So when Blade had taken up the mantle of president, it’d been an easy solution to hand the keys to the house over to him. At the time, moving into the clubhouse hadn’t felt like a downgrade. A single room with a single bed was about all the space I could manage—anything larger, and it would’ve certainly fallen into mess and disrepair. I could barely take care of myself with the weight of my grief on me.
And in the early stages of my grief, I was dependent on the structure of the clubhouse. Living in the clubhouse meant there was always someone around—to check on me, make sure I was eating, and even encourage me out of my room for group movie nights. The constant support of my family was the main reason I was able to survive the loss, and being so close to them kept me from getting too deep in the swirl of grief.
After two years, though, I’d started to feel a little stifled in the clubhouse. As I healed, I’d started to crave my own space. The club members had started to find their own great loves, too—my son, Raven, included. As happy as I was for Raven and Gunnar, and for all the members of the club who had begun to settle down, I was admittedly getting a little tired of accidentally interrupting youthful canoodling. Couldn’t blame them for doing it, but I’d caught almost all the members in compromising positions at least once… A man started to get a little frustrated and jealous, after a while.
Seemed like my brothers had figured that out sooner than I had. I grinned to myself. Maybe they’d gotten sick of getting caught, too.
My new cabin was a gorgeous space: a big open floor plan with a kitchen and comfortable living room carefully furnished by Jonah and Maverick to my tastes. The walls were painted a deep gray, and the floors were a dark stained hardwood, which made the open space feel cozy and comfortable. The lofted bedroom was upstairs, with the master bath.
But my favorite part had to be the big-ass garage. There was no real need for me to have an attached garage of that size, but I loved it. I loved having a workspace and storage space of my own—a place to work on projects without having to wander down to Ankhor Works and get in the way.
The garage had been Dawson’s idea. I’d had some hesitations about him when he’d first started causing trouble at Ballast—our club had been through a lot, and I’d advised Nix against getting involved with him. Nix was stable in his sobriety, but Dawson had seemed like an unnecessary threat. Of course, though, I should’ve known not to underestimate Nix once he got his heart set on something. He’d seen something real between him and Dawson, and in the end, he’d been right to follow his heart, despite the risks.
And to his credit, Dawson had put the work in. He’d turned his life around in ways I hadn’t even imagined. He and Nix were clearly so happy—and now they’d have many years of happiness ahead of them, too.
My heart clenched at the thought. Seeing Dawson make such a dramatic change would’ve made Ankh so happy. That was the whole purpose of the club when we’d founded it. We’d wanted to create a port in a storm, an anchor for the misfits, a place to go when everywhere else had turned you away. And despite the rocky journey, we’d been that, for Nix first and now for Dawson.
I walked over to the hearth and picked up the framed photo displayed there. There were other photos on the hearth, pictures of the club members, of Grace, of Stella’s pre-fire, even of puppy Gretel, but I lingered the longest on this photo. It was one of Ankh and me, grinning like loons with our arms slung around each other outside the first Hell’s Ankhor clubhouse. We’d finally had enough members and enough money to purchase it ourselves. It’d felt like a dream.
Standing in my own cabin, one of many freestanding buildings on the property, with a club that spanned two towns—I could hardly believe how far we’d come.
Looking at the photo still made my chest ache with grief, but it wasn’t the raw, excruciating pain it used to be. Now, it was a familiar hurt, aching the way my knees ached before a storm rolled in. With the easing of the grief, though, there was still a little bit of guilt. Part of me felt that it was wrong to move on—if I loved him, shouldn’t I grieve him forever? Wasn’t it disrespectful to his memory to move on?
I shook off those old fears. I knew they were unfounded—it was the nature of grief, and of my own resilience, that the pain wasn’t as brutal as it once was. It didn’t mean I loved Ankh any less. And if anything, he’d want me to keep living. More than anything, he’d want me to learn to be happy again.
As long as I was a member of Hell’s Ankhor—and even if, for some crazy reason, I wasn’t—Ankh would always be with me. Be part of me.
A knock on my doorframe startled me out of my reverie, and I set the photo down. I glanced over my shoulder at the screen door. Mal was on the other side, grinning.
My heart stuttered at the sight—something that had been happening more and more frequently when I interacted with the co-president. He was just so remarkably handsome, and somehow only getting more and more handsome every day, it seemed, with the crow’s feet around his dark brown eyes but not another wrinkle on his rich brown skin. His beat-up club leather only accentuated the broad expanse of his shoulders.
“Mind if I come in?” Mal asked in his deep, husky voice.
“Course,” I said, motioning for him to step inside.
Mal’s voice was quickly becoming one of my weaknesses. I’d always liked it—Ankh had, too, and we’d had a few interesting nights imagining what it might be like to rope Mal into our love life. Just a fantasy, though—at the time, we’d been friends, but not as close as Mal and I were now. The closer we’d gotten the last several months, working together for the club, the more prominently he’d started to feature in my dreams. I’d woken up hard quite a few times, like I hadn’t in many, many years.
Mal whistled low as he stepped across the threshold. “This place is pretty fancy, huh?”
“I know,” I said, brandishing an arm around the room. “Can you believe it?”
“I can,” Mal said with a grin. “Since I got to be privy to the plans, being the co-prez and all that.”
“I love it,” I said with a nod. “I—I never expected anything like this. I never thought the club would do anything like this for me.”
Mal’s expression softened. God, he was easy on the eyes. I swallowed and looked away, feeling oddly exposed under his thoughtful gaze.
“Of course we would,” Mal said.
He placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. It was a familiar, comforting gesture that I was quickly growing dependent on. His touch always stabilized something deep inside me; it made me feel like I was standing on solid ground. It felt good to have someone to lean on again.
“You’re the heart of this club, Priest. We’d do anything for you.” His hand lingered on my shoulder. “I’d do anything for you.”
It was so earnest. And embarrassingly, it made something in my gut lurch with unexpected desire. My brain automatically taking such a sweet sentiment and making it dirty, like I was a young man again. It was ridiculous.
I had to stop thinking about Mal this way. It wasn’t professional—and it wouldn’t be good for the club if two of their founders started complicating their relationship with one another. I had to get over this weird fixation—this crush.