Page 19 of Cold as Stone
The rest of the night passes without incident. The MC table stays through last call, their voices low and serious as they discuss whatever club business brought them here. Lee doesn’t approach the bar again, but I feel his eyes on me throughout the evening—a steady, watchful presence that should annoy me but instead makes me feel strangely safe.
When they finally leave, Duck stops by the bar to settle their tab. “Good drinks, good service,” he says, dropping cash on the bar with a generous tip. “We’ll be back.”
“You’re always welcome here,” I tell him, and mean it.
He nods, then leans in slightly, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Anyone gives you trouble, you call.”
My throat goes tight. “Thank you.”
He straightens. “Night, Kya.”
They file out into the cold night air, engines roaring to life in the parking lot. I watch through the window as they disappear into the darkness, Lee bringing up the rear on his black Harley.
“You okay?” Mercy asks, starting to stack chairs on tables.
“Yeah,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure that’s true. “Just thinking.”
We’re adults now. Complicated, damaged adults with histories and baggage and no good reason to be circling each other like this.
I just hope we’re both smart enough not to do anything stupid.
4
LEE
My father, our President, raps his knuckles on the table. The room falls silent.
“Let’s bring this to order. Church is in session,” Stone says, his gaze flinty. Silver threads through his dark hair now, though he’s still young and fit at just forty-eight. Since divorcing my mom, he’s had club girls all over him but no real relationships. I don’t begrudge him that. He could have cheated on her years ago when she first left, but he stayed true until the papers were signed.
He’s a good father and an even better President. Our gazes meet across the table, and I can see that he’s missed nothing. Not the quiet edge in the air, and certainly not the unease of the members around the table.
Tank, our Vice President, opens with the update we all knew was coming. “Summit’s pushin’ again. Rezoning surveys went out last week to every resident in the western neighborhoods—Oakridge, Pinecrest, and all along Iron Way. They’re quiet about it, but they’re laying the groundwork for a takeover.”
Summit Development. That name’s been a curse on our town since the first slick brochure showed up in mailboxes. All shining smiles and luxury promises, offering to buy up land for big money, claiming they’d bring jobs, growth, and opportunity to our little patch of dust. For a while, it worked. People sold. Some needed the money. Some didn’t know better. But most? They stayed.
Turns out, Summit wasn’t interested in community. They wanted control. When the townsfolk didn’t take their offers, they started squeezing—buyouts, harassment, property disputes, fines. They’d drag old-timers to court over barely legible land rights, tip off inspectors to code violations, and bury folks in red tape and fines until giving up was easier than fighting.
We mostly put a stop to that a few months back. But now? They’re back and they aren’t fucking around.
Cash, our Treasurer, taps his fingers restlessly against the table. The guy’s a few years younger than me with a face that movie stars would kill to have. We’d give him shit for it if it wasn’t for the fact he’s the best damned accountant the club has ever had. He’s been tracking Summit’s finances like a bloodhound.
“They’re losing money, fast. They’ve had six failed buy attempts in the last two months. That’s not counting legal delays from the residents we’ve helped stall. Mrs. Wilson’s property alone has cost them nearly fifty grand in legal fees.”
“And that makes them dangerous,” Duck says, leaning forward. “Corner a wolf and you’d better be ready to bleed.”
White-bearded and barrel-chested, Duck’s retired these days, but he was Sergeant at Arms before Hawk. He’s the kind of manwhose words still carry weight when he chooses to speak. There’s nods from those around the table.
“Which is why we’re taking this seriously,” Stone says, glancing at Hawk. “Hawk’s found us a contact—Josie Bright. Lawyer. Quiet, effective, not local enough to scare off.”
Hawk is already scowling from his seat near the door. Our Sergeant at Arms, the guy is big, and built like a semi with a bad attitude. Hawk’s responsible for protecting the club from dangers—internal and external. He enforces the rules, and trust me, you don’t want to be on the receiving end when those rules get broken.
Unless you’re his kids. In which case, you get a free pass.
“The meet will be at Devil’s,” he says, and my jaw tightens.
It makes sense—Devil’s is neutral ground. We can make it appear as if the lawyer is just getting chatted up by one of the club, not taking a proper meeting. But hosting it there will mean putting Kya in Summit’s scope, and I’m not okay with that.
Fuck. This is not where my head needs to be right now.
