Page 4

Mandy

S ince I’d started moonlighting for the Heavy Kings, I’d found it even harder to focus at work. The numbers kept blurring together, like my two realities were bleeding into each other.

It didn’t help that I had been staying up even later recently, desperately trying to find the time I needed to fulfill all my responsibilities. With visits to Amy, my work at Prestige, and the time it was taking to set up the investment portfolio for the Kings, I barely had the time to brush my teeth, or eat.

Now, in the office, late in the evening, I was struggling to keep it together. I was working on the Peterson Holdings tax return. I'd read the same column five times, but none of it stuck. My mind kept drifting to the Heavy Kings' accounts—how Duke needed those quarterly projections by Friday, and how the club's legitimate businesses needed restructuring to maximize their tax benefits. The spreadsheet in front of me belonged to Prestige Partners, but my thoughts belonged to the MC.

"Focus, Mandy," I muttered, rubbing my tired eyes. The office had emptied hours ago, leaving me alone with the gentle hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional ping of a late-night email. My coffee had gone cold, a sad metaphor for my concentration.

I forced myself to type another formula into the spreadsheet, then rubbed my eyes, trying to wake myself up. Just then, my phone rang, shattering the quiet. I jumped, knocking over the cold coffee. As it pooled around client folders, I lunged for the phone.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Wright? This is Nurse Reyes from Ironridge Memorial." The woman's voice was calm but urgent. "It's about your sister, Amy."

My stomach dropped. "What happened?"

"She's had a severe reaction to her latest treatment. Her blood pressure dropped dangerously low, and we've had to administer emergency medications. She's asking for you."

The world tilted sideways. Amy—my little sister, my responsibility—was all I had left after our parents died. Her leukemia diagnosis six months ago had been devastating enough.

"I'll be right there," I said, already on my feet.

"Please drive safely, Ms. Wright. She's stabilized for now."

I hung up and grabbed my purse from under my desk, not registering that it was my casual weekend bag, not my work tote. My hands shook as I jammed folders into my laptop bag, coffee still dripping onto the expensive carpet. I'd clean it tomorrow. Or never. It didn't matter.

The elevator felt impossibly slow. I jabbed the button repeatedly, my breath coming in short bursts. When the doors finally opened, I practically ran through the lobby, my heels clicking frantically on the marble floor. The night security guard called something after me, but his words dissolved in the rush of blood pounding in my ears.

Outside, fat raindrops pelted my face. Perfect. Fucking perfect. The storm had been threatening all day, and now it unleashed with theatrical timing. I sprinted to my silver Audi in the parking garage, my blouse sticking to my skin before I'd gone twenty feet.

Inside the car, I tossed my bags onto the passenger seat and fumbled with the keys. A small, stuffed unicorn keychain tumbled from my purse. I shoved it back into my bag without looking, my cheeks burning despite no one being there to witness it.

The engine roared to life, and I reversed too quickly, nearly hitting a concrete pillar. "Get it together," I hissed at myself, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles whitened.

Rain lashed against the windshield as I sped out of downtown Denver. Ironridge Memorial was forty minutes away on a good day—along winding mountain roads that grew treacherous in weather like this. I switched the wipers to their highest setting, but they barely kept up with the downpour.

My thoughts raced faster than my car. What if Amy was worse than the nurse let on? What if this was it? The thought of losing her crushed the air from my lungs. I pressed harder on the accelerator.

The highway stretched ahead, a dark ribbon glistening with rain. Headlights from oncoming traffic reflected off the wet pavement, creating a disorienting light show. I squinted through it all, hunched forward over the steering wheel.

My phone buzzed in my purse. Without thinking, I reached for it, taking my eyes off the road for just a second—long enough for disaster.

"Amy's oxygen levels are improving. Doctor says—"

I didn't finish reading the message. My tires hit a deep puddle at seventy miles per hour, and suddenly my control vanished. The Audi hydroplaned, tires floating uselessly above the slick surface. My stomach lurched as the back end swung out.

"No, no, no!" I screamed, remembering too late everything I'd been taught about steering into a skid.

