Wolf.e: A Dark MC Romance
Wolf.e: Chapter 4

The sound of cicadas buzzing and birds chirping wake me from my sleep, which tells me it is no longer early morning. I pull my mom’s comforter up over my face. Thankfully, when I got to my family home last night, I found it still in one piece and critter free. My parents’ old house is massive. It sits on over an acre of land and is stately. It hasn’t changed décor-wise since I was a kid, and it was definitely an eerie homecoming. The once warm halls, which used to echo with Mom’s favorites—Reba McIntyre or worship music—were silent and sterile with everything covered in sheets. It felt more like the typical haunted houses you see in old movies. All my mother’s clothing was donated, and her fancy dishes were packed in bins on raised shelves.

My aunt did a good job of hiring a preservation company to seal this place up before she moved away with her new husband last year. All the pillows and bedding were still vacuum sealed in the linen closet and almost still smelled fresh when I pulled them out and made the bed.

I did fear for my foot going right through the rotted boards of my wraparound front porch when I made my way up the old creaky steps last night. But aside from that, everything seems to be okay, which is a relief.

I rub my eyes and glance at the time. 10:30 a.m. I check my phone out of habit for any calls from Evan. There are none.

“Day one of a new life,” I say as I blow out a deep breath and stand, pulling on my slippers. I plan to spend my day both unpacking and getting the house feeling like a home again. But first, I have to head to town, get some sort of coffee and grab a few things, including a dress for Layla’s wedding because that is definitely not something I brought with me.

My phone buzzes with two texts from Layla before I even get out the door.

I sigh.

I picture the men with her last night. I can still recall the smell of leather and smoke. No way. Not my type whatsoever.

After my shower, I toss on a white tank top and tie a black and white flannel around my waist. I add a pair of worn in cut off jean shorts and my Birkenstocks. My hair is tossed in a clip before heading out the door. I almost put my foot through the front porch again.

“Son of a—” I start to say to myself.

“Probably termites,” a vaguely familiar voice says to me from next door. My eyes snap to the direction of the voice and I recognize its owner almost instantly.

“Hi, Mr. Kennedy. It’s been a long time,” I say.

He looks older. I think he’s close to eighty by now.

“Yep, but I’m still kicking.” His white mustache wiggles and his weathered face is in a broad smile as he holds a trusty pair of clipping shears, working on his hedges bordering twenty feet from my driveway. “Are you back for good? Nice to see some life over there, honey.”

He was always such a sweet man. His wife cooked for us for two weeks when my dad died.

“Not sure yet,” I say honestly, yet I have no idea where else I would go.

“Well, I can give you the number of a local contractor to look at that porch, it’s gonna cost you a pretty penny, though. The mites are the worst. All you can do is hope they aren’t in the house too.”

Shit. I hadn’t thought of that.

“Thanks, but my savings account doesn’t warrant a pretty penny at the moment.” I smile ruefully.

Mr. Kennedy stops trimming his hedges thinking for a moment.

“Well, if you fixed up that old truck of your dad’s and put it up for sale, that may help.” He gets back to trimming.

“Alchemy Customs. It’s a garage on Bleeker. They do all types of bodywork. They’re the best. Even have some famous clients. They could fix that rust up and give it a paint job, then you could probably sell it easily. Your dad always kept what was under the hood in tip top shape, if it needs any inside work, there’s a garage right next door to Alchemy.” I look toward the garage; I hadn’t even thought about the truck. “I reckon you could maybe even get upwards of twenty thousand. Unless you were planning on keeping it.” He winks.

I was not.

That old 1950 Ford F1 was my dad’s pride and joy. But it’s been rusting for years. I know my mom had it started a few years ago, I just don’t know if it would even run now to get to this Alchemy Customs. I thank Mr. Kennedy and make a mental note to try this week. I can at least get a quote. It’s sad to let it go but the house not falling apart is more important.

Thirty minutes later, the June sun in downtown Harmony is striking as usual. Our little town is just as pretty as it always was. We get tourists in the summer with cottages on the lake and it’s bustling. Our local coffee shop, The Balanced Bean, remains but now houses an outdoor patio with covered roof and twinkle lights. The block I remember empty last time I was here is full of small shops, save for a few vacant spaces. A yoga studio, boutique bookstore, a milkshake parlor, some restaurants. It’s vibrant and pleasant.

