Page 39 of Carver (Satan’s Angels MC #8)

Carver

I n a newly renovated studio with lots of bright natural lighting, stainless work benches, fresh paint and spotless surfaces… I almost crave the dirt.

I have anti-fatigue mats for standing on concrete while I work, but I still miss the feel of the dirt floor beneath my boots.

My grandpa’s old, scarred, beat up workbenches with the sag here and there, slightly tilted and far from level were sometimes inconvenient, but I’m so used to reaching for tools there, sitting down to think, touching the surfaces worn smooth, that these new workbenches feel almost clinical.

I don’t want to be an ungrateful asshole.

I’m certainly not going to complain. I did think about going back to my place and ripping out the workbenches to bring them here, but decided against it.

I wanted this to be a fresh start. Whatever I feel nostalgic about is mostly just habit.

I haven’t been in my new studio long enough to fully appreciate how functional it is.

If I want to make changes, I can do that.

Kael and Dravin asked me what I envisioned for a studio space.

Kael even made me do a brainstorming chart like in elementary and made a checklist of absolute must haves.

She did hire contractors to take out one of the overhead doors and install a bank of windows, but other than that, all the work was completed by guys from the club.

They’d helped out Atlas and Willa when it came to renovating the building they purchased to use as Willa’s antique store.

Years ago, when Crow bought his tattoo studio, they did the renovations there as well.

They’ve done houses, garages, and many of them were around when the clubhouse was converted from an old factory.

With so many hands, the work progressed rapidly.

There was no bullshitting, no breaks, no one showing up pissed and getting fired, or slacking off.

The most extensive renovations transformed the garage’s old office space into a gallery, complete with two back offices, a storage room, and a huge amount of floor space.

The walls are now pristine white, there’s adequate lighting, and salvaged hardwood was installed.

Despite sometimes working a full shift at the club’s garage, or tattooing, or doing hair, everyone came out in shifts. The work went on for just about twenty-four hours a day, but that meant that the building was transformed in less than two weeks.

The beep at the man door chimes and I spin around from the sketch that I’ve been working on for the past few hours.

It’s ambitious, and it has to match the proportions of the stone that arrived two days ago. The marble is gorgeous. It’s far past what I was expecting from the photos. I spent half a day staring down the stone, waiting for inspiration. It came in the middle of the night.

Bronte found me at four in the morning, sitting at the kitchen table with a homemade cappuccino and my sketchpad. She didn’t ask me if I was stressed about the documents I’d be signing later. She just kissed me and told me that if I needed her, to call or text.

I took her truck to the shop, and I’ve been sitting here at this workbench since five, roughing out sketches that just aren’t fully right .

Maybe I am distracted.

Whatever I wanted to get from my place, if anything, it’s too late now.

The club’s lawyer, Lynette, is here. She’s followed in by her man, Bullet. Dravin is with them. He closes and locks the door behind him. Knowing that they’d be coming, I opened it twenty minutes ago and sent Dravin a text.

Lynette is tall and statuesque, and in a black pencil skirt and a white blouse, she looks very lawyerly.

She’s also noticeably pregnant.

“You should have worn your jacket. It’s cold out there.” Bullet fusses over her, running his hands over her shoulders like she just went through a traumatic experience and he’s assuring himself that she’s fine.

She pats his cheek affectionately, smiling at him in that patronizing way that says she knows that he hates when she does things like that because he’s a grown man, a big biker, a former soldier, and he owns the newly finished gun range. He’s too deadly for cheek pats.

“The car was ten feet from the door. It’s not that cold either.”

There’s a bit of a breeze today, but it’s sunny and it hasn’t rained for a week.

Bullet grumbles, still overprotective, but he stops fussing when I stand up and gesture to the workbench. Lynette sets her leather bag down and extracts a pile of documents.

Dravin stands by the door like he’s keeping guard, but I think he’s just allowing me space.

Bullet, on the other hand, hovers right over Lynette’s shoulder.

He’s a good guy. I’ve met them both a few times.

Kael told me that Lynette’s been pretty sick all throughout the pregnancy.