The car spun once, twice—a sickening merry-go-round of headlights, rain, and guardrail. Time stretched like taffy. I had a bizarre moment of clarity where I noticed the clock on my dashboard—10:32 PM—before the world exploded around me.

Metal crunched against metal. The airbag punched me in the face with the force of a heavyweight boxer. My body jerked against the seatbelt, head snapping forward then back. Glass sprayed across my skin in tiny, stinging kisses.

Then silence, except for the hiss of steam and the soft tick of cooling metal. The world kept spinning even though my car had stopped. Rain pattered against the crumpled hood, and somewhere, a horn was blaring. Mine, I realized. My forehead rested against the wheel, setting it off.

Powder from the airbag coated my throat, making each breath a struggle. I blinked, trying to clear my vision as reality pieced itself back together like a broken mirror. I was alive. The car wasn't moving. Rain drummed on the crumpled roof, and something warm trickled down my temple—blood. I tried to move and winced as the airbag pinned me against the seat.

"Amy," I whispered, the name coming out raspy and raw. The steering wheel had been shoved closer to my chest, not enough to crush me but enough to trap me. Steam hissed from the hood, mingling with the rain to create a ghostly fog around the car.

I fumbled for my phone, finding it wedged between the seat and center console. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks, dead and useless. Fresh tears welled up, spilling hot down my cheeks and mixing with the blood.

"Fuck!" I slammed my palm against the dashboard, pain jolting up my arm. The action did nothing but remind me of my helplessness. I was stuck in a wrecked car on a dark mountain road while my sister lay in a hospital bed needing me.

I tried to force the airbag down, to create enough space to wiggle free, but my arms felt like wet noodles. Adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. My chest ached with each breath—bruised ribs from the impact, probably. The cut on my forehead stung, blood mixing with rain that dripped through the compromised roof.

In the distance, I heard the growl of an engine. Not a car—a motorcycle. The sound grew louder, until bright headlights cut through the rain and my shattered windshield, momentarily blinding me. The engine died, and heavy footsteps splashed through puddles toward my car.

A massive silhouette appeared at my window. I should have been terrified—lone woman, crashed car, stranger in the night—but something about the broad shoulders and confident stride struck me as familiar. The door groaned as powerful hands wrenched it open, letting in a gust of rain.

"Jesus Christ." The voice was deep, rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet.

I blinked through my tears, recognition dawning slowly. Blond hair pulled back in a messy bun, thick beard soaked from the rain, intense blue eyes that looked almost electric in the dim light. It was Thor—Duke's Sergeant-at-Arms, the man he'd briefly introduced me to last month when I'd stopped by King's Tavern to drop off some financial documents.

The man who’d been haunting my dreams ever since.

"Mandy?" he said, confirming he knew me too. He crouched beside the car, his massive frame somehow fitting into the limited space. "How bad are you hurt?"

"I need to get to the hospital," I said, my voice cracking. "My sister—"

"First things first." His hands moved with surprising gentleness as he assessed me, fingers probing carefully around my neck and shoulders. "Can you move everything? Fingers? Toes?"

I nodded, wiggling my extremities to demonstrate.

"Good. Let's get this airbag out of your way." He pulled a knife from his pocket—a serious tactical blade that glinted in the dim light—and carefully sliced the deflating airbag away from me. "Your seatbelt's jammed. Hold still."

The knife made quick work of the belt, and suddenly I could breathe again. Thor's hands were huge but careful as he helped me maneuver out of the driver's seat. My legs buckled when my feet hit the wet pavement. He caught me easily, one arm supporting my waist while I steadied myself.

"My bag," I said, pointing to the passenger seat. "I need my bag."

He reached back into the car, retrieving both my bags. As he handed them to me, my weekend purse tilted, and something small tumbled out. In the beam of Thor's flashlight, I saw the glint of plastic and a flash of purple.

My unicorn keychain. The one with the sparkly horn and rainbow mane. One of my "little" things that nobody in my professional life—and certainly nobody in the MC world—was ever supposed to see.

Thor scooped it up, his expression unreadable as he looked at the childish trinket in his massive, tattooed hand. I waited for the smirk, the raised eyebrow, the judgment.

