TWELVE

Dagne

He wants to give me five thousand dollars to walk up to some random house and pass over a slip of paper. Huh. His money, not mine.

I steal a glance over at this curiosity of a man as he empties the barrow out onto a heap of kindling and leaf litter beside an enormous firewood stack. He stripped his vest and T-shirt about halfway through, leaving me with an unhindered view of his fine-as-hell inked arms and shoulders while he worked the rake. The guy is huge—but not that swelled out bodybuilder style—the way you can tell it’s natural, genetics, that he’s always been stocky and broad and always will be.

“When should I leave?”

Hooch’s head lifts from where he’d been bent over sweeping out the barrow. “As soon as you can.” His stone-cold expression gives nothing away.

I pretend the sense of rejection doesn’t sting and give my filthy clothes a glance while I drag in a deep breath. Not as though going around half dirty is anything new for me, but still, I’d hoped to leave with a bag full of clean clothes. The less money I have to waste on a laundromat, the better.

Hooch dusts his hands on the leg of his jeans and ducks his head a little as he approaches. “Everything okay?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” He places a hand on my upper arm, and my gaze drifts to the contact. “I might be a grumpy asshole most of the time, but don’t let that make you think I don’t give a shit.”

Well, this is new.

“I guess it’s that you barely know a thing about me, and—”

“I know enough to judge that you’re honest and upfront, which is what I need. Am I wrong? Should I not trust you?”

“I wasn’t going to say that, but … ugh … this is just …” I shrug his hand off, shaking my head as I look to the sky. “Doing this for you goes against everything my common sense is trying to tell me.”

He nods slowly, seemingly chewing my words over as his jaw flexes. “Forget it then.”

“No—”

“Don’t argue it, Dagne. If it makes you feel uncomfortable, I don’t want you takin’ the job on.” His muscles flex displaying a mouthwatering six-pack as he raises both arms to pull his T-shirt over his head. “I’ll find someone else.”

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, turning away.

I need this. I need somebody to give me a break and pay my way for a while. He hasn’t even said how he’ll pay me, but my bets are cash—easy, uncomplicated cash. In which case, I can stash a little, skimp on food costs, and have plenty of bills in my back pocket when all is said and done.

“I’ll do it. I need to do it.”

“Smart girl.” His proximity startles me. “Now come indoors and we’ll get one of the old ladies to sort you out with some stuff for the road.”

“You realize I don’t have a car?”

“You realize we have a few spare?” he counters, one eyebrow raised.

Damn it. If he’s supplying the ride, then that means it’ll be a round trip. “I can bus it.”

“Buses don’t go where you’re headed. Besides, I’d be more comfortable knowin’ you’ve got independence.”

Of course—the vehicle’s probably tracked or some shit. What are you getting yourself in for, Dagne?

“Can I ask what the message is? I mean, why it is I’m delivering it by hand?”

“Nope.” His face is impassive as we head toward the massive house.

“Fair enough.” I rake my gaze over the grandeur that this estate would have once been, imagining the kinds of people who would have been guests of the elite who lived here, the types of people who would have hosted them. “This place is something, huh.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah.” Maybe it’s the hint of a time forgotten, the dreams of such opulence, and the fantasy of that kind of carefree life, but there’s magic about the property that hooks me in. The thought of wanting to spend more time in a single place frightens me, but what if this is actually it? The place I feel right settling in? Easy, girl. Talk about jumping the gun.

Hooch’s heavy boots make a thunderous noise as he climbs the steps to the porch. How he wore those things while sweating it out on the driveway, I have no idea, but I guess when you wear them as much as he does they probably become a second skin. I’m sweating just looking at them.

The members from the bar earlier have spread themselves out as we enter the house, reclined on chairs and leaning against the walls in some places while deep in conversation. And yet, every single one of them stops what they’re doing to look us over as we walk past the parlor and into the heart of the house. I duck my head, feeling more out of place than ever, and flank Hooch as he strides seemingly unaffected to the kitchen.

Guess they didn’t expect us to be getting along. Interesting.

“Just ignore them,” he murmurs as we pass the room I’ve hedged bets on being the chapel.

For a change, the doors are open offering an unhindered view of the invitation only space inside. My feet halt of their own volition and I take in the awe-inspiring masterpiece that is the sculpture encased at the far end in a glass-fronted wall. A naked bike, stripped of all its leather and rubber to leave the bare steel, rests atop a rough bed of broken tarmac. And all that stripped material? It’s been broken down and transformed into a rider, hunched over the bike as he’s poised to kick start it.

“My old man commissioned it the day he became president; the first year our chapter was in operation.” Hooch’s quiet words drift over my shoulder and echo around the enclosed rectangular room before us.

“It’s amazing.”

“He had an artistic mind, but not the hands to see the ideas through. The old man had a ton of visions about things like that, but I guess when you’re busy runnin’ a place like this, you don’t get much time for doing what makes you happy.”

“Who did it?”

“A guy that owed the club his gratitude. A guy who had the skills Dad lacked.”

“Somebody owed them that kind of favor in the first year?” I twist and look at his solemn face.

“Most clubs are born from necessity, not chance.” He shifts his brown eyes to mine, and frowns. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, and the brothers who founded our chapter saw a man who’d run out of options. The man who made that.” He points to the sculpture. “I’ll tell you more about it sometime, maybe.”

“I’d like that.”

He steps away, restarting our trek through the house as I lag behind watching his broad form twist and turn in smooth fluid motions while he walks. I get the distinct impression I’ve underestimated this guy, made assumptions based off his outer shell that in no way reflect the man underneath. The distant look in his eye as he shared with me something so intimate about his club; he hides so much more.

I want to know it all.