessment of her. Good worker, clean, dedicated, responsible.
Might be a problem.
“Not in that way.” I glance at him. “How responsible we talking?”
He strokes his beard, considering. “I see what you’re getting at, and you may be right. Too responsible. She hears or sees something—especially with those kids in the house—she might call it in, get us on someone’s radar.”
The club chose this location for a reason. The area is quiet, filled with dilapidated housing and tenants who ignore any after-dark dealings.
The house itself has a small frontage—but some previous owner blew out the back end, adding a bunch of rooms and space. The backyard stretches the length of the block, complete with a carriage house we’d turned in the Chapel, a barn we’d converted into barracks for the prospects and visiting members, and an additional set of sheds. It had been a farmhouse back in the day before the city sprang up around it. After the financial crash in the early ’00s, our small town rapidly decayed as families defaulted and the local industry collapsed.
We’re just beginning to pull ourselves out of the mess.
It was a perk–or curse, depending on the day–of the job that I was tasked with protecting the club house, chapel and grounds. Free rent was always welcome, the headaches that came with cocky club members not so much.
Duck clucks his tongue. “Though, in fairness to her, she’s not said boo about the stuff she sees at the garage.”
As sergeant-at-arms, it’s my responsibility to consider any and all threats to the club—and neutralize them before they become an issue.
And little Ms. Responsibility has just become a threat I need to handle.
4
ANDI
