The monotonous hum of the running vacuum filtered upstairs. Rich set the last piece of sheetrock against the wall in the guest bedroom. Apparently, Gracie was afraid of the HOA, whatever that was, fining her for having building material stacked in the driveway.

He couldn't store it in the garage because the tight corner from the hallway to the staircase wasn't big enough to turn an eight foot by four-foot piece of sheetrock without taking out the wall to the kitchen. Used to living in a pole barn converted into a motorcycle club ten miles from civilization, he had no knowledge of how a gated community worked.

When he'd lived in St. John's, there was no such thing as shutting neighborhoods off from each other and rules about what you could and couldn't do on the outside of a house. If he owned the damn house, he'd do what he wanted and the hell with anyone.

He only planned on fixing the room, getting enough cash to hightail it out of St. John's, and then he'd figure out what to do to keep a roof over his head.

Maybe he'd head north where the weather would force him off his Harley five months of the year. He could drink away his days and shut himself off from society. The hell with joining another club. He could find some other way to bring in some cash.

He sorted through the toolbox Glen dropped off earlier and picked out a hammer and screwdriver to take out the headless nails holding the molding up around the door. His hands shook as he worked. There was nothing to stop the tremors that weakened him except to pick up a bottle.

Tossing the second extracted nail in an empty bucket, he gritted his teeth against the frustration of knowing he could work faster if his body cooperated.

The familiar rumble of motorcycles overrode the heavy breathing coming from him. He gritted his teeth and looked at the ten pieces of sheetrock stacked against the wall. He'd been in a hurry and never noticed he'd trapped the open door behind the supplies and would have to move every damn piece if he wanted privacy.

He was fine repairing the room, but he didn't want Notus members checking up on the progress. They better not come upstairs and want to check on him every fucking hour.

Loud voices leaked upstairs. He paused and picked out all the men's voices. Every member of Notus talked downstairs.

High, female voices soon took over the conversation. His gut tightened, and in his frustration, the screwdriver slipped in his hand, and he scarred the wood.

"Fuck," he muttered, lining the head of the tool back against the nail, and tapped the screwdriver with the hammer.

A woman appeared in the hallway in front of him. He kept working but not before he got a glimpse of a child in her arms.

"Oh. Sorry. I came up to change her diaper," said the woman.

She must belong with Thad. He glanced at her again. They'd had a child. A girl, who carried her Aunt Thalia's name.

"I, um, usually change her in here but I'll find somewhere else." The woman backed away, whispering to the squirming child and tried Gracie's bedroom doorknob and slipped inside.

He ripped out the nail and found himself sweating. It was hard enough trying to avoid Gracie since having sex with her, adding more people in the house only made the fact that he didn't belong here harder to face.

"Lena?" yelled Thad from downstairs.

"Up here," shouted Lena back. "I'm changing Avi."

Rich slipped the flat blade screwdriver behind the molding and pried the top quarter away from the wall. It took all his concentration not to bust the long, thin piece of wood and rush the job.

"Gracie wants her sweatshirt off the bed," said Thad.

"I'll bring it down with me." Lena quieted her voice and talked with the baby. "Was that your daddy? Did you hear him, sweet baby?"

Caught up in someone else's conversation, he still stood in the doorway when Lena came out of the bedroom and caught him staring. She smiled and walked past him, bouncing the kid on her hip while holding a diaper bag and swinging a sweatshirt in her free hand.

"Where's Chuck?" asked Gracie, downstairs.

"Outside with Mr. B. having a cigar."

Hearing Glen's answer, Rich stepped over the Skilsaw and looked out the window. The hanging roofline over the front of the house blocked him from seeing who stood outside the front door. While the appearance of his friends shocked him at first at how they'd aged, he probably wouldn't even recognize Thalia's dad. He seemed old when he'd been a kid. Mr. B. had to be pushing seventy.

He returned to the door and squatted, working on the lower half of the molding. Movement passed in the hallway. He ignored everyone and gave a second thought to physically moving the sheetrock to the other wall so he could shut the damn door.

"Just starting?" asked Glen, hovering in the doorway.

He kept working to get the screwdriver behind the molding without breaking the wood. "You delivered the shit. No use wasting time."

"I'll pick up the paint whenever Gracie gives me an idea of what color she wants. She said something about changing it." Glen paused. "You know how women are."

No, he didn't. He'd never put much effort into caring what women wanted after he'd lost Thalia. He fucked those that offered and sent them away. Most of those women, he couldn't remember because he'd been three sheets to the wind.

At the end of the hallway, a toilet flushed. Rich pried the strip of molding off the wall and caught the top, lowering the wood to the floor and laying it next to the pile of sheetrock. When he stepped back to the door to work on the upper molding, a woman had joined Glen. For a second, he thought maybe Glen had had a kid early on until the woman kissed and leaned against his old friend's side.

The age difference came as a surprise. He couldn't remember Glen liking younger girls.

