Page 16 of Cold as Stone
The door opens, and they walk in like they own the place. Which, in a way, I suppose they do. This is their territory, their town, their bar regardless of whose name is on the deed.
The lead guy looks a little like Santa Claus with his beer gut, white hair, ajd gray-white beard. That’s Duck, I remember him from the times he visited Lee’s dad, Stone, at their house. Behind him are guys I went to school with, Cash and Mack, both looking like the very definition of “dangerous bikers.” And bringing up the rear, moving with that same effortless, cocky swagger I remember all too well, is Lee.
I’m not emotionally, mentally or physically prepared to see him again.
Especially not after last night.
I close my eyes, sucking in a breath.
Damn, but my whole body lit up like a struck match. I’d forgotten what that felt like. No, scratch that—I’d neverfelt that before. The heat low in my belly. The thrum under my skin. The way every nerve ending perked up just because he was breathing the same air. It was a gut-punch of desire that stole every coherent thought I had.
I blink open, watching as he heads my way.
He’s broader than he used to be. Thicker in the shoulders. Tighter in the jaw. That leather cut hugs his frame like a second skin, and the dark T-shirt underneath stretches across a chest that movie stars would die to have. His thighs are tree trunks in those worn jeans. His hands—God,his hands—hang loose by his sides like he hasn’t decided whether to hold you or ruin you.
And don’t even get me started on that mouth. That full-lipped, no-nonsense mouth that could probably make a girl forget her own damn name.
My throat goes dry. My nipples tighten against my bra—the traitors. I shift my weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the way my jeans cling to my hips.
My body hasn’t gotten the memo that this is a very bad idea.He’s trouble with a capital do not touch.
“Evening, boys,” Mercy calls out, already reaching for bottles before they’ve even ordered. “You want a table?”
“That’d be great, darlin’.” Duck turns my way, nodding politely. “Kya.”
For a split second I think Lee might have mentioned me to him. Afterall, It’s been years since I’ve seen him, and I highly doubt he’d remember the slip of a girl I was once. Then I glance down at the name tag pinned to my shirt and bite back a laugh. Of course he knows my name—it’s written right there in bold black letters on a little plastic rectangle.
Silly girl.
Desperate for something to do with my hands, I pick up a cloth and begin drying a glass that doesn’t need it. “Welcome. First round’s on the house.”
Duck’s eyebrows rise slightly. “That’s generous.”
“Good neighbors support each other,” I say, meeting his gaze steadily. “The club is always welcome here.”
It’s a calculated move—establish goodwill early, show respect for their position in the local hierarchy, make it clear I’m not looking for trouble. From the subtle nod Duck gives me, I know he appreciates the gesture.
I risk a glance Lee’s way, but he’s turned away from me, watching the players at the pool table. His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid, like he’s working very hard to ignore me.
Good. We’re on the same page.
They settle at their usual table in the back corner, and I watch Mercy work. She’s clearly someone who’s served bikers before, friendly but not flirty, respectful but not intimidated. Within minutes, she’s got them laughing, and the tension I hadn’t even realized I was carrying starts to ease.
The crowd begins to pick up as the Friday night regulars drift in. It’s busy and chaotic, but manageable. I find a flow with the waitresses, laughing and joking with them as we trade empties and cash for full glasses of whatever beverage our patrons desire.
I keep an eye on the bikers, but they stay in their back corner, playing pool and shooting the shit. It’s an hour or so before one of the younger members separates from the group and approaches the bar.
His cut identifies him as Bones, the tail gunner, and he leans against the bar with an easy grin. He’s maybe late twenties, dark hair a little too long, mischief written all over him, and laugh lines that suggest he’s more about having a good time than causing trouble.
“Well, well,” he says, giving me a slow once-over that somehow manages to feel more curious than sleazy. “So you’re the new boss lady. Devil’s been pretty tight-lipped about you.”
I keep polishing glasses, but I meet his gaze with a smile. “That’s me. Kya.”
“Bones,” he replies, offering his hand across the bar. His handshake is firm but not aggressive. “Gotta say, this place looks good. You’ve done good work.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious. You’ve done the impossible. You’ve made Devil’s feel clean. I mean, it’s still a dive, but like, a dive with standards.”
