## Chapter 6: Club Business
The roar of motorcycles vibrated through Sadie's chest long before she saw them. She stood beside Jace's truck in the weed-choked lot behind the Iron Kings clubhouse, fingers white-knuckled around the paper grocery bag she'd insisted on carrying. Inside, the ingredients for her grandmother's banana bread felt like armor—something familiar she could offer these strangers who'd become her reluctant guardians.
"You ready for this?" Jace's voice carried an edge she hadn't heard during their quiet breakfast. He'd showered, trading yesterday's blood-stained shirt for black cotton that stretched across his shoulders like a second skin. The leather cut he shrugged into transformed him completely—gone was the man who'd traced her bruises with gentle fingers, replaced by something harder. More dangerous.
She wasn't ready. Would never be ready. But she'd learned that survival meant moving forward even when your knees shook. "Ready as I'll ever be."
The first bike rounded the corner, chrome gleaming in the morning sun. Then another. And another. By the time half a dozen motorcycles filled the lot, Sadie's heart hammered against her ribs. These weren't the weekend warriors who occasionally invaded her old coffee shop. These men wore their leather like skin, their cuts adorned with patches that told stories she'd need time to decode.
"President on deck!" The call came from a giant with arms like tree trunks and a beard shot through with silver. His grin revealed a gold tooth as he killed his engine. "Heard we got company."
Jace's hand found the small of her back, the touch both possessive and protective. "Sadie, meet Brick—our Sergeant at Arms. Brick, this is Sadie. She's under club protection."
Under club protection. The words sent ice through her veins. She wasn't just hiding anymore—she'd entered a world with its own rules, its own language. Its own justice.
Brick's pale eyes sized her up, missing nothing. The bruise she'd tried to conceal with makeup. The way she leaned into Jace's touch despite herself. "Anybody asks, you're my cousin from Tulsa," he said finally. "Got a daughter about your age. Anyone gives you shit, you come find me."
The next man dismounting was younger, maybe thirty, with dark hair pulled back in a man-bun that somehow looked threatening instead of hipster. Tattoos snaked up his neck—she caught glimpses of skulls and flames. "Ryder," Jace supplied. "Road Captain. Don't let the pretty hair fool you—he's killed more men than smallpox."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, prez." Ryder's smile didn't reach his coal-black eyes. "So this is the damsel causing all the drama."
"Ryder." One word, loaded with warning.
"What? Just making conversation." But he backed off, hands raised in mock surrender. "Welcome to the madhouse, princess. Try not to break anything."
More men materialized—Smoke, the club's enforcer who looked like he'd earned his nickname; Doc, older and leaner, with wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like a college professor gone feral; Youngblood, practically a kid with nervous energy that made her edgy. Each greeted Jace with the same ritual—embrace, back-slapping, murmured words she couldn't catch. Each studied her with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion.
"Where's the old ladies?" Jace asked Brick as the group headed toward the clubhouse's back entrance.
"Inside. Luna's been cooking since dawn—said if we're protecting civilians, we're feeding them proper." Brick shot Sadie a look. "She's territorial about her kitchen. Don't take it personal if she's... intense."
The clubhouse's back door opened into a commercial kitchen that had seen better decades. Stainless steel counters bore the scars of countless meals, and the air hung thick with the ghosts of fried food and cigarette smoke. Three women turned as they entered, and Sadie felt the temperature drop.
The redhead leaning against the counter had the kind of curves that made mortal women weep, her tank top leaving little to imagination. Fire-engine nails drummed against her hip as she studied Sadie like a bug under glass. "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."
"Ginger." The single word from Brick carried centuries of warning. "She's Jace's guest."
"Guest. Right." Ginger's laugh held no humor. "That's what we're calling it now?"
The woman chopping vegetables at the island was older, her dark hair streaked with silver and pulled back in a no-nonsense braid. She set down her knife with deliberate precision. "Enough. Sadie, I'm Luna. This is my kitchen—you're welcome here, but we do things my way."
Luna's appraising look was different from the others—less hostile, more assessing. "You cook?"
"My grandmother taught me. Said food was love you could taste."
Something shifted in Luna's expression. "Smart woman. You bake?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. We're having a party tonight—club tradition. New people bring dessert." It wasn't a request.
The third woman hadn't turned around, her back to the room as she stirred something on the stove. When she finally faced them, Sadie's breath caught. She was beautiful in an otherworldly way—high cheekbones, honey-brown skin, eyes the color of old whiskey. But it was the careful way she moved that made Sadie's instincts scream. This woman knew what it meant to be hurt by someone who claimed to love you.
