Page 2

The desk was buried under receipts, invoices, and tax forms. A laptop that had seen better days sat open, the spreadsheet on screen making me wince. Columns didn't align, formulas were broken, and several categories were completely missing.

"Jesus," I muttered, setting down my bag. "This is worse than you said."

Lena laughed. "Yeah, well, I didn't want to scare you off. That's why you get the big bucks." She pointed to a large coffee cup. "Black, one sugar, right?"

I nodded, touched she remembered. I settled into the chair and cracked my knuckles, already seeing the patterns in the chaos. I could do this, even if was so tired that my eyes felt like they needed to be propped open with toothpicks to keep them from shutting.

For the next, painful hour, I rebuilt the quarterly tax documents from scratch, cross-referencing receipts and bank statements, correcting errors, and creating a system simple enough that even the numerically-challenged receptionist could follow. The work absorbed me completely, the familiar dance of debits and credits soothing my nerves.

I barely noticed Lena coming back until she leaned against the desk.

"You get this look when you're working," she said. "Like nothing else exists."

I blinked, surfacing from the number-trance. "Sorry. Almost done."

"No rush. But . . . " She hesitated. "Duke’s on his way. The Prez. He heard you were around. He wants to go over some investment options while you're here. If you're up for it?"

My stomach tightened. Duke Carson. President of the Heavy Kings. I'd never met him, only heard stories—some that made him sound like a ruthless outlaw, others that painted him as a community protector. Either way, he wasn't someone you said no to.

"Of course," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Where?"

"King's Tavern. It's just a few blocks up."

I saved my work and packed up my laptop, mentally switching gears from tax accountant to . . . whatever I was when I worked with the MC. Financial consultant to outlaws? The thought should have terrified me more than it did.

We walked the three blocks in comfortable silence, the evening air cool against my face. The tavern appeared ahead, a large brick building with "KING'S TAVERN" in illuminated letters above the entrance. A row of motorcycles lined the front, chrome gleaming under the streetlights like sentries standing guard.

"Don't look so nervous," Lena nudged me. "They don't bite. Well, most don't."

Her attempt at humor didn't help. I smoothed my blouse and straightened my posture as we approached the door. The sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and classic rock spilled out when Lena pulled it open.

The interior was dimly lit, with dark wood paneling and motorcycle memorabilia covering the walls. Men in leather cuts emblazoned with the Heavy Kings crown patch dominated the space – some playing pool, others gathered around tables with beers, a few at the bar. A few women mingled among them, equally comfortable in this rough environment.

Every head turned as we entered. I felt their curious stares—some dismissive, others evaluating, all noting my obvious outsider status. My designer jeans and carefully styled hair screamed "not from around here" louder than any words could.

Lena guided me through the crowd, nodding greetings to several men who called her name. I kept my eyes forward, trying to project confidence I didn't feel, until a massive figure at the bar caught my peripheral vision.

I couldn't help but look. He stood head and shoulders above the others – tall, broad-shouldered, with long blond hair tied back from his face. A thick beard framed strong features, and intricate tattoos covered his forearms where he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves. His cut identified him as an officer of the club from the patches I could see.

Then he turned, and his ice-blue eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. Those eyes assessed me in an instant—sizing me up, seeing through me in a way that made me feel both exposed and strangely seen.

Thor Eriksson. The Viking. It had to be. Lena had mentioned him before– the club's enforcer, Sergeant at Arms, the one even other members approached with caution.

I looked away first, my cheeks burning, heart pounding with a confusing mixture of intimidation and something else—an unmistakable, unwelcome attraction that I immediately tried to squash. Men like him were dangerous in every possible way.

"Duke's in the back," Lena whispered, pulling me toward a hallway.

I followed, but I could still feel those blue eyes tracking me across the room, leaving a trail of heat down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature in the tavern.

Duke Carson didn't match the image I'd constructed in my head. I'd expected someone hulking and intimidating like the men in the bar, but the MC president who rose to greet me was all controlled power—tall and built, yes, but with an unexpected grace and intelligence in his steel-blue eyes. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, and when he extended his hand, I noticed the heavy silver rings adorning his fingers, each one looking like it could double as a weapon.

"Ms. Wright," he said, his voice deeper than I expected. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. Lena speaks highly of your skills."

The back office of King's Tavern was surprisingly well-appointed—a long conference table of polished wood, comfortable leather chairs, and walls lined with framed photographs of motorcycles and club members through the years. A large Heavy Kings emblem dominated one wall.

"Happy to help," I replied, proud that my voice didn't betray my nerves. I set my laptop bag on the table and pulled out folders of financial documents I'd prepared. "Lena mentioned investment opportunities?"

Duke gestured for me to sit. "The club has certain . . . profits . . . that need legitimate channels."

