“Well, for one, it was my idea that you do this,” he said. “And I really need this contract to work out. Between you and me, this is the biggest contract I’ve ever gotten, and it could really make or break my business.”
His jaw clenched. This clearly was important to him. So he needed my help as much as I needed his. That eased some of the nerves in my chest. He had the skills, but I had the connection to the club.
We needed each other for this to work. Maybe we were on more equal ground than I thought.
“Okay,” I said. “If you’ve got the space, I can work there.”
“Great,” Brennan said, looking slightly relieved. “Great. That’s great. Okay, so for wood—we could buy something, obviously, but I had an idea to run by you.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“If there’s a tree on the property you’d be okay felling, we could use that.” He grinned. “Make it more personal to the club.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” I said. I liked that idea. Really liked it. And we had some trees that needed to be taken care of, too—especially around the areas where we were talking about building cabins. Could clear some land and get some lumber out of it at the same time. I nodded. “Yeah, there are definitely some trees we can use.”
“Great,” Brennan said. He looked excited now, rooting through his papers until he found some blank sheets and spreading them out on the table. “So, the next step would be to start making some decisions on the actual design. I was thinking you could sketch out some rough ideas, some possible dimensions, and then once we have a plan, we can find a tree that’ll give us the lumber we need to make it work.”
Panic flooded me. He wanted me to sketch designs—right here? I never planned my carvings in advance. I just found a hunk of wood and let my knife discover whatever shape was waiting inside. It was a tactile, almost unconscious process. I’d never sat down and drawn one. And—dimensions?
Brennan pulled out a plan of the clubhouse and pointed to the driveway, where the sign would be mounted. He’d drawn a few lines on the map, marked with numbers, and he was gesturing at them, rambling about how tall he thought it should be, how wide, how far off the ground, et cetera, and it all blurred together in my mind.
He expected me to be able to do that. Shame coursed through me, alongside the icy panic. There was no way I was going to be able to figure out fucking dimensions myself, especially not here, in the noisy bakery with Brennan watching me. I was supposed to be carving. But this was something else entirely.
I couldn’t do this. It’d be a waste of everyone’s time and resources. They needed a professional woodworker, not some hack who couldn’t even figure out how to calculate the necessary dimensions for the wood. It’d be better to just shut the project down now and get called a flake, rather than attempt it and fuck it up. I could handle disappointing everyone by backing out—but if I actually tried and fucked it up, I couldn’t handle the shame.
I stood up so quickly my chair scraped across the floor. “This isn’t going to work.”
“What?” Brennan asked, visibly shocked by my sudden change in demeanor. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said,” I said. “Forget it. This was a bad fuckin’ idea, anyway.”
Dante stood in the doorway of the open kitchen, toweling his hands on his apron and watching curiously. I sneered and crossed my arms over my chest, ignoring him.
Brennan stood up too. “What is your problem?” he asked sharply. “Jesus, it’s like navigating landmines with you. One wrong step and you turn back into an asshole.”
“You’re the problem,” I snapped back. There was no way I could tell him what the real problem was—I couldn’t tell anyone. The club barely tolerated me, if they knew I was a fucking dumbass, too, I’d never get the respect I craved.
It was easier to just blame Brennan. I was fine with being considered an asshole or a jerk—it was better than being a failure. Besides, this had been Brennan’s idea—he’d roped me into it without asking me, sure, but he was going to bat for me, not knowing I was doomed to failure. It wasn’t fair to him. He didn’t deserve to fuck up his contract with the club because I couldn’t fulfill my end of the deal. Just ending this before it began would save us both a lot of trouble.
Brennan huffed and gathered up his papers. “Fine,” he said. “I can solve that problem real fast for you. I’ll send Blade some recommendations for local woodworkers. This clearly isn’t worth the trouble.”
And with that, Brennan stormed out the door. Dawson, who had been watching this go down from the counter, flashed a quick salute at Mary and then followed. The bells on the door jingled merrily as it slammed closed behind them.
I dropped back down into my chair at the table and ran my hand over my forehead. I was frustrated, and a little guilty, but what choice did I have? Once I’d realized Brennan expected me to do more than just take a chisel to wood, I’d panicked. And the easiest way for me to get out of the obligation—without revealing my secret--was to make him drop me.
“The hell was that about?” Dante asked.
His voice jolted me out of my thoughts. Dante loomed over me, his big, tattooed arms crossed over his broad chest. The way he was staring down his nose at me was the same way my teachers did in school—always looking for some excuse to berate or punish me.
I sneered back. “None of your business.”
Dante raised his eyebrows. “I think it is my business, since you’re sitting in our bakery, discussing plans for our clubhouse.”
Frustration lanced through me again. “Just because we’re in the same club doesn’t mean you get to butt into my fuckin’ life.”
“You really are an asshole, huh?” Dante asked. “Fine. Don’t sit here and take up valuable customer seating if you’re just going to brood.”
I stood up again. “You don’t know a goddamned thing about me.”
“I know enough,” Dante shot back. He turned and went back into the kitchen without another word.
Suddenly, I felt distinctly unwelcome in the bakery—from Dante’s cold shoulder, to Mary’s awkward look, to the glances from other customers seated or waiting in line.
Well, I’d gotten what I’d wanted. I’d pushed Brennan away and now Dante, too.
And I felt really fucking shitty about it. But that wasn’t anything new, either. I’d learned a long time ago that the closer I let people get, the easier they could hurt me—and the more easily I could let them down, which hurt even worse. As much as I relied on the club, I needed to maintain a boundary between us. It was better to be a little distant and remain in the club, than fail them and face the brunt of their disappointment—or maybe even get booted entirely one day.
Even if part of me wanted to get closer to Brennan, there was too much at stake. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—risk the stability I had with the Hell’s Ankhor Crew, however shaky it had been getting lately. So I left the bakery, trying to ignore the heaviness in my heart.
6
Brennan