Why tactical gear is apparently standard issue
Looking at this spreadsheet, I know it’s time. Time to stop pretending this is just a casual, extremely horny domestic beta test and admit that I’m possibly (read: definitely) falling in love with a man who keeps oat milk in his fridge for me and kisses me like I’m breakable and his.
We haven’t met each other’s friends yet. That was part of the deal—just us, for now.
And I’ve had zero exposure to the club. Zero insight into that part of his life.
But after tonight? After Tactical Barbie walked in like she still had root-level access to his life? Yeah. It’s time I start learning what, exactly, I’ve gotten myself into.
Before it breaks me.
Or remakes me.
Or turns me into the kind of girl who tracks biker politics in a spreadsheet titled “Possible Threats to My Sanity (and Relationship).”
Because apparently, that’s who I am now.
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WHEN CLUB LIFE GETS REAL (OR: WHY HOSPITAL COFFEE TASTES LIKE FEAR)
Posted by Anonymous at 12:56 a.m.
April 25
You know that moment when you’re staring at your phone, willing it to buzz with a text, and you start making deals with the universe? Like, I promise to stop stress-eating Tim Tams if he just lets me know he’s home safe.
Yeah, that was me at 9 p.m. tonight. The same day I watched Jake ride off with Sarah to handle club business. The same day I wrestled with insecurity and jealousy and tried to be mature about the whole thing.
I’d been distracting myself with code when his text came through: “On my way home.” Four simple words that made my heart do that stupid flutter thing.
An hour passed. No Jake.
Another half hour. Still nothing.
Something felt off.
When my phone finally rang, all I could hear was the tension in his voice. “Eden.” I went still at the way he uttered my name. “Mum’s in the hospital.”
He explained in clipped sentences—a break-in at her house, chest pains from stress, waiting on test results.
“I’m coming to the hospital,” I said, already grabbing my keys.
A pause, then, “We’re at the PA hospital.” No argument. No protest. Just a location that felt like permission.
The hospital corridors were a maze of harsh fluorescent lighting and that distinctive antiseptic smell that makes your stomach clench. I found Jake in the waiting area of the busy Emergency Department, his body rigid with controlled fury as he spoke with a man who radiated authority. Even without being told, I knew this man was in charge. Everything about him screamed power.
Next to him stood another man whose presence felt like contained violence. The way both men positioned themselves—alert, watchful, ready—told me everything about how serious this was.
Sarah was there too, phone to her ear, speaking in hushed tones. She looked exactly like she had earlier at Jake’s apartment, except now I was seeing her in her element. Professional. Focused. Completely in control.
Jake’s eyes found mine the moment I appeared. The look in them said he was relieved to see me, and when his hand found mine, he gripped me with an intensity that showed his tension.
“My source confirmed it,” Sarah said, ending her call. “Black Deeds is sending a message. They’re . . .” She glanced at me, then continued with what felt like careful wording, “Responding to today’s discussion.”
I knew who she meant. The Black Deeds Motorcycle Club had come up more than once in my late-night biker rabbit-holes. And never in a good way.
