Page 21 of Harley's Hex
It wasn’t the kind that came from sitting behind a wheel for too long. It was deeper—lonelier. The kind that hit him when he saw a couple sharing pie at a diner booth, or when a waitress smiled at him just a little too kindly before calling him “sweetheart.”
He’d had flings, sure. A few women here and there in the towns he passed through, but nothing that ever stuck. He wasn’t built for long-term—or so he’d convinced himself. Still, that little ache in his chest told him maybe he was just tired of driving alone.
The night was coming on fast when he saw the neon lights of a small roadside bar flicker in the distance. He hadn’t plannedto stop yet, but something told him he should. Maybe it was the fact that his coffee thermos was empty—or maybe he just wasn’t ready to crawl into the sleeper cab and be alone again.
He pulled his semi into the gravel lot, the crunch under his tires loud in the quiet of the night. The sign above the building read Savage Hell. It looked like the kind of place where the beer was cheap, and the locals didn’t take kindly to strangers, which sounded perfect to him.
He parked in the back of the lot, alongside a line of motorcycles that had him second-guessing what kind of place this really was. He was starting to worry that the possibilities of getting his coffee thermos refilled were slim to none. But his options were limited, so he decided to give it a shot anyway.
Inside, the smell of fried food and old wood hit him first. Loud music played on the bar’s sound system, and a few big, tattooed bikers sat hunched over the bar, nursing their drinks. The place had been decorated for Christmas with a tree in every corner of the bar. There were colored lights and silver and gold garland strewn across every bare surface, and a part of him couldn’t help his smile. The decorations were gaudy as hell, but they reminded him of the way that his mother used to decorate his childhood house at Christmas.
Beast made his way to an empty stool, nodding to the bartender—a woman with dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, her eyes sharp and watchful. “What’ll it be?” she asked.
“Coffee,” he said.
She arched a brow. “You sure you don’t want something stronger? You look like you’ve had a long haul.” Her assessment was spot on, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “You from around here?” she asked. He usually didn’t answer the whole “Where are you from?” question. It wasn’t anyone’s business, and honestly, he had no answer to give. He hadn’t had a home base for quite some time, and he really didn’t feel as though hisparents’ home was his. It wasn’t. His truck was his home, for better or worse.
“I’m always up for something stronger,” he admitted, offering a faint grin. “But I’ve still got a few miles left before I call it a night.”
She smiled at him, just a little, and poured him a cup of coffee. “Suit yourself. Name’s Belle, by the way.”
“Beast,” he said automatically.
Her brow furrowed. “That a name or a warning?” she teased.
“Guess it depends on who you ask,” he said. She laughed softly, the sound low and warm, and for the first time in a long time, Beast felt something shift inside him. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just the way her eyes lingered on him, curious and unafraid. Or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t had a warm, willing woman under him in quite some time.
But as he took that first sip of hot, bitter coffee and met her gaze across the counter, he couldn’t help but think—maybe this stop wasn’t just about caffeine.
“So, how did this place get the name Savage Hell?” he asked.
She nodded over to a big biker sitting in the back corner of the bar—it’s named after that guy,” she said. “His name is Savage, and he owns this place and is Prez of the Royal Bastards.” So his guess about it being a biker bar was correct. He had heard about the Royal Bastards. How could he not? They were in just about every state that he had traveled through, and the places that he stopped in weren’t usually top of the line. He’d been to quite a few biker bars, but there was something different about this one.
“Are you a member?” he asked. He didn’t know too much about bikers and their clubs. Hell, he was more of a lone wolf than part of a pack, and from what he did know, bikers liked to be part of their pack. He did better on his own—most of the time.But something about Christmas had him swimming in nostalgia that made him want more than lonely nights on the road.
Belle barked out her laugh, “Um, no,” she breathed. “I just work here. I am patching into the Bastards’ sister club—the Royal Harlots.”
“So, a separate club for men and women?” Beast asked.
“Yep—but it’s not like what you’re thinking,” she insisted.
“Oh, what am I thinking?” he asked. If she could read every dirty thought running through his head, she’d run off in the other direction.
She started her down, and after a few minutes, Belle seemed to give up and roll her eyes at him. “Um, never mind.” That was for the best, really. The less she saw inside of him, the better off they’d both be. “I have other customers. Just yell if you need anything else, Beast. The coffee’s on the house.” He started to protest, but she was already walking down to the other end of the bar, and he knew that it would be no use.
Beast lingered over his coffee, half-listening to the music while Belle worked her way around the bar. She moved around the bar as though she owned the place—steady and sure. With a quiet kind of confidence that came from dealing with too many rough men and too many long nights. Every so often, she’d glance his way, and he’d find himself watching the way her braid brushed against her shoulder when she turned her head.
He told himself it didn’t mean anything every time she gifted him with a glance. But he needed to remember that this bar was just another stop, and just another night. When he finally got up to head back out to his rig, there was a part of him that didn’t really want to go.
The cold night air hit him first, biting through his jacket as he crossed the gravel lot. His breath came out in puffs of white under the dim security light. He did a quick walk-around of the truck. It was a ritual of his, and when he found the slashed tires, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Two tires had been slashed clean through. He couldn’t pretend that it was a slow leak, or even a nail. It was definitely something done by a human who was probably wielding a knife, but the question was—why would someone target his truck? He wasn’t from around there. Hell, he was just passing through, so why slash his tires?
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself, crouching to get a better look. The cuts were deep—almost professional looking, almost. Someone wanted him to remain stuck in the small Alabama town, but why?
He stood there for a long moment, his jaw tight, scanning the dark edges of the lot for any signs of life. Nobody was out there now. Whoever slashed his tires was long gone by now. But he was stuck since his rig wasn’t moving anywhere until he could get new tires—and the shop in town was definitely closed for the weekend. Hell, as he drove through town earlier, everything in town seemed to be shut down, and the idea of being stuck in the little backwards town plain pissed him off.
Beast straightened, brushed his hands on his jeans, and turned back toward the bar. If he was going to be stuck for a few days, he was going to need to secure a place to stay because the last thing he wanted to do was sleep inside his truck cab if he had the choice between that and a nice, warm bed. Inside the bar, the air felt thicker now. There seemed to be more people, the music was louder, and the laughter didn’t quite reach the corners of the room. Belle spotted him the second he came back in, brow furrowing as he strode toward the far end of the counter, where a group of bikers sat clustered around a table.
