She slanted a look at the entrance again, hoping to see Dixon. Okay, this infatuation of hers was getting out of control. So they had an afternoon romp in the kitchen. That didn’t mean wedding bells and her riding on the back of his Harley dragging tin cans behind them.
She centered herself and then hurried into the kitchen to pull up wings from the fryer and throw more into the oil. As she turned to set the food baskets on the clean and sterilized prep table, she paused. Memories shot into her mind—thick, hot reminders of Dixon. She even saw that twisted scar on his thigh that only told more stories about the man.
And she wanted to hear every damn one.
With a shake, she grabbed the baskets and hurried out into the bar.
As soon as she stepped out, she felt the change in atmosphere. It felt as though a storm cloud had descended over the Painted Pig, bringing ice-cold temperatures. One glance at the men lined up in the doorway and she saw why.
The Mayhem returned.
A few people moved away from the guys with formidable glares on their faces, and a couple she didn’t even have a chance to serve drinks to yet skedaddled out the door.
Quickly, she shoved the wings at the customer who ordered them and reached for her ball bat. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tank stand. The girl with him said something, but he shook his head and folded his arms across his broad chest.
When the guy she believed to be the leader of the biker gang approached the bar, she gripped the bat tighter and kept a hand ready to speed-dial the sheriff. Or her brothers. Maybe both.
“I don’t want any trouble here tonight,” she said.
He cocked a brow. “No trouble from us, sweetheart. We’re only here for drafts and wings.”
She’d already lost several more customers in a steady stream exiting the bar as the Mayhem crowded in more. As she looked on, a biker kicked a man off his stool and perched there as if he owned the place.
Wrong, dude. I own this place.
She slid her phone from her pocket and set it on the surface where she mixed drinks. A swipe of her finger and she called Lake. When the call went unanswered, she tried Noah. Then down the line to Syd and finally her youngest brother JT.
“Beers and wings for all of us,” the leader growled out. “Now swish your pretty ass to the kitchen and get started.”
At his words, all twenty-five or so of his men hooted with laughter. Heat climbed her cheeks and sat there burning like two coals of humiliation.
One thing growing up with four tough brothers had taught her was that power was everything. Even having the upper hand over a game of Scrabble meant something in her family, and feeling so helpless now pissed her off.
She threw Tank a look. The man hadn’t sat down again, but stood there like a sentry with legs braced apart and his strength on full display.
What could she do but start racking up the beer mugs on the bar top? She kept her head down and her eyes on her task, but she knew the residents of Mersey were staring at her, waiting for her to make the right move, which would be to toss the Mayhem out of her bar.
Biting down on her lip, she finished serving drinks and rushed into the kitchen again to set up with more wings. Dammit, where were her brothers when she needed them? Her call would bring them here in half an hour. Did she even have that much time? Usually they were shoving their noses into her business and now when she wanted them, they vanished.
She slid her shaky fingers through her hair and grabbed more freshly cooked wings from the fryer. When she stepped out to the bar again, shit had gone sideways.
Two guys stood chest-to-chest with the gang members. Their jeans and flannel shirts looked so weak against the black leather and chains the Mayhem wore. The regular Joes of Mersey might have the right idea, but they were about to get their asses kicked.
She speed-dialed the sheriff as a guy planted his hands into the man’s chest and shoved. Another push sent one of the regulars careening into a table. It flipped, and the pitchers of beer there spilled all over him and the floor. Women screamed, and their men rushed them out.
Their men.
Let’s see where you really stand, lover boy.
Before walking out of her bar with a coy smile on his face, Dixon took her phone and entered his number into it. She hit it now.
Damn if it didn’t ring three times and then go to voicemail.
Fiona looked up to see fists flying. Blood spattered, and a woman hit the floor and crawled out of the ruckus on her hands and knees. More people ran into the parking lot with some of the Mayhem in pursuit.
Damn you, Dixon. I need you—where the hell are you?
When she heard the gunshot, Fiona’s blood froze in her veins. Time slowed. Then she grabbed her bat and launched up and over the bar.
“There you are, Dixon.”
He turned at his mother’s voice to see her standing in the garage doorway.
He ducked out from under the hood of the car he was working on. “I’ve been here the whole evening. What’s up?”
“You didn’t hear the phone?” She looked to the old ringer on the wall of the garage, and he followed her gaze.
He shook his head. “Had the music on too loud, I guess.”
“A call came in for a tow.”
Reaching for a shop rag to clean off the worst of the grease, he said, “I’ll head out now. Where they at?”
She handed him a slip of paper with the name of a rural road in the mountains.
“Hell, they’re really out there, aren’t they? Better get on the move. Thanks, Ma.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, and she beamed. He really did need to spend more time with both of his parents. They were good to him, and he had no reason to take it out on them for him not knowing where he was going in life.
Don’t I know?
His fellow Dark Falcons provided reasons to wake up in the morning and plan new ways to help the community through the club. And now he had Fiona.
He cocked a grin at his mother. “Mind if I bring someone home to supper soon?”
She arched her brow. “A girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course not. She’s welcome anytime.”
Without another word, he swung out of the garage and jumped into the tow truck. He took the country roads to the foothills, since it would be quicker. But his mind lingered in Mersey. He planned to be at the Painted Pig tonight, sitting there at the bar watching his girl serve up drinks with all the sarcasm he loved from her pretty lips.
With a lot of interruptions from the Dark Falcons recently, and missing part of his afternoon of work, he needed to spend more hours with a wrench in his hand, so he decided to work late. Adjusting his hours to match Fiona’s seemed like the best idea if he wanted to spend time with her—and he did.
He found himself smiling as he drove. All the shit leading up to his return to Mersey—the failed mission that nearly got his leg amputated, and losing Dax—seemed like open wounds on their way to closing up.
As the road stretched before him, his thoughts turned to the brotherhood. If someone had told him a year ago that he’d lead a biker club, he would have laughed his ass off. Yet, here he was, acting president of the Dark Falcons. Sure, they were still laying down the rules, but their moral code ran deep.
The next order of business was to drive the Mayhem out of Mersey for good.
He spotted the broken-down pickup carrying a bed full of dirt bikes off the side of the road. Bumping in behind, he looked to the guys leaning on the side of the truck. Something about them seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place where he knew them from.