Page 8

The call from the club comes at the worst possible moment. Just as something was building between Katty and me—something I shouldn't want but can't seem to resist—reality intrudes.

I check the screen. Hellfire. The president himself. Fuck.

"It's the club," I tell Katty. "I should take this."

She nods, slipping past me. "Of course. I'll just... give you some privacy."

I catch her wrist briefly as she passes, unable to let her go without some acknowledgment of what's happening between us. "This conversation isn't over," I say quietly.

"I know," she replies, then she's gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with a ringing phone and a sense of interrupted potential.

I swipe to answer. "Tank here."

"Where the hell are you?" Hellfire's rough voice comes through the speaker, decades of cigarettes and whiskey having turned it to gravel. "You get to your sister's town yet? Everything alright?"

I should have called when I arrived. Club protocol is clear—check in when you reach your destination, especially when traveling alone. But between meeting Lilly at the fair, encountering Dylan, and... everything with Katty, it slipped my mind.

"Yeah, I'm here," I confirm, leaning against the counter. "Got here this afternoon. Sorry I didn't call earlier."

"You had me worried, brother," Hellfire says, and beneath the gruffness, I can hear genuine concern. The club might be tough as nails in most respects, but we look out for our own. "What's the situation with your sister?"

I fill him in quickly. Dylan's stalking, the ineffective local law enforcement, tonight's confrontation at the fair.

"Got him to back off for now," I conclude. "But it's temporary. Guy like that, with his daddy's money and influence behind him, he'll be back with a new approach."

Hellfire hums thoughtfully. "Sounds like you might need a few days to sort this out proper."

"Yeah. I hate to be away from the club, but—"

"Family comes first," he cuts me off. "Always has, always will. You need backup? I can send Wrath and Crow your way. They can be there by tomorrow afternoon."

The offer is tempting. Wrath and Crow are two of our most intimidating members, capable of making problems disappear with brutal efficiency. Having them here would certainly send a message to Dylan and his father.

But something holds me back. Maybe it's not wanting to escalate this beyond what's necessary.

Maybe it's not wanting to bring club business directly into Lilly's life.

Or maybe, if I'm honest with myself, it's not wanting to complicate whatever's happening with Katty by introducing her to more MC members.

"I appreciate the offer," I say sincerely. "But I think I need to handle this myself for now. If things escalate, I'll make the call."

"Your call, brother," Hellfire agrees. "But remember, the club stands with you. One phone call, and we'll rain hell down on anyone who threatens your family."

"I know," I say, gratitude warming my voice. "And I appreciate it more than I can say."

"How's your sister holding up?" he asks.

I think of Lilly. Her bravery in the face of Dylan's intimidation, her relief when I showed up, her exhaustion as she finally felt safe enough to sleep.

"She's tough," I answer. "Tougher than she gives herself credit for. She'll be okay once this is resolved."

"Good." There's a pause. "Anything else I should know?"

My mind flashes to Katty. Her green eyes challenging me on the Ferris wheel, her steady presence beside me when confronting Dylan, the way she looked at me in this very kitchen just minutes ago.

Should I tell him? Hellfire's been like a father to me since I joined the club, has guided me through more than I can count. But what would I even say? That I've known this woman for less than a day and she's already gotten under my skin in ways I can't explain?

No. I don't need to look like some lovesick prospect falling for the first pretty smile thrown my way.

Besides, what future could there possibly be?

Katty is younger. At least ten years by my estimate.

She belongs in this town with its fairs and traditions and simple rhythms. Not in Cedar Falls with its competing clubs, territorial disputes, and the constant undercurrent of danger that comes with MC life.

"Nothing else to report," I say finally. "I'll check in tomorrow with an update."

"See that you do," Hellfire responds. "And Tank? Take care of yourself along with your sister. You're important to the club."

"Thanks, boss."

The call ends, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen. I run a hand through my hair, suddenly tired from the day's events and the weight of responsibilities—to my sister, to the club, and now, somehow, to the woman waiting in the next room.

I take a deep breath and head back to the living room, moving slowly, trying to organize my thoughts. What am I going to say to Katty? How do I explain that whatever's happening between us, however real it feels, has nowhere to go?

I turn the corner into the living room and stop dead in my tracks.

Katty stands by the bookshelf, her back partially to me.

She's changed clothes, or rather, removed some.

The button-up shirt she wore at the fair is gone, replaced by a simple black tank top that clings to every curve of her body.

Her arms are bare, revealing the full sleeve tattoo I'd only glimpsed earlier—intricate roses and thorns that wind from her shoulder to just above her elbow.

But it's the shape of her that stops my breath. The generous curve of her hips, and breasts that strain against the thin fabric of her top. She turns at the sound of my footsteps, and the movement sends a subtle bounce through her chest that makes my mouth go dry.

"Everything okay?" she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

For a moment, I can't speak. Can't think. Can barely remember my own name, let alone whatever I was planning to say about keeping distance between us.

"Yeah," I manage finally, my voice rougher than intended. "Club checking in."

She nods, apparently unaware of the effect she's having on me. "Good. I was just getting some extra blankets for the couch." She gestures to a stack of folded linens on the coffee table. "The house gets chilly at night."

I force my eyes to stay on her face. "You don't have to take the couch. I'm fine with it."

"Absolutely not," she argues. "You're too big for this couch. Your feet would hang off the end by a foot. Besides, I fall asleep here half the time anyway."

She bends to arrange the blankets, and the movement pulls her tank top tighter across her back. I can see now that the tattoo extends beyond her arm, curling slightly onto her shoulder blade—a delicate bird of some kind emerging from the tangle of thorns.