I notice the design center on main across from the coffee shop. It has a peaked roof over the entrance to make it appear like a cozy front porch. Crimson Homes, the rustic sign hanging on two chains from the peak reads. But the reason I stop isn’t to admire the pretty building design. It’s the Now Hiring sign on the door. No details what they’re hiring for. Harmony, Georgia may be the only place left on earth that still puts help wanted signs in the window.

I look down at my casual outfit. I don’t have anything with me and I’m not exactly dressed to interview but I decide to go for it anyway. I pull off the flannel that’s tied around my waist and put it on, buttoning it up and tucking it in then pull the clip from my hair and fluff it around my shoulders. Maybe I’ll get lucky. I push the door open with a tiny ding and walk around. The space is vast and beautiful. Flooring, lighting, and tile samples adorn the walls and aisles—everything you could imagine for new home design and more.

“Can I help you?” a voice asks from behind me as I’m running my fingers over a rather pretty mosaic.

I turn to face it and smile wide as I’m met with Layla’s older brother.

“Dell?!”

“Wow, Brinley!” he says as we stand awkwardly suspended in time before he moves forward to give me a little side hug.

“I didn’t know you were in town. Are you visiting?” he asks at the same time I ask, “How are you?”

He smiles. He’s tall, fit with dark blonde hair and he wears a button down and slacks.

“I’m here to stay. I think. That’s why I came in. I’m a designer and you’re hiring. What for?” I point to the sign in the window.

“Yeah, we are. I’m not the owner, I’m the on-staff architect. Custom builds division. They’re great to work for, it’s a really easy-going environment.The position they’re hiring for isn’t a designer per se, but similar. You’d be able to help people plan their dream homes. What are your qualifications now? You were taking structural design in Seattle right? I could put in a word?”

“I was but I switched to Interior…”

We talk for a few minutes about my experience, my degree, and their build load. As luck would have it, the owner makes his way back part way through our conversation. We chat easily for another ten minutes. I leave with the promise of sending my resume and the owner telling me he’ll call me over the weekend after he reviews it.

I pop my sunglasses on and smile into the sun feeling pretty confident I may already have a new job lined up as I breeze out the door, waving goodbye to Dell as I go.

Home one day.

That’s how it’s done, I think to myself with a grin. With a new job possibly secured, maybe I will fix up my dad’s old truck to sell after all. I could use some of my savings to pay for the repair then recoup it after, if it’s not too much.

I hustle into the trendy coffee shop, humming one of my mom’s favorite Reba songs and grab my latte before sitting outside in the sun. I scroll through truck ads resembling my dad’s model and happily replace they are going for even more than Mr. Kennedy thought when restored. I’m only part way through my latte before I hear them.

The low rumble of Harleys. It’s like the town anthem. No one seems to look or care when the four bikes pull up to the next block of buildings. They park almost directly in front of me in a perfectly choreographed backed-in slant. I watch them from my periphery, the chrome and metal glimmering in the afternoon sun. They almost cause my wrought iron table to shake against the concrete with their final rumble before the engines are cut.

I don’t need to see the back of their leather vests to know they’re members of the Hounds of Hell but the wolf skull glaring at me as they park and pop their kicks just solidifies it.

I instantly recognize two of them from last night in Savannah. The one with the Enforcer patch and the other with the Gunnar patch. They’re big men, the Gunnar has wavy hair pulled back in a type of man bun that looks anything but dainty.

Two more get off their bikes and pull their helmets off—one is skinnier, older, and has spiky blonde hair and his patch says Road Runner.

My eyes move to… the largest man in the group. As he pulls his helmet off I’m stricken, yet I can’t look away. He’s the closest to me, and he was definitely not in Savannah last night.

My palms instantly start to sweat as he hangs his helmet from his grip with his large, sculpted hands. He faces my direction and looks around, scanning the area like he’s the arriving king, watching for any threat.

I glance up again, watching him move with a heavy grace, struggling to keep my mouth closed as I drink him in, almost in slow motion. He’s tall, maybe six-foot-four or six-foot-five and he’s wide and solid. He’s a real Jason Momoa type—part Khal Drogo, part outlaw.

