Page 52 of North’s Claim

So I hold her tighter. I bury my face in her neck, groan her name against her skin, and let go with her.

Chapter 17

Nyxa

The rejection emails blur together now.

We’ve decided to move forward with another candidate.

Unfortunately, your experience does not align with our requirements.

Thank you for your interest, but…

I slam my cell phone on the couch before I can read the rest. My chest feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, each refusal tightening it.

It’s the same damn story every time, no experience, no qualifications. Like the years I spent dancing, the medals, the hell I crawled out of, don’t count for shit.

Word spreads fast in the clubhouse that the BB’s looking for a new bartender, and for a few minutes, I actually let myself hope. It’s here. It’s close. It’s something.

I find Iron in the back lot of the clubhouse, wiping down his bike. “Hey,” I say, forcing myself to sound casual. “I heard you’re looking for a new bartender.”

He smirks before I even finish. “We are.”

“Give me a shot.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and then he laughs, loud enough to draw a few curious glances. “Yeah, sure. You behind the bar? Place would shut down in a week.”

I cross my arms. “Why?”

“Because, sweetheart, if anyone so much as looked at you wrong, half the men in here would start digging graves.” He leans closer. “And the other half would be in them.”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “That’s exaggerated.”

“It’s reality.” He still grins like this is funny. “Talk to North if you really want it. But,” he tilts his head, “don’t think Prez would let you work behind a bar full of drunk assholes who’d spend the night trying to get in your panties.”

His words dig under my skin like splinters. I want to snap that North and I aren’t even together in that way, or at least not officially, but the truth is murkier than I want to admit.

I walk away before my pride makes me say something I can’t take back. I wander back into the Blacktope Blood area, my steps lighter than my mood. The music’s low, a lazy hum under the chatter, and the smell of fried food lingers in the air. A few of the Candies are gathered at a corner table, counting cash from the afternoon poker game.

“Hey, future bartender!” Cherry calls, grinning like she just solved world hunger.

“Future unemployed, more like,” I mutter, sliding into the booth beside her.

“What happened?”

I shrug, fiddling with a stray beer coaster. “Iron thinks I’m too much of a liability.”

“Meaning?” Jules asks, already smirking.

“Meaning apparently if a guy so much as looks at me wrong, we’ll have bodies stacked like firewood out back.” I roll my eyes, but my tone is brittle. “Guess I’m too dangerous for customer service.”

They all laugh, but it’s not mean, it’s the kind of laugh that says they get it. They’ve heard the same crap, lived the same crap.

“Sweetheart, behind this bar, you wouldn’t have to pour a single drink,” Cherry says. “Half these guys would line up just to hand you their wallets.”

“Yeah.” I force a smile. “But I’m not trying to start a savings account with someone else’s blood money.”

Jules leans back, eyeing me over the rim of her beer. “So what’s the plan, then?”