Not Just His Old Lady

per

dy hesitantly prepared for me. She framed it as "identifying i

but I never realized we were floating entirely on their generosi

with worry. "I just spoke with Brandy," she says, her voic

not wanting to admit the d

e club's Old Lady for thirty years; she knows how this works. "This is

," I lie, my jaw tight.

and you humiliated her. Go to her. Apologize. Not as a President, but as a man who

of Chloe's face when she dropped my necklac

ans crawling back to her, hat in hand, not for her

slamming my hand on the desk. "The Iron L

ope you find it before you lose everything worth having,

oe

uffocating, filled with whispers and the ghost of my life with

eather of the Iron Legion. I find myself outside a small, elegant bakery, "T

s of the clubhouse bar. I order a coffee and a p

y dressed in a tailored suit that looks out of place yet perfectly natural on him.

r Carlisle IV. President of the Royal

ough me. What is he doin

ory grins of the bikers I know. "Chloe Beaumont," he say

stantly up. My uninjured hand instinctive

Jasper Weeks," he replies, his tone neutral. But th

y, Carlisle places a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the co

esture. "I can pay

lue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Consid

ng from the President of t

es. "I hope your hand feels better soon," he say

he know about my hand? The B

ona is a small town," he says cryptically

eceived from my own club in weeks. Then he's gone, leaving me with my pastry, my coffee, an

C knows my name, knows I'm injured, and bought me a pastry. It makes no se