"I'm Sage," she said quietly. "Ginger's sister. Ignore her—she's been in a mood since her old man got sent upstate."
"Fuck you, Sage." But Ginger's heart wasn't in it.
Sadie set her grocery bag on the counter, hands shaking only slightly as she unpacked bananas, butter, flour. "I could make banana bread. Or if you prefer something else..."
"Banana bread's fine." Luna returned to her chopping. "Sage, show her where everything is. Ginger, get the hell out of my kitchen if you can't play nice."
The next hours passed in a blur of measured domesticity. Sage, it turned out, was gentle and quietly efficient, directing Sadie to pans and ingredients with the patience of someone used to teaching. They worked in companionable silence, broken only by occasional questions.
"Your grandmother," Sage said eventually, measuring vanilla extract. "She raise you?"
"Mostly. My mom... wasn't around much. Dad left when I was little."
"Grandmothers are good for that—filling the gaps others leave." Sage's hands stilled on the measuring spoon. "The man you're running from. He find you once?"
The question hung between them like smoke. Sadie considered lying, but something in Sage's eyes stopped her. This woman knew. Really knew. "Yes."
"And Jace... he handled it?"
"Yes."
Sage nodded slowly. "Then you're safer here than anywhere. Jace doesn't make promises he can't keep. It's... it's who he is."
Outside the kitchen, the clubhouse began to fill. Doors slammed. Male voices rose and fell in patterns she was learning to decode—laughter, negotiation, the occasional sharp-edged argument that made her flinch. Through it all, the kitchen remained her sanctuary, the familiar rhythms of baking anchoring her to something resembling normal.
By late afternoon, three loaves of banana bread cooled on wire racks, alongside a pan of brownies Sage had whipped up when Sadie's nervous energy threatened to overflow. The domestic normalcy felt surreal—here she was, making dessert for a motorcycle gang while her ex-husband probably tore apart the state looking for her.
"You did good," Luna said, inspecting Sadie's work with the critical eye of a general reviewing troops. "Now go get cleaned up. Party starts in two hours, and you look like hell."
The bathroom Luna directed her to was surprisingly clean, though the decor ran to utilitarian motorcycle chic—concrete floors, industrial fixtures, a shower curtain featuring a buxom blonde riding a chopper. Sadie studied her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror and winced. The bruise had bloomed into an ugly purple-yellow, makeup doing little to conceal it. Her eyes held the hollow look of someone who'd been running too long.
She showered quickly, washing away flour and fear in equal measure. The clothes Luna had provided—dark jeans and a black tank top—fit well enough, though she felt exposed without her usual layers of armor. But it was the woman in the mirror who made her pause. She looked... harder. Edges sharpened by necessity. The girl who'd served lattes and smiled at customers felt like a memory.
The party was in full swing when she emerged. The common room—an enormous space with exposed beams and walls covered in motorcycle memorabilia—teemed with bodies. Music pounded from speakers mounted high on the walls, something heavy with guitar riffs that seemed to pulse in her bones. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, alcohol, and the particular musk of too many people in one space.
She spotted Jace across the room, surrounded by his men. He'd changed into a fresh black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders, his cut worn like a crown. Even in the dim light, he commanded attention—not through volume or posturing, but through the quiet authority of a man comfortable with power. When he laughed at something Ryder said, the sound was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Stick close to me," Sage appeared at her elbow, voice pitched to carry over the music. "Some of these assholes need reminding about boundaries."
They moved through the crowd like swimmers cutting through rough water. Sadie felt eyes tracking their progress—curious, assessing, occasionally hostile. She caught snippets of conversation:
"...prez's new piece..."
"...heard she's got trouble trailing her..."
"...better not bring heat down on us..."
At the bar, a mountain of a man with a ZZ Top beard and arms like Christmas hams blocked their path. "Well, well. Fresh meat."
"Back off, Tiny." Sage's voice could have frozen hell. "She's under protection."
"Didn't say she wasn't. Just being friendly." But Tiny stepped aside, his grin revealing several gold teeth. "Welcome to the zoo, pretty girl. Try not to get eaten."
Sadie followed Sage to a relatively quiet corner where two other women sat at a high-top table. The blonde introduced herself as Crystal, old lady to Doc, while the brunette—Maria—belonged to Smoke. Both greeted her with careful courtesy, the kind extended to unknown quantities.
