Page 8 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

HAWK

I ’ve barely slept.

The taste of her is still on my lips—like honey and heat, like something I shouldn’t have taken but couldn’t resist. I’ve scrubbed my hands, brushed my damn teeth twice, but she’s still there. Lingering.

Dawn breaks over the neighborhood as I step onto the front porch, the sun crawling slow over the horizon to stain the sky with soft golds and blues.

My coffee is piping hot but not enough to clear my head.

The aftermath of last night’s party sprawls across the lawn—empty bottles, passed-out bodies, the stale scent of weed and spilled booze hanging thick in the air.

The kind of mess I should be dealing with.

But all I can think about is her.

Brandi. Andi with an i.

I told myself I went over there to keep things clean. To warn her. Scare her a little. Make sure she understood who she was dealing with—who I was. A sergeant-at-arms doesn’t leave loose ends. And she’d been on the verge of unraveling, already too close to shit she didn’t need to be mixed up in.

That was the plan.

So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about the way she trembled when I got close? The way her breath hitched when I touched her? How her lips parted just enough, like she was daring me to take, to taste?

I didn’t go there to kiss her.

Hell, I hadn’t even let myself consider it. But when she’d stood there, staring up at me with those wide, defiant eyes, lips pink and parted, it was like something inside me snapped.

One kiss.

That’s all it was supposed to be—one taste, enough to break whatever spell she’d woven over me since the moment she stumbled into my life. But it hadn’t been enough. Not even close.

I tossed and turned all night, restless, burning. Thinking about the way she felt against me—soft, curvy, her body fitting mine like she was made for it. About the feel of her tongue against mine, the desperate little sound she made when I gripped her ponytail and tilted her head back.

And I wanted more.

It wasn’t just the kiss—it was her. The way she looked up at me, fierce and vulnerable all at once. How she didn’t flinch when I crowded her. How she met my stare like she wasn’t afraid of what she saw in me.

Plenty of women made offers last night—slipping hands under my cut, brushing close with sultry looks, whispered promises. Easy, meaningless relief. And I didn’t give a damn.

Because none of them were her.

Andi’s under my skin now, tangled up in ways I can’t seem to shake loose.

Fuck.

I round the corner of the porch to the sitting area and Ginger’s curled up on one of the deck chairs, Tank’s jacket draped over her like a blanket. She stirs when I walk past.

“Coffee?” she asks hopefully, brushing away stray hairs.

“Kitchen.”

She stretches, Tank’s jacket sliding to the ground. “You seem grumpier than usual.”

I grunt, scanning the street. The house across the road is quiet, dark.

Is she up yet? Are the kids?

Stupid to wonder. Stupider still to care.

“That new neighbor,” Ginger says, a smile playing at her lips. “She seemed nice.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? I’m just saying, the way you handled that baby...” She wiggles her eyebrows.

I shoot her a look that would have prospects pissing themselves. Ginger just laughs.

“Coffee,” I remind her, hoping she’ll take the hint.

She gets up, stretching again. “You know, some of us remember what you were like with your sister’s kids, before?—”

“Ginger.” My tone carries a warning even she won’t ignore.

She holds up her hands in surrender and heads inside, leaving me with memories I’d rather forget and the ghost of a kiss I can’t shake.

The clubhouse slowly comes to life around me. Prospects stumble to clean up, nursing hangovers as they collect bottles and trash. Tank emerges from somewhere inside, looking rough but giving off the air of a guy well satisfied.

Ginger must have found him.

Duck’s truck pulls up around eight. He looks fresh, probably thanks to his old lady kicking him out early. He takes one look at my face and chuckles.

“Rough night?”

I just stare at him.

“Right.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “The boys are following. I’ll get more coffee on.”

The rumble of bikes draws my attention to the street.

Lee pulls up first, his father close behind.

Stone might be president, but his son has inherited his commanding presence.

At thirty, Lee is already making a name for himself as our enforcer, though most of us still remember him as the awkward teenager who grew up in the club.

“Rough night?” Lee calls out, killing his engine.

He pulls off his helmet, revealing the face that has half the women in town trying to reform him.

Dark hair, cut military short, sharp cheekbones, and our president’s steel-gray eyes.

The slash of a scar through his left eyebrow only adds to the danger rolling off him, and he wears his Enforcer patch like he was born to it.

He nods toward the passed-out prospect on my lawn.

“Yours was rougher, from what I heard.”

