The President's Chaos

Harlow

The bass from the jukebox thumped against my ribs like a second heartbeat. Smoke hung low over the bar, mixing with the sharp bite of whiskey and the cheaper cologne half the brothers insisted on drowning themselves in.

I wiped down the scarred wood for the third time in ten minutes, more out of habit than necessity because the clubhouse never really got clean.

“Harlow. Another round.” Knox’s voice cut through the noise. The VP leaned on the far end of the bar, two empty shot glasses already in front of him. Diesel and Rook flanked him like bookends—one grinning, the other silent as always.

I poured without looking up. Tequila for Diesel. Whiskey for the other two. Same as every other night. My hands moved on autopilot while my eyes did what they always did when the room got too loud: found him.

Wolf sat at the corner table with his back to the wall, same seat he’d claimed for as long as I’d worked here. Black shirt stretched across broad shoulders, cut hanging open over it, the president’s patch catching the low light every time he shifted. One boot braced against the leg of the table. A glass of something dark and neat rested near his hand, barely touched.

He wasn’t looking at me. He never does. Not directly.

That didn’t stop the slow, familiar ache from settling low in my stomach.

I set the shots down in front of Knox and forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “You’re gonna regret that tequila by morning, Diesel.”

He winked. “Worth it if you’re still here to nurse me through it.”

A few of the others laughed. Someone made a comment about my usual rates. I flipped him off without heat.

They all knew the rules. I fucked who I wanted, when I wanted, and never the same man twice if I could help it. Commitment was a word I didn’t bother learning. The brothers treated it like a running joke. Some of them had already been between my legs. Most of them still wanted to be.

None of them were him.

I turned back to the shelves and restocked the bottom row of bottles just so I had something to do with my hands. The mirror behind the bar caught the edge of Wolf’s profile—strong jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the hard line of his mouth.

He looked like a man who’d forgotten how to smile years ago and didn’t particularly miss it. Everyone in this clubhouse knew the story. The old lady who’d died three winters back. The way he’d shut down after. The way he still wore the ring.

Loyal to the death. Literally.

I hated that I noticed every time the light hit the gold band.

“Harlow.” Knox called again though softer this time. I glanced over. His eyes flicked toward Wolf’s table and back, reading me too easily. “You good?”

“Peachy.” I poured myself a shot of the cheap vodka we kept for the prospects and knocked it back. It burned the way it was supposed to. “Don’t start.”

He held up both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Liar. Everyone in this building had opinions about the way I looked at their president. They just didn’t say them out loud anymore. Not where Wolf could hear.

More brothers filtered in from the garage and the back rooms. A couple of the club girls drifted through, all perfume and practiced smiles. One of them, a blonde named Trixie, made a beeline for Wolf’s table. I watched her lean in, hand on the back of his chair, voice pitched low and sweet. He said something short. She laughed too hard. Then she walked away with her shoulders a little tighter than when she’d arrived.

I poured another shot for myself and didn’t bother hiding the small, mean satisfaction that curled through me.

By midnight, the place had the usual pulse—cards, arguments, the occasional crash of a bottle. I kept the drinks coming and the conversations light.

A prospect tried to flirt. I shut him down with a look. Rook ordered a beer and didn’t speak a single word, which was normal. Diesel got loud and started talking about some run they had planned for the weekend. I half-listened while my attention kept snagging on the corner table.

Wolf finally stood. The room didn’t go quiet, but a few conversations dipped. He moved through the space like he owned every inch of it, because he did. When he reached the bar he set his empty glass down with a quiet click.

“Same,” he said.

His voice was rough, low, the kind that scraped along the inside of my skin. I poured the whiskey without answering, slid it across the wood. Our fingers didn’t touch. They never did. Still, the air between us tightened like someone had pulled a string.

I looked up. For half a second, his eyes met mine—dark, unreadable, and so carefully blank it made my pulse kick. Then he looked past me, nodded once, and walked back to his table.

That’s it. That's all I ever got.

I exhaled slowly through my nose and turned to the next order. My hands were steady. My body was not. Heat sat low and restless between my thighs, the same useless want I’d been carrying since the first night I walked into this clubhouse and saw him sitting in that exact chair.

I’d fucked my way through half the roster since then trying to burn it out of my system. It never worked. Nothing ever touched the place Wolf lived in my head.

Around one, the crowd thinned. A few brothers headed upstairs. Others spilled out into the lot to smoke. Knox paid his tab and clapped me on the shoulder on the way past.

“Lock up when you’re done,” he said. “And try to get some sleep that doesn’t involve a stranger’s bed for once.”

I gave him a sweet smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He shook his head and left.

Wolf was still at his table. Alone now. The glass in front of him was empty again. I told myself I was just doing my job when I walked over with the bottle.

He didn’t look up until I stopped beside the chair.

“You planning on drinking the whole thing by yourself tonight?” I asked.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Go home, Harlow.”

The words were quiet. The same dismissal he’d given me a hundred times before. I should have walked away. I always did.

Tonight something reckless and tired pushed past the usual caution.

“You ever get sick of sitting here alone?” I kept my voice light, almost bored. “Or is the ghost better company than the rest of us?”

His head lifted slowly. Those dark eyes locked on mine and for the first time in months, there was something behind the anger or the sharp edge of warning. The air went thin.

“Careful,” he said.

I should have stepped back. Instead I leaned a fraction closer, resting the bottle on the table between us. “Or what?”

Silence stretched. The last of the music faded into static. Somewhere in the back a door slammed. Wolf’s hand flexed once against the wood, the gold band catching the light.

Then he stood. Tall enough that I had to tip my head back, close enough that I caught the faint scent of leather and whiskey and something colder underneath. His voice dropped even lower.

“Go home,” he repeated. “Before I decide you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

I held his gaze for three long heartbeats. My pulse hammered in my throat. Every filthy, desperate thing I’d ever imagined him doing to me crowded the space between us.

I set the bottle down carefully.

“Yes, sir,” I said, sweet and sharp at the same time.

Then I turned and walked back to the bar, hips rolling just enough to make sure he watched. I felt his eyes on me the entire way. When I finally glanced over my shoulder, the table was empty. The side door to the lot hung open, night air drifting in.

I poured myself one last shot, drank it, and started stacking chairs. My hands still didn’t shake. My body still burned.

I heard his motorcycle engine growled to life and faded into the dark.

I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself I didn’t care.

I was a terrible liar.