"Your tattoo," I say, desperate for something neutral to focus on. "It's beautiful work."

She glances back over her shoulder, a smile touching her lips. "Thanks. Five different artists over three years. Each rose represents something or someone important."

"And the bird?" I ask, stepping closer without fully intending to.

"Freedom," she answers simply, straightening up to face me. "Or the pursuit of it, anyway."

We're standing closer now, the stack of blankets between us the only barrier. In the dim light of the single lamp, her eyes seem darker, more mysterious.

"Your call," she says after a moment of charged silence. "Is everything okay? Really?"

“Yes. My president wanted to know if I needed backup."

Her eyebrows raise slightly. "And do you?"

"For handling Dylan? No." I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how small the room feels with both of us in it. "I can manage one entitled rich boy and his frat brothers."

"I believe that," she says, and there's something in her tone that sends heat coursing through me. "After watching you tonight, I believe you could handle a lot more than that if necessary."

The admiration in her voice is dangerous, addictive. Makes me want to show her exactly what I'm capable of, in every respect.

"Katty," I start, not even sure what I'm going to say next.

"It's late," she interrupts gently. "And it's been a long day. We both should probably get some sleep."

She's right, of course. Sleep is the sensible option. Tomorrow we need to figure out next steps for handling Dylan, keeping Lilly safe, resolving this situation so I can get back to the club.

"Right," I agree, taking a deliberate step back. "Sleep."

"The bathroom's all yours if you need it," she offers. "I already brushed my teeth while you were on the phone."

I nod, grateful for the practical suggestion that might help cool my thoughts. "Thanks. I'll just be a minute."

In the small bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The man looking back at me seems both familiar and strange. The same face I've seen for years, but with something new in the eyes. Something dangerously close to hope.

What the hell am I doing? I came here for Lilly, to handle her problem, then return to my life. Not to get tangled up with her best friend, no matter how compelling that friend might be.

I dry my face and return to the living room, prepared to say goodnight and retreat to the spare room. But Katty is still there, now seated on the couch with her legs tucked under her, a book open in her lap.

"Find everything you needed?" she asks, looking up.

"Yeah, thanks." I hover awkwardly, caught between staying and going. "I should let you get some sleep."

"In a bit," she says, closing her book. "I never fall asleep right away. Too many thoughts."

"What are you reading?" I ask, nodding toward the book, unable to make myself leave just yet.

She holds it up—a well-worn paperback with a cracked spine. "Hemingway. 'The Old Man and the Sea.' Not exactly bedtime reading, but it helps me think."

"About what?"

She considers the question, her head tilting slightly. "Life, I guess. Choices. The things we fight for and the things we let go."

There's something in her expression, a vulnerability beneath the strength, that draws me in. Before I can think better of it, I find myself sitting on the other end of the couch.

"Heavy thoughts for late night," I observe.

She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "That's when they tend to visit. When everything else is quiet."

I understand that all too well. The thoughts that only surface in the dark, when defenses are lower and truths harder to ignore.

"What about you?" she asks. "What keeps Tank up at night?"

The question is innocent enough, but the way she says my name, not like a nickname but like it's actually who I am, makes it feel more intimate.

"Responsibility, mostly," I answer honestly. "To the club, to Lilly, to the promises I've made."

"And to yourself?" she probes gently.

I consider this. "Not sure I know how to separate myself from those responsibilities anymore. They've become who I am."

She nods like she understands completely. "That happens, doesn't it? We become what others need us to be, until one day we look in the mirror and wonder who we'd be if all those expectations disappeared."

The insight strikes closer to home than I'm comfortable with. This woman sees too much, cuts through my defenses too easily.

"Would you be different?" I ask. "If you could be anything, with no expectations?"

She draws her knees to her chest, considering. "I don't know. Maybe bolder. Less cautious. I've spent so much of my life being careful. Careful not to rock the boat with my stepfather, careful not to put down roots I'd just have to tear up again, careful not to want things I can't have."

Our eyes meet across the couch.

"And what do you want, Katty?" I ask, my voice lower now.

She holds my gaze, her chest rising and falling with a deep breath.

"Things I probably shouldn't," she admits quietly. "People I probably shouldn't."

The plural is there, but her eyes never leave mine, making her meaning unmistakable.

I should get up now. Walk away. Go to the spare room and close the door on this conversation, on this possibility, on this woman who's somehow slipped past defenses I thought impenetrable.

Instead, I find myself shifting closer on the couch, drawn by a force I can't—or won't—resist.

"I’m leaving in a few days," I remind her, though whether I'm trying to convince her or myself, I'm not sure.

"I know," she says simply.

"I'm too old for you," I add, another feeble attempt at reason.

She almost smiles at that. "I'm twenty-seven, Tank. Not exactly a child."

The revelation surprises me. I had her pegged for early twenties based on what she'd said about college.

"Took me a while to finish school," she explains, reading my expression. "Had to work my way through. Not all of us had the Marines paying our way."

"Still," I persist, "my life is complicated. Dangerous. Not something to get mixed up in."

"Maybe I like complicated," she counters softly. "Maybe I'm tired of the simple, predictable existence I've carved out here."

We're close enough now that I can smell her strawberry shampoo. Close enough that I can see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, almost invisible except in this proximity.

"Katty," I say her name like a warning, a last attempt at restraint.

"Tank," she responds, my name on her lips a challenge.

And just like that, whatever resolve I had crumbles.