Page 2 of Stitch & Steel

Two

LOGAN

She was fresh like a spring morning—barely-there makeup, eyes too big for her face, lips the color of peach blossoms and just as soft-looking. She smelled like citrus shampoo and clean cotton, not club perfume or cigarette smoke. It hit me harder than I expected.

Bella Grace.

I knew the name before I ever laid eyes on her. Gran talked about her like a firecracker in a jam jar. Smart. Stubborn. City-worn. And way too good for the kind of men that hung around our world.

Still, I wasn’t ready for how she looked at me.

Or rather, how she didn’t look at me.

She didn’t flirt. Didn’t lean in or touch my arm like the club girls did, trying to start something they couldn’t finish. She crossed her arms and challenged me with her eyes, like I was some outlaw in her classroom who forgot to raise his hand.

That stung more than I wanted to admit.

I wasn’t used to being ignored. Not with women.

At the club, they came in waves—fast, loud, painted up like candy and just as disposable. Some of them wanted the danger. Some wanted the thrill of being close to it. But all of them came in looking for a ride or a story.

Bella wasn’t here for either.

And maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

She wasn’t wearing skin-tight leather or heels. She was wearing dusty sandals, a faded T-shirt, and that sarcastic little smirk that said she had my number.

I knew better than to want her.

She was Gran’s girl. A schoolteacher. A civilian. The kind of woman we protected, not pursued. If I so much as looked at her the wrong way and Gran caught wind of it, I’d have my head taken off with a soup ladle.

But hell if she didn’t crawl into my head and make a home there anyway.

The wind was cooler than usual for mid-summer as I rode back to the compound, clearing my mind curve by curve. My bike rumbled like a dragon under me, the engine’s growl more honest than most men I knew. I opened the throttle and let the road eat the noise.

Back at the clubhouse, it was business as usual.

Fast women. Faster bikes. Too much noise. Too much skin.

A girl in cutoff shorts and thigh tattoos tried to flag me down as I parked. I barely looked at her.

It used to work on me. The flash, the chaos, the promise of a night with no names exchanged.

Now? All I could picture was Bella leaning over the sink, sleeves rolled up, rinsing dishes while the kitchen window framed the hills behind her. Something soft. Real.

Damn.

Inside, the place reeked of oil, smoke, and old beer. A couple of hang-arounds laughed too loud at a prospect who clearly didn’t get the joke. Bullet sat at the bar, same as always—bottle of Old Forester in front of him, flipping a butterfly knife open and closed in his left hand.

He didn’t look up. “Figured you’d need a drink.”

I grabbed a glass and poured myself a shot. Tossed it back and felt the burn spread.

“Bella’s here,” I said.

He nodded. “That why your jaw’s tight?”

“She’s different.”

Bullet looked up then, eyes sharp. “Different like trouble?”

“No. Different like... not for us.”

He snorted. “Ain’t that the same thing?”

I didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t wrong.