Claws & Crochet

Part 2

Will be available on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and other eBook platforms June 5, 2025.

ZOEY

The bikes begin to cut off their roaring engines, and I can envision a crowd of them lining up on the black top I crossed—I glance at my watch—a half hour ago.

Fifteen minutes late? Time for me to call it.

Looks like my attempt at subverting my introverted tendencies has failed. I glance at the girls, wondering if I should go over and introduce myself. Try to make some friends anyway.

But their smoky eyes continue to skitter toward the entrance, and I sense that I'd just be an obstruction to their evening entertainment.

Instead, I face the bar and focus on the last of my bourbon, satisfied that I at least left the cabin and found myself a decent drink.

Without anyone's prompting, Grunt puts two pitchers under taps, filling them to the brim.

Seems the regulars have arrived.

Some bikes are still settling down when the front door's hinges squeak and deep voices fill the room. The once quiet bar is now overwhelmed with the noise of rowdy men. Or maybe I'm just the one feeling overwhelmed. The shouts and ribbing and grumbles and laughter shouldn't be unpleasant.

Only, it's like taking a week vacation from work then finding out your boss booked a stay in the same hotel.

I came to this town to get away from rambunctious men.

Picking up my drink, I swirl the remaining liquid, considering finishing it off in one large swallow.

But that's wasteful, and it's not as if the bikers are doing anything to me.

In my peripheral vision, I watch the group claim a handful of tables. I can practically smell the leather, there's so much if it. Black jackets and vests, each with a huge patch on the back. Probably the name of their club. I'd have to turn and stare at one of them to find out, but that might result in unintentional eye contact. I try only to meet someone's eyes if I want to make conversation with them, and while I had considered making friends with the small group of women, this massive crowd of bikers is not my speed.

Give me a handful of friends, and I'm good. A crowd? Hello Irish goodbye.

But the tiny group is lost to me, having thoroughly enmeshed themselves in with the larger. They aren't the only women in the bar. The sight of some ladies in leather makes me smile against my glass. Good to know I'm not surrounded by a bunch of misogynists that don't allow women in their club.

I mean, they still might be misogynists. It just seems slightly less likely.

A flash catches my eye, tempting me to turn enough to seek out the errant sparkle. That's when I realize one of the daisy duke girls has on a set of cowboy boots covered in crystals.

Bedazzled boots. Now there's a project. I file it in the back of my brain for future consideration.

Tearing my gaze away, I accidentally snag it on something even more distracting.

A set of eyes.

Oh no. Unintentional eye contact.

Abort! Abort!

But I can't. Not right away. Not when I'm staring at a set of irises the same beautiful gold as the liquid in my glass.

Caught as I am in the bourbon stare, for the first time tonight, I start to feel tipsy.