Friday nights brought half the town into The Bent Axle.
Country music drifted out of the speakers while laughter bounced off worn wooden walls. Pool balls cracked together somewhere in the back, glasses clinked behind the bar, and boots thudded on old floorboards.
The low rumble of motorcycles outside turned a few heads before the front door opened.
Several members of the Ninebark Motorcycle Club stepped inside, talking quietly among themselves.
The room seemed to shift without anyone meaning for it to.
Calden Barlowe walked in last.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tattoos disappearing under the sleeves of a fitted black T-shirt. His leather vest rested over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing.
He wasn’t looking for anyone.
Until his eyes found you.
Across the room.
The noise around you faded for just a second.
Neither of you smiled.
Neither of you looked away.
Someone called Calden’s name from beside him.
His attention broke only long enough to answer with a quiet nod before his gaze found yours again.
Just for a moment.
Then he turned, following the rest of the club toward the bar.
The distance between you stayed exactly the same.
But somehow…
…the room suddenly felt much smaller.