The next time he looked up, Glen was alone. Rich said, "She must keep you young."

Glen leaned against the doorframe and grunted. "She's lived a longer life than me."

He pounded the screwdriver tip against the side of the nail. The last thing he wanted to know was the history behind Glen and his woman. They were together. That's all that mattered.

"Don't wear yourself out." Glen knocked on the doorframe and walked away.

Left alone, he inhaled through a tight chest. Hit by laughter coming from downstairs, he ignored the trickle of sweat running down the side of his face. Later, when Gracie shut herself in her room, and everyone had left, he'd go look and see if they left any beer behind. All he needed was enough to relax him, and he'd be able to work faster.

The next half hour, he was able to remove the molding around three sides of the door and along the bottom of one wall. He moved the lamp and nightstand, and then moved to the end of the bed and pulled it away from the second wall far enough he could get behind the headboard.

There were spots of light tan paint at the edge of the molding near the floor. He used his thumbnail to scrape off the color. For such a new house, he was surprised Gracie had already redone the room once before.

"It used to be tan, but Wayne and the guys repainted and put new carpet in the room after Roy Jenkin's broke into the house and urinated on the floor," said Gracie behind him.

He stood and looked at her. Feeling sick at the mention of a name that had ruined Thalia's life and had tried to kill Gracie.

She shrugged. "We're all going to eat if you want to come downstairs and have some food. Camille, one of the part-time waitresses at Vavoom's, brought over burgers and potato salad from the bar."

Gracie appeared more relaxed having others in the house with her. The University of Portland sweatshirt she wore hid the curves he'd enjoyed the other night, and she kept her fingers hooked in the front pockets of her jeans.

His gut tightened. "Where's your purse?"

She cocked her hip and tilted her head. "Downstairs in the kitchen."

He'd never once seen her move around the house without her purse hung across her body. Even in the early hours of the morning when she stumbled out of her room in her pajamas to start the coffee maker, she wore her purse. She'd even stayed highly aware of the placement of her pistol on the nightstand when they'd had sex.

It irritated him that she felt comfortable around the Notus MC members and all the women involved with the men, but not him.

She moistened her lips. "Anyway, I just wanted to see if you wanted to—"

"I don't." He turned away from her and nudged the molding on the wall with the toe of his boot.

"Okay, well if you change your mind..." Her footsteps retreated.

Beyond the walls, a crowd laughed, talked, and gathered. He thrust his hands through his hair. An assembly of what he viewed as a family. People brought together from all directions in life who chose to be in each other's lives because they loved one another.

His own family growing up only consisted of him and his mom. He squatted and worked on removing the nails out of the molding. From as early as he could remember, his mom was an alcoholic. Coke and whiskey.

He'd called it a good day when his mom waited until lunch to drop those two ice cubes into the glass. Like a fire alarm, those two clinks signaled him to get out of the house. She never physically harmed him when drinking. She'd neglected him.

Most of the time, when the drinks started, he'd leave the house and hang out with Wayne, Thad, Glen, and Chuck.

For years, it'd been the five boys. They went to school together, played sports, and spent their free time together at each other's houses.

The only time he'd split his attention was when he'd noticed Thalia had gone from a pain in the ass little girl to a beautiful young woman. He'd practically moved into Mr. and Mrs. B's house to be with Thalia more.

The Bowers household was where he'd learned to respect women. Mr. B made sure he was out of Thalia's bedroom by nine o'clock every night—though he and Thalia had found ways around the curfew. Mrs. B had taught him how to appreciate the differences between him and Thalia.

At Wayne's house, Mrs. Shaw had reminded him every day to be responsible for his actions. She never shied away from swatting his ass and smacking him on the back of the head, right alongside Wayne, if they'd fucked up.

Chuck's parents had spoiled him. More like grandparents than parents, they never missed a birthday or Christmas. He'd received as many presents as Chuck. Which was one-hundred percent more than his own mother remembered.

The nail came out of the wall. He set to work on the next one.

He'd had dinner with Glen's parents more often than he had at home because Glen's mom had been the best cook on the block.

The screwdriver slipped off the nail. He fell back on his ass. Wiping his face, his hand came away wet. He was supposed to be a part of the people downstairs, but one action had removed him completely.

He no longer belonged.

"Rich?"

Recognizing Gracie's voice behind him, he sniffed and cleared his throat, picking up the hammer and screwdriver. "Yeah?"

His voice sounded foreign and rough. He kept his back to her and pretended interest in the wall.

"I decided to bring you a plate instead of making you come downstairs," said Gracie.

All that sweetness had come back in her voice. He grunted, his fingers tightening on the handle of the hammer. "Leave it and go back to your party."

She belonged to Notus. With everyone surrounding her, she'd heal and survive, and someday find a man who would love her and protect her.

He already hated the man who would steal her heart.

Turning around to find out why she wasn't saying anything, he found her gone. He closed his eyes in regret. She'd gone back to the people he knew would love her.