Instead, he simply tucked it back into my bag and zipped the compartment. "Your car's fucked," he said matter-of-factly. "And you need a hospital too, not just your sister."

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I'm fine. I just need to get to Ironridge Memorial. My sister had a reaction to her cancer treatment and—"

"I'll get you there." He cut me off with a certainty that left no room for argument. "Can you ride?"

Before I could answer, he was shrugging out of his leather cut—the Heavy Kings vest that members treated like sacred objects. He wrapped it around my shoulders, the leather still warm from his body heat.

"But your cut—" I protested, knowing what it meant.

"You're shivering and bleeding. Worry about your sister, not my damn vest."

He led me to his Harley, a massive black beast that gleamed even in the rain.

"Hold onto me," he instructed, mounting the bike and helping me climb on behind him. "Tight. Don't be shy about it."

I hesitated only a moment before wrapping my arms around his waist, feeling solid muscle beneath his wet t-shirt. The engine roared to life beneath us, vibrating through my entire body. Thor kicked the stand up and eased us back onto the road, gradually picking up speed as he headed toward Ironridge.

The rain stung my face, but Thor's broad back blocked the worst of it. His cut smelled of leather, cigarettes, and motor oil—strangely comforting as we raced through the night toward Amy. I closed my eyes and held on tighter.

W e made it.

The emergency room doors hissed open, blasting us with sterile air and fluorescent lighting that made my head pound. I stumbled slightly, my legs rubbery from the motorcycle ride and lingering shock. Thor's hand found the small of my back, steadying me without a word.

I caught my reflection in a darkened window—wild hair plastered to my skull, mascara streaked down my cheeks like war paint, dried blood crusting on my temple.

“Don’t worry, you look fine,” Thor said.

“I look deranged.”

He smiled.

“Probably best to get the blood off.” He touched my forehead gently. “Might want to wipe here. Don’t want your sister to think you’re there to get her.”

I licked my fingers and wiped the blood away.

The waiting room was packed—a Friday night special of drunk college kids, worried parents with feverish children, and the walking wounded of weekend mishaps. Every eye turned to us as we entered. We made quite the pair: me, a bedraggled mess wrapped in a Heavy Kings cut that hung to my thighs, and Thor, a mountain of tattoos and muscle, his wet t-shirt clinging to a chest broad enough to have its own zip code.

This wasn’t where I normally came to see my sister, but she’d been moved to an emergency room. I hoped that they knew I was coming.

I approached the reception desk on wobbly legs, Thor a half-step behind me. A harried nurse glanced up, her expression shifting from irritation to alarm when she saw the blood on my face.

"My sister's here," I said, my voice cracking. "Amy Wright. She had a reaction to her cancer treatment. They called me to come—"

"I need to see some ID, and you'll need to fill out these forms." She slid a clipboard toward me. "And you should get that cut looked at. Wait time is about two hours."

My hands trembled as I reached for my wallet. Two hours? Amy needed me now.

Thor leaned forward, placing one massive hand flat on the counter. "She needs to see her sister. Now." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a low, dangerous rumble that made the nurse's eyes widen. "She just survived a car wreck trying to get here. Check your records—the staff called her directly."

The nurse swallowed, her fingers flying over her keyboard. "Wright, Amy . . . yes, room 302, Oncology. Third floor." She grabbed a visitor's pass and handed it to me. "Go ahead."

Thor's hand returned to the small of my back as he guided me toward the elevators, parting the crowded waiting room effortlessly. It felt irritatingly good to be touched by him. People shifted out of our way without being asked, responding instinctively to his intimidating presence.

"Thank you," I whispered as the elevator doors closed.

He simply nodded, eyes forward. "Family's important."

The oncology floor was quieter, dimly lit for the late hour. A nurse directed us to Amy's room with a sympathetic smile that turned wary when she spotted Thor. He ignored her reaction, keeping pace with me until we reached room 302.

