Page 10 of Claimed By The Club

SIERRA

I stir 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?”

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 last night’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 several days 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.”