Normally, I would do the proper thing and turn my eyes from a man like this. I’ve been trained since the age of twelve about the kind of man who would be right for me and the kind of man who would hurt me, but something about him transfixes me.

He isn’t just existing, it’s like the world rotates around him.

He wears a thin white t-shirt under what appears to be his leather club vest, his powerful arms strain against the fabric. Dog tags peek out from the neckline, glinting in the sunlight that suddenly feels so much warmer.

He’s military? I did not expect that.

From what I can see, his body is a vast landscape, a terrain of rippled muscle, and, apart from his face, he’s covered in ink.

The bold tattoos creep up his neck, over his hands, forearms, and fingers. A portrait of a woman done in a Day of the Dead style on his forearm is haunting and I wonder who she is before imagining all the ink I can’t see because of his clothes.

His dark brown hair is pushed back, it doesn’t seem overly long but what is there is secured at the nape of his neck, a few wisps have gone astray. His beard is a shade darker than his hair and groomed but gruff—like everything he does is on purpose.

His face turns to mine as he pulls off his sunglasses and strides up onto the sidewalk in front of me. I wish my pair was shielding my eyes instead of sitting on top of my head so I could watch him without shame. His cheekbones are high and straight, his jaw, wide and square. His eyes start at my sandals as he moves, slowly raking over me in the few seconds he glances at me. When they meet mine, I notice they’re startling, almost inhuman and the lightest shade of gray I’ve ever seen. It’s almost like time stands in a suspended still.

His gaze is hot, like a branding iron held too close to my skin, and he stares at me without regret, like he has the right to know exactly who I am and why I’m here.

I cross my leg over the other and force myself to break the trance he holds me in, doing my best to be casual and focus on the mural wall of the coffee shop, pulling my sunglasses down and willing my heart to stop beating so fast.

The group of them is close now and one of the other men speaks to him. I feel it pull his stare away. I breathe out deeply as he moves out of my direct sight. I can’t hear what they’re saying but there’s no question to me that the man I can’t keep my eyes off of is in charge. He commands everyone’s attention and as he talks to the other men at the vacant building next door. I can smell his leather and spice scent mixed with a hint of smoke. I eye the patch on his chest when he isn’t looking.

President.

The president’s voice is deep and steady. They spend the next few minutes talking to a man in a suit while I drink my coffee and pick at my blueberry muffin. They move as they talk about the exterior of the buildings. When I see that they’re heading inside, I stand and gather my purse to escape as fast as I can into the dress shop next door.

I blow out a breath and try my best to push the president’s startling presence from my mind. Any questions I have about him will probably always go unanswered because I’ll never ask them out loud.

He looks like the kind of dark mystery I would drown in.

I sift through the aisles and select some dresses for trying. As my breath returns to normal, I tell myself maybe I’m building these people up in my mind.

My parents didn’t force a sheltered life on me, but they definitely preyed on fear to keep me safe. Fear of God, fear of unsavory people, fear of my own choices. Probably to keep me away from Hounds of Hell members or people like them.

I don’t know why on Earth I do it, but I listen to Layla and go with a light blue dress, almost the color of my eyes. It’s off the shoulder with long billowy sleeves structured at the waist where it flairs outward and lands at my mid thigh. It’s shorter than I’d normally choose for my life in Atlanta but I feel sexy in it… and screw it, I have no one to appease but me. It’s just the kind of dress Evan would have said is “a little inappropriate” and something about that makes me want it even more. The best part is the back, it’s wide open to almost the center, and I hold my hair up in the mirror to see how it would look if I wear it up.

I select another for the rehearsal dinner, equally as short and revealing, but this time it’s pale yellow and strapless, it makes my breasts look amazing and has a chiffon-like feel to it and a high-low hemline.

I thank the cashier and internally cry over the fact that the two dresses cost over two hundred and fifty dollars I don’t really have. I remind myself that’s looking up, since I might have just scored a job and maybe can fix up my dad’s old truck to sell.

I push the front door open, stuffing the receipt into my purse, making a beeline for my car. I glance around but don’t see the bikes or the bikers that were talking beside the coffee shop anymore. It’s probably a good thing. As captivating as he was, something about his eyes shook me to my core. The last thing I need, for my safety and my heart rate, is to be on the radar of the Hounds of Hell president.