Amy lay in the hospital bed, her skin nearly as pale as the sheets. IV lines snaked from her thin arms, monitors beeped steadily beside her. At twenty-four, four years younger than me, she looked impossibly fragile. The leukemia had stolen her once-vibrant energy, leaving behind a whisper of the girl who used to drag me out dancing until 3 AM.

Her eyes fluttered open as I rushed to her bedside. "Mandy," she whispered, a weak smile forming. "You came."

"Of course I came," I said, taking her cold hand in mine. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck." Her gaze drifted past me to Thor, who stood awkwardly in the doorway, his bulk making the hospital room seem even smaller. "Who's your friend?"

I turned, suddenly remembering his presence. "This is Thor. He . . . helped me get here."

Thor cleared his throat. "I'll wait outside," he said gruffly. "Give you two some privacy."

Before he left, his eyes met mine, and I caught something unexpected in those ice-blue depths. Gentleness. Then he was gone, pulling the door partly closed behind him.

"Thor?" Amy's eyebrows raised despite her exhaustion. "Like the superhero? He looks more like the real Norse god version."

"He's with the MC I do consulting for," I explained, dropping my voice. "I had an accident on the way here. Car spun out in the rain. He found me, brought me on his motorcycle."

Amy's eyes widened. "Jesus, Mandy. Are you okay?"

Trust her to worry about me while she lay there, desperately sick.

"I'm fine. Just a cut." I squeezed her hand. "You're the one who scared me to death. What happened?"

She sighed, the sound rattling in her chest. "New medication. My body decided it was poison, apparently. I guess because it basically is. Doctor says we need to try something else."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I felt lucky there was another option.

We talked quietly for nearly an hour, me perched on the edge of her bed as she drifted in and out of sleep. At some point, I shifted my bag on my lap, and it fell open. To my horror, the soft ear of my stuffed bunny, Mr. Hoppy, poked out from the top.

I froze, quickly shoving it back inside, but Amy had seen it. Her tired eyes lit up with recognition.

"You brought Mr. Hoppy," she said softly.

My cheeks burned. "I grabbed the wrong bag when I left the office."

Amy was the only person in the world who knew about my "little" side—how sometimes the weight of being responsible for everything and everyone crushed me until I needed to escape into a simpler, more innocent space. Where stuffed animals and coloring books and cartoon movies were allowed. Where being small and taken care of wasn't shameful.

"Did your biker friend see him?" Amy asked, a teasing lilt in her weak voice.

"God, I hope not," I muttered, mortified at the thought.

My eyes darted to the partially open door, paranoid that Thor might have overheard. The hallway beyond was empty.

Amy's eyelids grew heavy again. "You should go home," she murmured. "You look worse than I do."

I laughed softly. "Thanks a lot."

"I mean it. I'm stable now. Come back tomorrow."

I waited until her breathing evened out into sleep before standing, joints creaking in protest. Between the crash and the emotional whiplash, my body felt like it had aged twenty years in one night.

Quietly, I slipped into the hallway, expecting Thor to be long gone. Instead, I found him in a too-small plastic chair outside Amy's room, scrolling through his phone. He stood when he saw me, unfolding to his full height.

"She's asleep," I said unnecessarily.

He nodded. "Doctor came by. Said she's stable."

"You've been here this whole time?" I glanced at the clock on the wall—it was nearly midnight. "You didn't have to wait."

Those blue eyes studied me. "Wasn't gonna leave you stranded."

His simple loyalty left me speechless.

"I'll take you home," Thor said, as if reading my mind.

“I can get a cab. I need to do something about my car, too—”

“Nope. I’ve already had it towed. I’m going to fix it up for you.”

I was stunned. “Really?”

He nodded. “You work with us. Makes you an honorary King, in my eyes.”

No one had ever had my back like that before.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, let me give you a ride to your place.”

I hesitated. Getting on the back of a motorcycle with a man I barely knew once was one thing—an emergency. Doing it again felt like a choice. A potentially stupid one.

But I was exhausted, my nerves frayed to breaking. And there was something about Thor that felt . . . safe, despite everything about him that should have warned danger.

"That would be helpful," I finally said. "Thank you."

