Fun004

I was his wife. His ol'lady. But when a clubhouse party turned violent and I hit the floor bleeding, my biker Diego, VP of the Ruin Saints MC, never reached for me. He crosses the room for Scarlet Stout, his ex. The floor came up ugly and fast. Glass bit into my forearm, hot and immediate. I looked for Diego. He was already moving. For one stupid, aching second, I thought he was coming toward me. Diego crossed the room with the kind of speed that made men clear out. His hand went out. To Scarlet. He put himself between her and the fight, his arm around her shoulders. And I stayed on the floor. I struggled to stand. I walked towards him, every step pulling at the cut in my arm. Diego turned. His face changed when he saw the blood on my arm. "You protected her," I said. His throat worked. "I didn't see you go down." "No," I said. "You didn't. You saw Scarlet standing." I looked at him then. Really looked. At the man who had put his name on my back and missed me bleeding at his feet. I shrugged the leather off my shoulders. Property of Diego McCall. Never again. "Your instinct went to her. Your loyalty went to her. I don't want it any more." —— "Tell your boy to quit running his mouth before I staple it shut." Bellamy West heard Niko Farrell say it from the end of the bar, right where the concrete floor dipped under the weight of too many beer coolers and old oil stains. The Ruin Saints clubhouse was packed shoulder to shoulder, patched men, visiting riders, prospects in black tees, women with sharp perfume and sharper eyes. Bellamy balanced two bottles of beer between her fingers and kept moving, because stopping in this place gave people permission to study her. The patch on her back made space for her. Property of Diego McCall. White letters on black leather. Thick stitching. Diego had ordered it done by hand in Tucson because he said cheap thread had no business carrying his name. Bellamy had pretended to roll her eyes when he gave it to her, but she had worn it home with her hand pressed flat against the passenger seat, afraid to crease it before anyone else saw. Three years later, some women still looked at the patch before they looked at her face. "Bell." Diego's voice cut through the bass thumping from the corner speakers. He stood near the pool table with one hand resting on a cue, black cut over a gray shirt, dark hair pushed back from his forehead. The VP patch on his chest made men check themselves before they spoke too loud around him. His eyes moved over her once, quick and assessing, stopping at the beers in her hand and the man edging too close behind her. Bellamy lifted the bottles. "One's yours if you stop watching me like I'm crossing a highway blindfolded." "I've seen how you cross highways." "That jackrabbit had a death wish." His mouth did not smile all the way, but the corner moved. With Diego, that counted. He took one bottle from her and let his fingers brush the inside of her wrist, right over the small crescent scar from the first tattoo machine she had rebuilt wrong at twenty-three. He remembered every mark on her body better than he remembered birthdays. For one second, the clubhouse narrowed to that touch. Then a woman laughed from the doorway, and half the room turned. Scarlet Stout came in wearing cream denim, red boots, and the kind of confidence that never checked whether it was welcome. She did not pause at the threshold. She never had to. Men shifted around her before she reached them, stepping aside with their beers tucked against their chests. Bennett King bussed her cheek. Niko raised his chin. Even the visiting riders from the Mesa charter watched her like someone had pointed out the president's daughter in a room where rank still mattered after death, divorce, and time. Scarlet was not the president's daughter anymore, technically. Her father had been buried behind the old chapel on Route 87 six years ago. But the clubhouse kept old titles alive when it suited them. Bellamy took a slow drink of beer and tasted lime, metal cap, and the bitterness of knowing exactly who had gone quiet. Scarlet's gaze found Diego first. Of course it did. It always did, like she had an old map of the room and he was the landmark she trusted most. "Diego," she said. Not VP. Not McCall. Diego. Bellamy watched his hand settle on the pool cue. A small thing. Anyone else would have missed it. Bellamy did not miss Diego's small things. She had built a life learning what his silence weighed. "Scarlet," he answered. Scarlet came close enough that Bellamy caught the sweet edge of her perfume, expensive rose and something powdery. "Bellamy. You look good." "Thanks." Bellamy tilted her bottle toward the bar. "You too. That white denim's brave in this room." A few men laughed. Scarlet's smile stayed neat. "I'm just here to see Bennett," Scarlet said. "Don't worry." Bellamy hated the way worry landed between them, dressed up as a joke. Diego set his beer down. "Everything all right?" "There's a problem with my car. Bennett said someone could look at it." "At nine on a Friday night?" Bellamy asked. Scarlet's eyes flicked to her patch. "I didn't realize repair hours were formal now." "They're not," Diego said, before Bellamy could answer. "Leave the keys with Tony. I'll have someone check it." Scarlet's