Lee flexes his right hand, knuckles bruised. “Fucker had a hard head.”

I raise an eyebrow.

Stone hip-checks his son. “Lee took care of it. Not bad for a freshly minted member.”

Stone moves like a man ten years younger, the only signs of age in the silver threading through his dark hair and beard.

His weathered face tells stories of bar fights and hard years, but his eyes miss nothing.

He might look like the kind of man you’d cross the street to avoid—all muscle and menace wrapped in leather—but those of us who know him have seen his strategic mind at work.

He knocked up his high school girlfriend at seventeen and then again at nineteen.

He took over the club at twenty-five and turned us from a struggling chapter into a force.

It takes a lot to be the main provider and carve your way through the club ranks to president. I can’t help but admire the fucker.

“Coffee’s inside. If you ask nicely, Duck might point you in the direction of some breakfast.”

More bikes roll in while I stand on the porch, sipping coffee. Axel, our road captain, leads the pack. He kills his engine only to start barking orders at the barely conscious prospects sprawled across my lawn.

“Christ, Ax, let them nurse their hangovers first,” Lee calls out, returning with a steaming mug. “Boys had a rough night.”

Axel flips him off. “You baby them too much, kid.”

“Not a kid anymore,” Lee growls, but there’s no heat in it. This is an old argument, worn smooth with repetition.

Duck returns, a frown on his wrinkled face. “Someone get a prospect to go check on Andi. Ginger said her power’s out. She’ll need someone to get ice for groceries if her fridge is fucked.”

I kick myself for not thinking of that last night.

“I’ll do it.”

Lee’s head snaps around. “Who’s Andi?”

“The girl Hawk here was playing house with last night,” Ginger sings out as she emerges from the kitchen with her coffee.

“Shut it,” I warn, but the damage is done.

“Oh?” Stone’s interest sharpens. “Didn’t know you’d brought a girl around.”

“I didn’t.” I cross my arms, glowering as these fuckers henpeck, practically delirious for gossip.

They’re worse than a nursing home.

“She strolled in looking rumpled but cute as a button sometime after midnight,” Ginger says, preening to her captive audience.

“It was after two, and she needed to use the microwave,” I say flatly. “For the baby.”

“Baby?” Axel asks, rejoining us now that the prospects are busy hauling ass. “Since when do we have babies at parties?”

“Since Hawk started adopting strays,” Ginger smirks.

“You want to control your woman?” I ask Tank. He yawns, wrapping an arm around his harpy.

“Nope.”

I sigh. “Don’t we have bigger shit to worry about than my new mess of a neighbor?”

Stone’s expression darkens. “Chapel. Ten minutes.”

The others sober. This is business now.

Duck catches my eye as we head inside. “You know, if you’re interested?—”

“I’m not.”

He raises his hands in surrender, but his knowing smile tells me he isn’t buying it.

Neither am I.

The chapel sits off the back of the house, away from the chaos of the main living spaces.

The heavy wooden table dominates the space, carved with the history of our club.

Stone takes his place at the head, Tank to his right.

The rest of us file in, taking our usual seats as prospects scramble to bring coffee and clear the empty bottles from last night.

Mack, our secretary, is already set up, his laptop open and reading glasses perched on his nose.

He looks more like a biker than the business brains of our club, but the man has an encyclopedic memory.

Beside him, Cash—our treasurer—is buried in paperwork, his brow scrunched into a frown as he hunches over figures.

For two young guys, they both take their jobs far too seriously.

“All right,” Stone calls the meeting to order. “Mack, what’s first?”

Mack adjusts his glasses. “Bike rally next month. We need to confirm numbers for security detail. Also got word from the Rattlers MC—they want to discuss expanding their run through our territory.”

“‘Discuss.’ Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Lee mutters.

“They’ve been peaceful lately,” Axel points out. “Might be worth hearing them out.”

“Numbers first,” Stone directs. “Cash, what’s our take from last quarter’s runs?”

Cash shuffles his papers. “Up twenty percent from last year. Shop’s doing well too, though we need more merch.”

“Duck?” Stone asks.

“On it. I’m updating the patch design and will put the order in this week.”

“You need anyone to take a second look at the design?”

If looks could kill, Cash would be six feet under.

“Do I need someone to look at a patch which I designed? The patch you’re wearing right now? The patch I personally inked on most of you?” He scoffs. “The updates are minor so no, I don’t fucking need a second fucking opinion.”