I understood immediately. Money laundering, though neither of us would say those words aloud. My heart beat faster, but I kept my expression neutral. This crossed a line I'd been careful to avoid, but the envelope Duke slid across the table caught my attention.

"A retainer," he explained. "For your continued discretion and expertise."

I didn't open it, but it was thick . Thick enough to pay for months of Amy’s treatment.

"Well. I can think of several investment options that offer reasonable returns without excessive scrutiny," I said. Professional Mandy took over. “Lucky I brought my laptop. I can talk you through some options. Now, I know that you own a few businesses, but have you considered rental properties?”

I opened up some information on my laptop, pointing out that the property market was showing growth, followed by some stock options with stable histories. Duke asked intelligent questions, revealing a sharp business mind beneath the outlaw exterior.

"These rental properties here," I explained, highlighting a section of my report, "provide consistent income plus significant tax advantages if structured correctly."

"And they’re legitimate," Duke added, a slight quirk to his lips.

"Of course," I agreed, the unspoken understanding passing between us.

I was halfway through explaining a proposed corporate structure when the door opened without a knock.

I turned to look and saw the hulking viking, Thor. My skin prickled with tension and I felt my heart thumping in my chest. It was like sharing the room with a wild animal, a dangerous predator.

"Thor," Duke acknowledged. "Good timing. Ms. Mitchell is talking me through our new investment strategy."

I forced myself to look at him. In the confines of the office, Thor seemed even larger than at the bar—at least six-four, with shoulders that strained the seams of his black T-shirt. The Heavy Kings cut he wore identified him as Sergeant at Arms. Up close, I could see the intricate Nordic designs of his tattoos, including what looked like Thor's hammer running down his right forearm. His blond beard was neatly trimmed, framing a mouth set in a serious line.

Those ice-blue eyes locked onto mine again, and my mouth went dry.

"Our financial advisor," Thor said, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard. It wasn't a question.

Duke nodded. "She's rebuilding our legitimate portfolio. Take a seat."

Thor dropped into the chair directly across from me, his large frame making the furniture look comically small. I swallowed hard and returned to my documents, acutely aware of his gaze never leaving my face.

"As I was saying," my voice sounded distant to my own ears, "these holdings create a buffer between your various . . . revenue streams . . . and the final destination of the funds. Which, of course, I don’t need to know."

I shuffled papers, pulled up spreadsheets on my laptop, walked them through tax implications and corporate structures. All while feeling Thor's eyes on me, assessing, calculating. But I knew numbers better than anyone in this room, and gradually, my confidence returned.

“You have any experience doing this kind of work?” Thor asked, his voice low and heavy.

“Not exactly. But I have my own portfolio. And I’m very good with numbers.”

“She’s bailed the tattoo shop out of hot water a million times,” Duke said.

“This is different though. That’s just accounts, this stuff could get spicy.”

“Spicy?” I asked, feeling a tingle of danger.

“Working with a company like ours always comes with risks, but the rewards will be worth it.”

“Do we need this?” Thor asked, seemingly annoyed.

“We do. I don’t want to have to rely on shady business in the future. Our feud with the Serps nearly tore us apart. If I can find away to make good money without drawing heat to us, I’ll do it. For everyone’s security.”

Thor smirked. “God knows I like your old lady, but she’s changed you, Duke.”

“Change is good.”

I took my chance. “Danger would up my fee. Considerably.”

If I was going to do this, I wanted to make sure that I had plenty of money to cover Amy’s treatment, and a little extra for me.

Thor let out a surprised laugh. “She’s got you over a barrel. I like your style, miss.”

Duke steepled his fingers. "Well, you’ve impressed me. I’d like to make this arrangement permanent. Weekly consultations, plus quarterly reviews. I’ll give you a good fee. Let’s say three percent."

"I'll need to adjust my schedule," I said, buying time to think. Then, I said, “Make it four percent,” before I had time to lose my nerve.

The money would pay Amy's bills, maybe even let me start a fund for future emergencies. But regular involvement with the Heavy Kings meant risks I hadn't planned on taking.

"Done," Duke replied simply. "We value expertise."

We shook on it. “You’ll be answering to Thor, working with him on the investments. I want to make sure I understand all of it.”

“Of course.”

Duke walked me out, but Thor remained seated, watching me with that inscrutable expression. Just before I turned away, I caught something else in his gaze—not just assessment but interest. The kind that had nothing to do with financial statements.

Outside, the night air cooled my flushed skin as I walked to my car. The parking lot was quieter now, just the distant sounds of music and laughter from the tavern. I slid behind the wheel but didn't start the engine immediately, needing a moment to process.

My heart still pounded from the meeting with Thor. The attraction was undeniable and completely unwelcome. Maybe if I wasn’t so tired, I wouldn’t be feeling this overwhelming attraction. But I was.

Danger. All of a sudden, my life was full of it.