Page 30 of Cold as Stone
7
LEE
The night air bites through my leather as I ride, the wind doing nothing to cool the anger still simmering under my skin. Hours after storming out of Devil’s, my knuckles still ache from gripping the handlebars too tight, my jaw sore from clenching.
Stubborn. Infuriating. Impossible woman.
I’d spent the afternoon at the clubhouse, going over security plans with Stone and Axel, trying to focus on club business instead of replaying that argument in my head. But Kya’s words kept echoing, sharp and defensive.
I don’t need your protection.
Yes, she fucking does. The whole damn town needs the MC’s protection right now. And maybe she doesn’t want it, but that’s just too bad. I’m not willing to see her hurt again.
The roads are quiet at this hour, most of Stoneheart already tucked in for the night. I take the long way home, letting the engine’s rumble work through some of my frustration. The coldhelps clear my head, and with each mile, my anger cools into something closer to regret.
I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Shouldn’t have pushed so hard.
But damn it, doesn’t she understand what she’s up against? Summit isn’t some small-time operation she can face down with that sharp tongue and stubborn pride. They’re dangerous—connected—and they don’t take kindly to people standing in their way.
People like Kya.
I slow as I approach the familiar intersection, automatically glancing toward Devil’s. The place should be dark—it’s well past closing—but light spills from the windows, warm against the night’s chill. Her car sits alone in the lot, the dented Subaru yet another relic she’d bought off Devil.
Before I can think better of it, I’m pulling in, killing the engine in front of the bar.
Just checking, I tell myself. Making sure everything’s locked up tight. That’s all.
The front door is locked when I try it, but I can hear music drifting faintly from inside, something old and bluesy that I can’t quite place. I move around to the back entrance and find it unlocked, a sliver of light visible beneath.
Not smart, Kya. Not with Summit circling.
I push the door open carefully, alert for any sign of trouble. The music grows louder—Etta James, I realize—along with the distinctive smell of fresh paint.
I follow the scent down the back hallway, where I find her.
Kya stands on a stepladder, painting the upper portion of the wall a deep forest green. She’s traded her usual jeans and top for paint-splattered overalls rolled up at the cuffs, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. There’s a smudge of paint on her cheek, and her bare feet peek out from beneath the frayed denim.
She looks younger like this, softer somehow. Less the defiant bar owner and more the girl I remember—the one who used to sit cross-legged on our porch swing with Emma, sharing secrets and laughter.
Something tightens in my chest at the sight.
I must make some noise because she turns, startled, nearly dropping her brush.
“Jesus!” She presses a hand to her chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Door was unlocked,” I say by way of explanation. “Not exactly smart with Summit sniffing around.”
Her expression closes off, walls going up so fast I can almost hear them slam into place. “I’m fine.”
“Painting at midnight is your definition of ‘fine’?”
“It’s therapeutic.” She turns back to her work, pointedly ignoring me. “What do you want, Lee?”
Good question. What am I doing here? Checking on her? Picking another fight?
Apologizing?
“Your car was the only one in the lot,” I say, which isn’t really an answer. “Wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