smile softened for him. "You always did know how to fix things." The room did what rooms like that did. It listened while pretending not to. A cue ball cracked against the eight ball. Someone near the jukebox coughed into his fist. Behind the bar, Victoria York lined clean glasses along a towel with the careful attention of a woman who had survived forty years by never being caught watching. Bellamy set her bottle down too hard. Beer foamed up the neck. Diego looked at her. She looked back. There were conversations couples had in public without moving their mouths. This one was old, rubbed raw from use. Not here, his eyes said. Where, then? hers answered. A visiting rider near the bar solved that by being stupid. "Scarlet Stout," the man drawled, loud enough for everyone to hear. He wore a Mesa charter patch and a sweat-darkened bandanna under his cut. "Heard stories about you. Didn't figure you'd still be hanging around the Saints, not after Diego traded up." The words snapped through the room. Bellamy's fingers curled around the bottle, slick with condensation. Not because of the insult to Scarlet. Because of the shape of it. Traded up. Like women were bikes. Like Bellamy's whole history could be priced, compared, mocked, and filed under clubhouse entertainment. Scarlet went still. Diego put down the pool cue. Niko moved first, shouldering away from the bar. "You want to repeat that?" The Mesa rider laughed, drunk enough to feel brave. "Relax. I'm complimenting the man." "You're breathing through teeth you want to keep," Niko said. Bennett's voice came from the far table. "Enough." But the Mesa rider had already turned toward Bellamy, eyes sliding over the front of her cut, her black tank, the silver rings on her fingers. "No offense, sweetheart. Everybody knows Diego likes charity cases." The bottle left Bellamy's hand before she decided to throw it. It hit the wall beside his head and burst in a spray of beer and brown glass. The music kept playing for half a beat after the room stopped moving. Diego said her name once. Low. Warning. Bellamy's chest rose against the edge of her cut. "Say it again." The Mesa rider lunged, not at her exactly, more toward the insult he thought he could still win. Niko caught him by the shoulder. Someone shoved from behind. A chair toppled. Beer slicked the floor. The whole bar seemed to tilt, bodies pressing in, boots scraping, men grabbing for cuts and arms. Bellamy stepped back from the first rush and caught her hip on a table corner. Pain sparked down her thigh. A hand hit her shoulder, hard, not aimed but careless. She stumbled into the narrow gap near the broken bottle. "Move!" someone shouted. She tried. Her boot slid on beer. The floor came up ugly and fast. Her palm slapped concrete. Glass bit into her forearm, hot and immediate. A boot clipped the chair beside her head. The room became denim knees, leather backs, spilled whiskey, the sour smell of old tobacco smoke trapped in wood paneling. Bellamy pushed onto one elbow. Blood ran from a cut near her wrist, bright against the black ink of the snake she had tattooed on herself during a slow Tuesday at the shop. She looked for Diego because her body still believed in habits her mind had started questioning. He was already moving. For one stupid, aching second, she thought he was coming toward her. Diego crossed the room with the kind of speed that made men clear out. His shoulder knocked the Mesa rider backward. His hand went out. To Scarlet. Scarlet stood pinned near the bar, one hand at her throat, her face pale under the neon beer sign. Diego put himself between her and the fight, his arm around her shoulders as a bottle shattered behind them. He bent close to her ear, said something Bellamy could not hear, then lifted her through the gap Niko made with his body. Bellamy stayed on the floor. Her blood touched the spilled beer and thinned pink across the concrete. No one saw her. No, that was not true. Kai Holt saw her. The prospect was barely twenty-four, all elbows and earnest eyes, still wearing the plain black shirt that meant he fetched ice, cleaned up vomit, and kept his opinions behind his teeth. He dropped beside her so fast his knee hit glass. "Bellamy." His voice cracked on her name. "Jesus. Don't move." "I'm fine." "You're bleeding through your sleeve." "I said I'm fine." Kai pulled a bar towel from his back pocket, the one prospects carried because someone always needed something wiped, wrapped, or hidden. He pressed it against her forearm with hands that shook only after they touched her skin. Across the room, Diego shoved open the side door with Scarlet tucked against him. Bellamy watched his back disappear into the parking lot. The music had stopped now. Someone must have killed the speakers. In the quiet, the clubhouse made smaller sounds. Ice settling in a bucket. A woman whispering, "Where's Diego?" A man groaning as Niko pinned him to the bar. Kai followed Bellamy's stare and said nothing. That silence hurt worse than the glass. Bellamy sat up. The room tilted for a second, but she refused Kai's hand until her own palm slipped in blood and beer. "Let me help," he said. She almost told him not to touch her. Almost let pride make the cut worse. But Kai was not the one who had left her there. "Fine," she