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the night air bit through my damp clothes. The Heavy Kings cut still draped around my shoulders was the only thing keeping me from shivering uncontrollably.

"I live at The Pines," I told him as he swung his leg over the bike. "On Westridge Road."

He nodded. "I know it."

Of course he did. The MC probably knew every corner of Ironridge.

The motorcycle roared to life beneath us, and once again I found myself pressed against Thor's broad back, arms wrapped around his waist. The vibration of the engine traveled up through my body, oddly soothing after the sterility of the hospital. I rested my cheek against his shoulder blade, too tired to maintain any pretense of personal space.

The streets were nearly empty this late, wet pavement reflecting the streetlights like scattered stars. The cold night air cleared my head somewhat, making me acutely aware of Thor's body heat beneath my hands, the solid mass of him anchoring me to the present moment.

The Pines appeared ahead—a mid-rise apartment building trying desperately to look upscale with its stone facade and tasteful landscaping. Thor pulled into the circular drive and killed the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening.

I dismounted awkwardly, legs stiff from the ride. "Thanks for the lift," I said, handing him the helmet. "I really appreciate everything tonight."

"I'll walk you up," he said, pocketing the keys.

"That's not necessary—"

"It is." His tone brooked no argument.

I was too tired to fight about it. We entered the lobby, the night doorman raising his eyebrows at the sight of us—me, disheveled and bloodied, accompanied by a massive tattooed biker. I gave him a weak smile that said, "Everything's fine," though it clearly wasn't.

The elevator ride to the seventh floor was charged with an energy I couldn't name. Thor took up more than his share of the small space, his presence seeming to compress the air around us. I stared at our reflections in the mirrored wall—me, small and rumpled beside his towering frame. I looked like a different person—vulnerable, exposed.

The elevator dinged on seven, and I led the way down the carpeted hallway to my door. My hands trembled as I dug through my bag for keys, fatigue making simple tasks monumental. Thor waited patiently, his bulk casting a long shadow in the hallway light.

"Sorry," I mumbled, finally locating the keys at the bottom of my bag. As I pulled them out, my fingers brushed against his as he reached to steady my shaking hand.

A jolt of electricity shot up my arm, surprising in its intensity. Our eyes met briefly, and I saw something flicker across his face—recognition, perhaps, of whatever had just passed between us. I quickly looked away, jamming the key into the lock with more force than necessary.

The door swung open to reveal my neat, minimalist apartment. I turned to thank him again, but the words died in my throat when I saw his gaze fixed on my open bag. To my complete mortification, Mr. Hoppy had somehow worked his way to the surface again, one floppy ear and a beady black eye clearly visible.

I quickly shifted the bag, but it was too late. Thor had seen.

His expression remained impassive as he nodded toward my apartment.

"You should clean that cut," he said gruffly, motioning to my forehead. "And rest, like the doc said."

I swallowed hard. "Yeah."

"I'll give you an update on your car tomorrow. You have to get to work?"

"You don't have to—"

"I know." He cut me off. "Give me your phone."

I fumbled in my bag again, producing my shattered phone. Thor took it, his massive hands somehow delicate as he tested the screen. To my surprise, it lit up despite the cracks.

"Still works," he said, tapping on it. "I'm putting my number in. Call if you need anything. I’ll be here in the morning with transport for you."

He handed it back, and I saw he'd created a new contact. Just "Thor." No last name, no explanation needed.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it more than I could express. "For everything tonight."

He nodded once, then turned to go. "Lock your door," he called over his shoulder as he headed back toward the elevator.

I watched until he disappeared, then stepped inside my apartment and did exactly as I was told—locked the door, leaning against it as the events of the night crashed over me in waves.

The silence of my apartment pressed against my eardrums after the chaos of the night. I stood in my entryway, still wearing Thor's leather cut, my body aching and my mind spinning like a carnival ride with no off switch. I peeled it off carefully, hanging it on a hook by the door where it looked wildly out of place against my neutral decor. The Heavy Kings insignia—a crowned skull—stared back at me, a reminder that tonight had actually happened.

I moved through my apartment in a daze, dropping my bags on the kitchen counter and heading straight for the bathroom.

