Page 14 of Claimed By The Club
As I wash up, I replay the confrontation with those thugs. Their attitude suggests they’re low-level. The real threat likely stands behind them—a boss who knows how to exploit fear. Sierra’s presence might fast-track a showdown none of us wanted, but the club agreed to protect her. That puts me on the front lines, whether I trust her or not.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I sit on the edge of my bed. My phone buzzes. Checking the screen, I see a text from Frost: Heard about the visitors. Good job. We’ll talk in the morning.
I type a short reply, ‘understood’, then set it aside. Exhaustion tugs at me, but my mind hums. Sierra’s face floats to the front of my thoughts: the unwavering look in her eyes when she thanked me, her posture weighed down by stress, the faint tremor in her voice when she realized those men had already found her. She’s at risk, and so are we. Yet I can’t ignore the pull that edges into my chest whenever I’m near her.
I yank the blanket over my legs, staring at the ceiling. Sleep isn’t going to come easily tonight. My protective instincts are flaring even as my better judgment screams caution. Maybe I can’t trust her fully, but I won’t stand by and let goons terrorize a woman under our roof. That’s not how I’m built.
Tomorrow we’ll plan our next steps. If the Iron Reapers or their cronies decide to push harder, we’ll be ready. I’ll make sure Sierra remains under our watch until she settles her debt or finds a way to neutralize the threat. And I’ll keep my guard up.
But as the minutes tick by and my eyes grow heavy, one thought persists: her gratitude, tinged with vulnerability, stirs something in me I haven’t felt in a long time. I tell myself it’s just duty, a reflex to shield someone in danger. Still, I can’t help but wonder if it runs deeper.
Eventually, fatigue wins. My breathing slows, and I slip into a restless half-dream, images swirling of desert roads, shadowy figures, and Sierra’s pleading gaze. Even in sleep, I stay prepared for the worst—my senses primed for any noise outside my door.
I’ll keep my distance, but if harm comes knocking, I’ll be the first to answer.
5
SIERRA
Istir a fresh cup of coffee in the tiny kitchen of the safe house, half-awake even though it’s nearly noon. The past few days have been a blur—meetings with Frost to strategize, long hours spent poring over the financial records for Bluelight Bar, phone calls to old contacts who might invest, and constant worry about lurking threats. My phone stays glued to my side at all times.
The MC hammered out an agreement once they realized I wasn’t bluffing about my business skills. In exchange for protection—meaning they run off anyone connected to the Iron Reapers sniffing around—I dive into their legitimate ventures. Since I arrived, I’ve been analyzing every receipt, inventory list, marketing snippet, and budget item that Knox, their treasurer, can toss my way.
I lean against the narrow counter, letting the coffee’s aroma ground me. The tension from two nights ago—when those men tried to confront me—still lingers. Ghost chased them off, but the memory of nearly being cornered on MC property rattles me. At least I have real backup now.
I finish my drink and grab my laptop case. Out the window, I can see sunlight beating down on the dusty yard. Axle, their road captain, is tinkering with a bike tire near the fence. He gives me a respectful nod as I step out onto the porch. It’s scorching today, the sky cloudless and harsh. My sandals crunch on the dirt path that leads to the clubhouse.
Inside, the temperature drops a few degrees, thanks to a pair of noisy AC units. Faded posters of past bike rallies decorate the walls, along with group photos of club members. Most frames look old; I guess the memories matter more than fancy décor. I walk through the front lounge, catching glimpses of worn couches, a pool table, and half-filled ashtrays. There’s a lived-in, communal vibe that’s grown oddly comforting.
A door squeaks open across the room, and Frost appears, setting a sheaf of papers on a table. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his short dark hair swept back in a near-military style. An air of calm authority surrounds him, and I can’t help noticing the subtle tension in his jaw whenever business talk surfaces.
“Morning,” I say, voice echoing in the stillness.
He glances up. “Afternoon, actually.” A faint twitch of amusement flits across his otherwise controlled expression. “You get any rest?”
I shrug. “A little. I’ve been combing through your bar’s invoices. The profit margins are razor-thin, mostly because of inefficient supply orders and minimal marketing.”
Frost nods. “That’s what we’ve suspected for a while. Knox can only do so much with outdated systems.” He beckons me go with him down the hall, into a small office that’s more practical than decorative. There’s a simple desk, two wooden chairs, and an old computer.
We settle in, and I open my laptop, launching a spreadsheet. “It might help if I walk you through each area where we can cut costs or boost revenue. Then we’ll talk expansion ideas.”
He listens intently as I explain how certain distributors overcharge or how the bar could partner with local events. I toss out the possibility of hosting weekly live music nights and building an online presence, which might attract traveling bikers or anyone passing through.
His gaze flicks to the screen, then back to me. “You sure it’s worth the investment? This town isn’t exactly a tourist hotspot.”
I click to another tab, revealing projected growth figures. “It might not be a dream destination, but with the right angle—like a well-reviewed, biker-friendly bar near the desert highways—it could gain traction. You’ve got loyal patrons who trust Renegade Cross. That brand loyalty can expand.”
He leans back, crossing his arms. “If you’re certain, we’ll run it by the club. The last thing we want is to sink money into a dead-end.”
A moment passes as our eyes lock. There’s a subtle intensity that makes my stomach tighten. Ever since I began working closely with Frost, I’ve noticed a charged undercurrent between us—like we’re in a constant battle of wits, neither fully yielding. I clear my throat, focusing on the spreadsheet.
He draws in a measured breath. “Let’s get Knox and Viper in here to talk numbers.”
My heart does a slight flip at the mention of Viper. Out of the three main guys, he’s the biggest flirt, and I’d be lying if I said I’m immune to his charm. The same goes for Ghost, whose quiet presence stirs unexpected warmth in me, and Frost himself, who radiates authority. It’s not logical for me to be attracted to all three, but logic doesn’t seem to apply here.
Frost taps a text into his phone, presumably calling the others. I lean forward, sifting through printouts, determined to appear professional, not flustered by the swirl of conflicting emotions.
Within minutes, Viper shows up in the doorway, tapping lightly on the frame. “Knox is on his way.” He scrapes fingers through his sandy-blond hair, those bright green eyes full of energy. A serpent tattoo coils around his bicep, and I can’t help noticing the ripple of muscle beneath it. “What’s the verdict?”