"It's not always like this," Crystal explained, shouting over the music. "Usually it's just the core group—prospects and hang-arounds get brought in for special occasions."
"What makes this special?"
The women exchanged looks. "You," Maria said finally. "New blood in the inner circle—that's news. Plus word is your trouble might become club trouble."
Before Sadie could respond, the energy in the room shifted. She felt it like a physical thing—conversations stalling, backs straightening, attention turning toward the bar where Jace now stood rigid. Following the collective gaze, she saw what had caused the reaction.
A man she didn't recognize had entered through the front door, flanked by two others wearing different patches. Not Iron Kings—something with a snake coiled around a dagger. The newcomer was tall and lean, with the kind of careful grooming that screamed city money. His smile was all teeth and no warmth.
"Carlito," Jace's voice carried despite not raising it. "Didn't know we had business."
"We don't. Yet." Carlito's gaze swept the room, lingering on Sadie with predatory interest. "Heard you were expanding your hospitality services. Thought I'd see for myself."
The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Sadie felt Sage's hand grip her arm tight enough to bruise. Around them, Iron Kings shifted position—subtle movements that created a human barrier between her and the newcomers.
"Your information's outdated," Jace replied, moving toward the bar with fluid grace. "Nothing here concerns the Serpents."
"Everything concerning territory concerns us." Carlito accepted a beer from the bartender, taking his time with the first swallow. "Word is you've taken in a stray. Some might see that as... weakness."
The word hung in the air like a challenge. Sadie's heart hammered as she watched Jace's hands—the left one flexing, the right staying dangerously still. When he spoke, his voice had gone soft and deadly.
"Some might. Those some would be wrong."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Carlito's smile widened. "But the question remains—what happens when the stray brings wolves to your door? Do Iron Kings really want to go to war over some damaged pussy?"
The crack of Jace's fist connecting with Carlito's jaw was sharp as a gunshot. One moment the man was smirking, the next he was sprawled across the bar, blood streaming from his nose. Chaos erupted—Serpents reaching for weapons, Iron Kings moving to intercept, women scrambling for safety.
Sadie froze, terror rooting her to the spot as the room exploded into violence. This wasn't like the controlled brutality Jace had shown her ex-husband—this was raw, primal, a glimpse into the world she'd stumbled into. Fists flew. Bottles shattered. The heavy thud of flesh meeting flesh provided a bass line to shouted curses and war cries.
Through it all, Jace moved like something out of a nightmare. He hauled Carlito up by his shirt, landing three precise blows that left the Serpent leader dazed and bleeding. When one of Carlito's men pulled a knife, Jace disarmed him with casual efficiency, breaking the man's wrist with a sickening crunch.
"Enough!" The word cut through the melee like a blade. Brick stood on the bar, shotgun in hand, face carved from stone. "Next motherfucker to throw a punch gets ventilated."
The fight drained out of the room as quickly as it had erupted. Serpents helped their wounded to their feet, Carlito spitting blood as he glared at Jace.
"This isn't over," he promised, voice thick and wet.
"No," Jace agreed, stepping close enough that their faces nearly touched. "It's not. But remember this moment when you're thinking about coming back. Remember that I showed you mercy. Next time, I won't."
The Serpents retreated, dragging their wounded with them. The silence they left behind felt fragile, ready to shatter at the wrong word. Sadie noticed Maria comfort Crystal, who shook with silent tears. Sage's grip on her arm hadn't loosened.
"Party's over," Luna announced from the kitchen doorway, voice carrying authority. "Everyone not bleeding, grab a trash bag. We've got thirty minutes before the cops show up to ask questions nobody's gonna answer."
The efficiency of the cleanup surprised Sadie. Within minutes, the common room transformed from battlefield to merely messy, broken glass swept away, blood wiped from surfaces. She found herself beside Jace at the bar, where he cleaned his knuckles with a bottle of cheap whiskey.
"Your hand—"
"Fine." His voice was rough, not quite human. "You shouldn't have seen that."
"I've seen worse."
"No." He turned to face her fully, and she saw the beast barely leashed behind his eyes. "You haven't. What your husband did—that's nothing compared to what I'm capable of. What this life demands."
She wanted to argue, but the words died in her throat. Because looking at him now—blood on his shirt, violence still humming in his muscles—she understood she'd glimpsed something fundamental. This wasn't just a man who rode motorcycles and bent rules. This was a predator who'd claimed her as his territory.
