Page 15 of Claimed By The Club
Frost tosses him a printed chart. “We’re reworking supply orders. Sierra’s showing us how to tighten up our budget and maybe do some local promos.”
Viper whistles, scanning the page. “Sounds like a lot of spreadsheets.” A teasing grin appears on his lips, and he looks at me. “You’re turning us all into math nerds, aren’t you?”
I smile, a small laugh escaping. “Someone’s gotta do it. And it’s better than bleeding money.”
He steps closer, leaning a hip against the desk. “You need any help, you let me know. I’m a quick learner.” The way he says it, coupled with the playful spark in his eyes, sends a flicker of heat through my core.
I open my mouth to reply, but Knox enters, carrying a bulky binder. His hair is cropped short, and he’s built wiry—an accountant’s brain in a biker’s body. “You rang?”
Frost brings him up to speed, gesturing at the data on my laptop. I run Knox through the bullet points: different distributor, new marketing approach, an updated POS system if they can afford it. He peppers me with questions, occasionally snarky, but soon realizes I have answers for each.
By the end, he sighs. “So you’re saying if we invest in these changes, we’ll break even in a few months and maybe see real profit in six?”
I nod. “Roughly, yes. Provided we don’t get hammered by unexpected repairs. Plus, if we build an online presence, we can host special events or rides, bringing in more revenue.”
Viper exchanges a look with Frost, and I spot the faintest trace of optimism in his eyes. Knox hands me a folder with lastnight’s receipts, referencing some minor improvements. Then he mutters something about re-checking their ledger, stepping out with the binder still tucked under his arm.
Frost stands. “We’ll present this at the next church”—meaning their official club meeting—“and if the majority agrees, we’ll proceed.”
“Sounds good,” I reply, closing my laptop. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Viper helps gather the papers, and Frost heads off in the direction Knox went, presumably to finalize details. Once we’re alone, Viper lingers near the desk.
“You’ve been holed up in that safe house, crunching numbers day and night,” he says quietly. “You sure you’re getting any rest?”
A twinge of warmth blooms in my chest at his concern. “I’m hanging in there. There’s a lot to cover, and it keeps my mind off the threats.”
He nods. “I get it. But maybe take a break, get some fresh air, let your brain recharge.” He shrugs, that grin returning. “Heck, if you want a ride across the desert or a beer at Dolly’s bar, I can make that happen.”
My pulse quickens. I know I shouldn’t be encouraging any kind of flirtation, but the idea is tempting. The tension of running from debt collectors, plus the daily stress of proving myself to the MC, weighs heavily. A moment of normalcy—or as normal as it gets in this life—sounds amazing.
“I might take you up on that,” I answer, keeping my tone neutral, though inside I’m oddly excited. “After I finish inputting today’s numbers.”
He inclines his head, stepping close enough that I catch the faint smell of motor oil and warm leather. “Don’t work too hard. Life’s short.” Then he winks and strolls off, leaving me in the quiet office with a hammering heart.
The next severaldays fly by in a whirlwind of tasks. I juggle the bar’s finances, dabble in website development, and even design a quick social media strategy. Viper pops in occasionally with jokes or stories about the club’s crazier ventures, each time lingering a little too long, sending my thoughts spinning. Ghost keeps his distance, although I sense his presence whenever I pass by the main corridor or step outside. If he spots me, he gives a curt nod, eyes guarded.
Frost remains the steady anchor. He checks in daily, always calm, rarely revealing what he thinks. His quiet confidence is compelling, and I’d be lying if I said I never notice the way he commands a room.
One afternoon, I’m sitting at a small table near the lounge, double-checking inventory data on my laptop, when Marian appears. She’s in tight jeans, a black tank top, and a ponytail with purple streaks. A phoenix tattoo covers her neck, vibrant and eye-catching.
“Hey,” she says, pulling up a chair. “Saw you hunched over your computer. Figured you could use a break.”
I rub my nape. “I probably could. This place has me in full hustle mode.”
She smirks. “I like your hustle. Been a while since I’ve seen Viper so eager to help anyone with ‘boring paperwork.’” She does air quotes.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “He’s friendly, that’s all.”
Her smile widens. “Uh-huh. Just watch your step with that one. Viper’s a sweetheart, but he’s got a streak of mischief. He’s also fiercely protective once he cares about someone.”
I pick at the corner of my laptop, trying to appear unfazed. “I’m aware.”
Marian shifts, resting her elbows on the table. “The club’s noticing you’re serious about turning the bar around. Some of them were skeptical, but you’re winning them over.”
That comment both reassures and stresses me. “Good. I need them on my side if I’m going to stay here without constant suspicion.”
She nods, scanning the lounge where a few prospects mill around. “It’ll take time. We’ve been burned before. But you keep up the hard work, and eventually they’ll accept you as one of us.”