She’s had several appointments with various doctors, including a specialist in Seattle because it was so bad, but it was just regular morning sickness.

Bullet wanted her to take some time and dial back all the work she does for the club.

As their lawyer, it’s probably quite intensive.

She refused, insisting that working made her feel better, not worse.

At least when she was puzzling out club business or prepping paperwork, filing this or that, sitting on meetings, or the thousand other things she likely does, she was thinking about that and not about how nauseous she felt.

She stacks the paperwork neatly. She’s already prepped everything with little red sticky tabs marking the places where I’ll have to sign.

I swallow hard, focusing on her efficient movements so I don’t stare at her bump like a creep.

I don’t want to be weird. I just can’t stop thinking about how Bronte must have looked.

I wish I could have seen how her body changed.

Touched her belly and felt Ellie kick back. I’ve seen the videos, multiple times.

I did see Bronte when she was pregnant. I just didn’t know .

Every time I tried to beat myself up about that or expressed how sorry I was that I wasn’t there, going through it with her because I chose being a dumbass instead, Bronte’s pulled me back.

The next time will be different for us. Whenever we decide it’s the right time, I know that I’d love to have another baby.

Bronte wants four. She doesn’t mind if there’s a bit of an age gap between Ellie and our next baby, though.

She and Ginny have quite a few years between them, and they’ve always been best friends.

A week ago, when the shop was just about finished, I knew I had to get serious about selling my land. I couldn’t let Dravin and Kael carry the financial burden of this place alone, even though they’d made it clear that they were fine with whatever arrangement worked best for me.

I listed the land just locally, on some classifieds sites instead of hiring a realtor.

It didn’t take long for a guy named Bill Warner to contact me.

He had a client who regularly purchased farmland and was always looking for more.

I don’t even know the guy’s name, because he’s buying the land under a numbered corporation, but it doesn’t matter.

He had cash and the deal moved fast.

Dravin suggested that I use Lynette to do up all the legal paperwork for the sale. He said the club would cover her fee, but I couldn’t let them do that, especially not when I was getting a good sum of money from the land sale.

I sold it for well under value, but not just because I wanted the land priced to sell.

Whoever that guy is, he’s going to have to undergo a massive cleanup project.

The fields haven’t been worked in a generation.

They’re more stones and weeds than usable land.

It’s not like he bought prime real estate.

Lynette makes quick work of the signatures. She’s entirely professional and utterly thorough, so the whole thing takes less than five minutes.

After, she stacks the paperwork and slips it back into her black bag, she smiles at me. “Closing is in a few days, and we should have the money by the end of that day or the next. I can let you know when it comes in.”

“Thanks.” I mean it to come out as a normal word, but it sounds croaky and choked.

Lynette nods and Bullet sets a hand on my shoulder before they leave together.

As soon as he opens the door, he starts chiding her about her coat again, threatening to carry her to the car himself.

She just laughs and shakes her head, which causes him to shed his leather jacket and drape it over her shoulders.

It’s his club jacket , and I’m not sure if there’s a rule about anyone else wearing it or not.

Dravin closes the door and clicks the lock into place again.

He folds his arms over his chest, but drops them after a moment of silent contemplation.

He saunters over, but changes his mind and his direction and goes to inspect the stone the club had moved from my old workshop, and the new blocks of marble that I ordered.

He can’t stand still. His restlessness is obvious.

I didn’t hear him pull up, so he must have driven his car behind Bullet and Lynette’s vehicle. It’s more than the whole cage thing that’s driving him to pace around the stones, eying them up like they’ve personally offended him.

“You’re absolutely sure about this?” he asks after his eighth lap.

I knew that if I waited him out, he’d voice what was on his mind. “Yes. It was nice of Ginny to go take photos for me so I could make the listing. Everyone’s done a lot of work already. I can’t go back on the sale.”

“Technically, you could.” Dravin’s leather jacket creaks as he raises his shoulders in a shrug.

It’s not really a shrugging matter. “I won’t.”

“I just want to make sure that you’re selling it because you want to and not because you think that you have to pay us back right away. We’re more than happy to lease the space to you.”