"Carlito will be back," Jace continued, voice flat. "Not tomorrow, maybe not next week. But he'll come, and he'll bring more than three men. This is what protection means, Sadie. Not just locks on doors and rides in trucks. It's blood and consequence. It's choosing sides in a war that never really ends."
Around them, the clubhouse slowly returned to something resembling normal. The music resumed, quieter now. Conversations restarted, though tension lingered like smoke. But Sadie could see the cost in the way people moved—careful, aware, ready.
"I didn't mean to bring this to your door," she whispered.
"Doesn't matter what you meant. It's here now." He set down the whiskey, studying her face with an intensity that made her skin crawl and ignite simultaneously. "You want to leave? Say the word. I'll put you on a bus tonight, send you somewhere far enough that maybe they won't find you."
The offer hung between them like a lifeline. She could run again—new name, new city, new life built on ashes of the old. But she'd tried that already, hadn't she? Tried and failed, because some ghosts refused to stay buried.
"And if I stay?"
Something shifted in his expression—too quick to name, gone before she could catalogue it. "Then you stay. No more running. No more hiding. You stand and fight, even when it's ugly. Especially when it's ugly."
She thought of Carlito's smile, of the way he'd looked at her like she was already meat. Thought of the careful way these dangerous men had positioned themselves between her and harm. Thought of Jace's fist connecting with flesh, not in anger but in primitive defense of what he'd claimed as his.
"I'm tired of running," she said simply.
The kiss came without warning—or maybe she'd been moving toward it since the moment he'd first touched her. His mouth crashed against hers with the force of everything unsaid between them, hard enough to bruise. She tasted whiskey and violence, desperation and something darker that should have terrified her.
Instead, she met him with equal force, fingers tangling in his hair as she pressed closer. This wasn't gentle or romantic—it was raw claiming, two damaged things finding temporary solace in shared heat. His hands branded her waist through thin cotton, lifting her against him until her feet left the ground.
Around them, the party resumed with renewed vigor—Iron Kings celebrating survival, life continuing in the face of death's shadow. But Sadie was lost in the slide of tongues, the scrape of teeth, the way Jace groaned into her mouth like she was salvation and damnation in equal measure.
When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard. His pupils had swallowed the blue of his eyes, leaving only black desire and lingering violence.
"Not like this," he ground out, voice barely human. "Not with blood on my hands and war on the horizon."
"Jace—"
"No." He set her away with careful control, hands lingering like he couldn't quite let go. "When I take you—and I will take you, Sadie—it won't be because we both need to forget what we just saw. It'll be because you want me, not the protection I offer. Not the devil you know instead of the one you're running from."
She stared at him, mouth swollen from his kiss, heart racing with emotions too tangled to name. "And how will you know the difference?"
"Because by then, you'll know exactly what I am. What this life means. And you'll choose it anyway." His thumb traced her lower lip, the touch gentler than she expected from a man still vibrating with violence. "Go find Sage. Let her show you where you'll sleep. Tomorrow, we start teaching you how to be dangerous."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight, I drink until I stop seeing Carlito's blood on my knuckles. Until I stop thinking about all the ways I'd kill anyone who tried to hurt you." His smile was sharp enough to cut. "Welcome to the Iron Kings, princess. Try to survive the night."
She left him there, surrounded by his men and ghosts, understanding that she'd just been given a glimpse of her future. Not safety, exactly. Not peace. But something maybe more honest—a place where violence was currency and protection came with prices she was only beginning to understand.
Sage found her by the kitchen, eyes knowing but kind. "Come on. I'll show you the guest room. It's not much, but the door locks."
As they climbed the stairs to the second floor, Sadie caught sight of Jace through the railing, accepting a fresh beer from Brick. Their eyes met across the distance, and even through smoke and shadow, she felt the promise in his gaze.
Not yet. But soon.
The guest room was small and sparse, but the locks on the door were solid. She laid in the narrow bed, listening to the party wind down below, wondering if she should feel grateful or terrified. Probably both. Definitely both.
Tomorrow, she'd start learning how to be dangerous. Tonight, she'd survive on the memory of a kiss that tasted like whiskey and war, given by a man who'd drawn blood in her name and then sent her away for her own good.
Outside her window, motorcycles fired up one by one, Iron Kings heading home to whatever waited beyond the clubhouse walls. She thought about choices and consequences, about running and standing still. About the way it felt to be wanted by someone who understood that survival sometimes required blood.
Tomorrow would bring its own battles. Tonight, she let herself imagine what it might feel like to stop running for good.