said. He helped her stand. The bar towel darkened fast. Victoria came around the counter with a first-aid kit, her mouth pressed thin. "You need stitches," Victoria said. Bellamy looked toward the side door. Victoria looked too, then looked away first. "I'll get my keys." "No." Bellamy's voice sounded calm enough to belong to someone else. "Kai can drive me." Kai nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I can." Bennett appeared near the bar, broad shoulders blocking the view of the broken bottle. "Let's not make a public thing out of this." Bellamy laughed once. It scraped her throat. Bennett's eyes moved to her cut, to Diego's name across her back, then to the men watching from every corner. "You know what I mean." "I know exactly what you mean." She walked past him before he could put a hand on her shoulder and pretend it was comfort. Every step pulled at the cut in her arm. Glass crunched under her boots. Someone said her name, maybe Victoria, maybe Poppy's name from memory because Bellamy wanted one person in the room who belonged only to her and not to the club. Outside, the desert night smelled like hot dust, gasoline, and the stale grease from the garage bays. The parking lot floodlights hummed over rows of bikes. Diego's black truck sat near the side door with the driver's door open. Scarlet was in the passenger seat. Diego stood beside her, one hand braced on the roof, his body angled toward her like the fight was still around them. Scarlet held a napkin to her cheek. A tiny mark. Maybe a scratch. Maybe nothing. Bellamy stopped ten feet away. Diego turned. His face changed when he saw the towel on her arm. Not much. Diego never gave much away in public. But the color left him under the tan, and his hand dropped from the truck roof. "Bellamy." Scarlet twisted in the seat. "Oh my God, are you hurt?" Bellamy did not answer her. Diego came toward her. "Why didn't you say something?" The question landed so badly that Kai made a small sound behind her. Bellamy looked at Diego's boots first, black leather, oil-dark at the toes from the garage. She had cleaned those boots once after a funeral because he had come home with mud caked in the seams and stood in the kitchen like a man who did not know where to put his grief. She had knelt with a rag and saddle soap while he stood silent above her, and he had touched her hair so gently she had believed gentleness meant safety. Now his boots stopped short of the blood dripping from her fingers. "Move your truck," she said. Diego blinked. "What?" "Kai's taking me to urgent care. Your truck's blocking his bike." "I'm taking you." "No." "Bellamy." That tone had worked on her for years. In bedrooms. In hallways. In the clubhouse when men got too loud and Diego wanted her behind him. It did not work with Scarlet sitting in his passenger seat holding a napkin to a scratch. Bellamy reached for the front of her cut. Her fingers found the snap below her collarbone. One. Two. Three. Each one came undone with a small metal pop. Diego went very still. "Don't," he said. She shrugged the leather off her shoulders. The movement tore pain through her arm, but she kept her face quiet. The cut hung heavy from one hand, the back turned outward. Property of Diego McCall. The letters shone under the floodlight. Every man near the door watched. Bennett. Niko. Tony. A half-dozen visiting riders pretending they had not carried the insult into her skin. Victoria stood behind them with the first-aid kit clutched against her stomach. Bellamy walked to Diego's truck. Scarlet got out of the passenger seat, slow now, eyes wide. "Bellamy, wait." Bellamy laid the cut across the driver's seat, patch facing up. Diego moved like he might stop her, but he did not touch her. That was the only mercy he managed to get right. She looked at him then. Really looked. At the man who knew how she took coffee when she had not slept. At the man who could find the exact tattoo needle she wanted from a messy drawer without asking. At the man who had put his name on her back and missed her bleeding at his feet. "You protected her," Bellamy said. His throat worked. "I didn't see you go down." "No," she said. "You didn't." No one in the parking lot spoke. Bellamy turned before her knees could betray her. Kai scrambled ahead to get his bike, then seemed to remember she could not ride with her arm bleeding and changed direction toward the old shop van parked by the garage. His hands fumbled with the keys. Behind her, Diego said her name again. She did not stop. By the time Kai opened the passenger door of the van, Bellamy's fingers had gone numb around the towel. She climbed in without looking back. The seat smelled like vinyl, motor oil, and sun-baked dust. Kai shut the door carefully, like the sound might hurt her. As he ran around to the driver's side, Bellamy looked through the windshield. Diego stood under the floodlight with her cut in his hands. Not wearing it. Not folding it. Just holding it like he had finally understood that leather could be heavier than blood. Kai started the van. Bellamy kept her eyes forward as the clubhouse rolled past the window, bright and loud and full of people who had seen everything. She had walked into that room as Diego McCall's Old Lady. She left it with his name behind her.