The shower stung my cut but washed away the hospital smell, the blood, and the lingering scent of motorcycle exhaust. As the hot water pounded my sore muscles, I replayed the night's events: the crash, Thor's unexpected arrival, the hospital, the motorcycle ride with my arms wrapped around the waist of a man who looked like he could bench press a car.

My Practical Mandy voice reminded me that I was still a professional woman with responsibilities. Thor had said that he would be here in the morning with transport. But who knew what he meant? Or if he’d actually show up. I should probably organize a rental, and then prepare mentally for work on Monday.

But I didn’t do that.

Instead, I padded to my bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of my dresser where I kept the clothes nobody saw. I pulled out my pastel pink sweatpants with tiny hearts down the side and my favorite penguin t-shirt worn soft from too many washings. Comfort clothes. Little clothes.

Once dressed, I moved to the walk-in closet in my spare bedroom. At first glance, it looked like normal storage—plastic bins neatly labeled, winter clothes hanging from a rod. But behind the hanging clothes was a door that led to a small powder room I'd converted years ago. My secret space.

I pushed through into my little sanctuary. The walls were painted a soft lavender, string lights twinkling around the perimeter. A fuzzy purple bean bag sat in one corner beside a bookshelf filled with coloring books, stuffed animals, and picture books. A small television was mounted on the wall, my collection of Disney movies arranged below it. This room didn't exist in my public life—not for Duke or the MC or my colleagues at Prestige Partners. Only Amy knew.

I grabbed Mr. Hoppy from my bag before settling into the bean bag. I hugged him to my chest, inhaling the familiar scent of fabric softener and the vanilla extract I sometimes spritzed him with.

"What a day, Mr. Hoppy," I whispered.

I'd interacted with various MC members since taking on the Heavy Kings' accounts, but mostly Duke and occasionally Tyson. Thor had been a distant, intimidating figure I'd only glimpsed across King's Tavern. The Sergeant-at-Arms. The enforcer. The man whose glare made grown men step back.

Yet he'd sliced my seatbelt with careful precision. Wrapped me in his precious cut when I was cold. Waited hours at the hospital without complaint. Taken me home and insisted on seeing me safely to my door.

I remembered the brief moment when our fingers touched outside my apartment, the unexpected current that had passed between us. How had that felt so significant after such a night of extremes?

And then there was the moment he'd seen Mr. Hoppy—twice. No comments. No judgment. Just that flash of . . . something . . . in his eyes. Not disgust or mockery. Almost like . . . recognition?

I reached for my sippy cup—pink with purple dolphins—and filled it with chocolate milk from the mini-fridge tucked under the bookshelf. The familiar ritual calmed me, a small comfort in a day that had shattered my carefully compartmentalized life.

As I sipped, my phone buzzed on the bean bag beside me. The cracked screen lit up with a message from the newest contact: Thor.

"Car's totaled. I'll pick you up tomorrow at 9 to see Amy."

I stared at the text, a strange warmth spreading through my chest. It wasn't a question or an offer. It was a statement of fact, as though taking care of me was now his responsibility.

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, mind racing. What was the appropriate response? A professional "Thank you for your assistance" felt too cold after everything that had happened. A casual "Great, see you then" felt too familiar.

I typed and deleted five different responses before eventually settling on simple gratitude.

"Thank you."

The response came almost immediately.

"Get some sleep, princess."

Princess.

What did he mean by that?

Probably nothing. Probably just what he said to people. There was no way that he had worked out I was a Little. Or had he somehow seen through me? Had Mr. Hoppy and the unicorn keychain revealed more than I realized?

The questions swirled in my exhausted brain, but I couldn't muster the energy to analyze them. I set my sippy cup aside and curled up in the bean bag, Mr. Hoppy tucked securely under my chin. The string lights twinkled overhead like stars.

My eyes grew heavy, the day's events finally catching up with me. As I drifted toward sleep, I imagined those same hands stroking my hair, that deep voice calling me "princess" again. Not mockingly, but with understanding. With acceptance.

It was a dangerous thought to fall asleep to.