Even if every bone in my body was starting to say otherwise.
Chapter Ten
Adley
The Social Club finally went quiet at two-thirty.For the first time all night, I could actually hear my own breath instead of glasses clinking and Thorn singing off-key behind the bar like he thought he belonged onThe Voice.
I shoved my apron into my bag and rubbed at the back of my neck.I was already dreaming about my pillow and was halfway to the door when a voice stopped me.
“Not so fast.”
Junior leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, cut hanging open over a gray t-shirt.His expression was carved from stone, but his eyes had that no-nonsense gleam.
I lifted a brow.“What?”
“I’m walking you to your car.”
I groaned, adjusting the strap on my bag.“Junior, I don’t need an escort.The lot’s empty.”
He didn’t move.“Slayer chewed my ass for not walking you the first night.Said if anything happened to you, I’d be buried in the back forty.So, yeah, you’re getting an escort.”
That made me pause.Dad had actually…?I sighed, muttering under my breath.“Overprotective biker dads should come with warning labels.”
Junior’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh but didn’t dare.“Let’s go.”
We stepped out into the night together.The lot was lit by one harsh bulb buzzing overhead, moths suiciding into it like kamikazes.Gravel crunched under our boots as we crossed to my car.He scanned the shadows like he expected trouble, while I fished my keys out of my bag.
“I’m thirty-one,” I grumbled, and unlocked the driver’s side.“Lived fourteen years in Chicago without a bodyguard.Pretty sure I can handle Weston.”
“Tell that to your dad,” Junior said dryly.“And maybe wait until he’s not cleaning his guns.”
I rolled my eyes, but his lips quirked, just a little.He stood back while I slid into the driver’s seat.“Drive safe,” he said firmly.
“Yeah, yeah.”I waved, trying to sound casual, but there was something oddly brotherly about the way he lingered until I cranked the engine.Only when my headlights lit the lot did he turn back toward the club.
I pulled out onto the road, radio low, night air spilling in through the cracked window.Weston at two-thirty was a ghost town.Just empty intersections, dark storefronts, and fields stretching black and endless.
Halfway home, my car coughed.
My stomach dropped.“No.Don’t you dare.”
Another cough.Then the steering wheel trembled in my hands as the engine wheezed and cut.The headlights dimmed, flared, and died.I coasted to the shoulder with my hazards blinking red in the dark.
“Fantastic,” I muttered and smacked the wheel.I tried the key once, twice, three times.Nothing but clicks.My phone sat in my bag, but calling Dad meant a lecture that would last until morning.Calling Junior meant admitting Dad had been right.Calling Mason… not a chance in hell.
I sat there in the pulsing red light, weighing pride against practicality, when the low, unmistakable growl of a Harley rolled up behind me.
I didn’t even have to look.My whole body knew.
Mason.
His headlight washed over my car before he pulled around me, parked, killed the engine, and swung a leg over.His boots hit the gravel with a crunch.He came up beside my window, leaned in, and his jaw was set hard.
“What the hell are you doing out here by yourself?”His voice was sharp, gruff, and laced with something too close to anger.
I pushed my door open, and stepped out with my arms crossed.“Well, I wasn’t planning on breaking down, Mason.”
His eyes narrowed.“Pop the hood.”
