Blood and Stone | A BBW, MC Lite Romance | Ebook (Stoneheart Motorcycle Club Book 6)

These bikers sure know how to throw a party.

The Stoneheart MC clubhouse is packed wall-to-wall with leather and denim. Someone’s cranked up the speakers loud enough to rattle the floor-to-ceiling windows, competing with the crack of pool balls from the corner and the steady hum of voices that fills every inch of the sprawling lounge.

The place is a study in contrasts—old farmhouse bones meeting modern renovation. A massive leather sectional dominates the main room, worn and comfortable, facing a stone fireplace that’s been lit despite the crowd generating more than enough heat. The kitchen gleams with dark granite counters and steel appliances, while the long wooden farmhouse table nearby is scarred from decades of use, currently covered in bottles and platters of food.

Not exactly where I normally spend my Tuesday nights. Usually, I’d be elbow-deep in case files with a glass of wine and a rerun of Schitt’s Creek playing in the background. But standing here, surrounded by the noise and the laughter and the easy chaos of people who actually like each other? I’m surprised to realize I don’t want to be anywhere else.

A year ago, walking into an MC clubhouse would’ve had my heart in my throat. These days, I know the leather and the tattoos are just window dressing. These guys are good people. Loud, stubborn, occasionally terrifying—but good. And somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like the lawyer they tolerate and started feeling like someone who might actually belong.

Besides, when your highest paying client, who also happens to be President of the local Motorcycle Club, invites you to a party, you can’t exactly say no.

We have plenty to celebrate. And plenty to mourn.

Somewhere in the back, Duck is holding court with a growing crowd of locals who keep encouraging him to do another shot. He’s hard to miss—a barrel-chested man in his sixties with a thick white beard that would make Santa jealous and pale blue eyes. He owns the only garage in town and has been patching up bikes and bikers alike for longer than most of us have been alive. I know for a fact he’s the closest thing to a father figure half these guys have ever had. His deep, smoky laugh carries over the noise as someone claps him on the shoulder.

Meanwhile Maggie, his wife, laughs at his antics. She’s a compact woman with silver-streaked hair and capable hands that are equally skilled at knitting baby blankets, taping cracked ribs, and smacking sense into idiots who need it. Right now those hands are wrapped around a whiskey sour as she watches her husband with the kind of fond exasperation that only comes from forty years of marriage. She catches my eye across the room and winks.

I should be celebrating too. After all, I’m the one who woke up a judge at two in the morning to secure an emergency divorce decree, expose a dirty cop’s financial ties to the cartel, outed Summit’s criminal background, and freed a woman from an abusive marriage.

I watch as the woman in question, Mercy, kisses Cash, the MC’s Treasurer. She’s a riot of red curls and curves, a woman who takes up space and doesn’t apologize for it. Her sleeve tattoos catch the bar light as her arms wrap around his neck, and when she finally pulls back, her green eyes are bright with the kind of joy I wish I could bottle. Cash—all sharp cheekbones and pale green eyes, the kind of unfairly gorgeous that makes smart women stupid—looks at her like she hung the moon and he’s just grateful to be standing in its light. His hand finds the small of her back, protective and possessive all at once. He’s a few years younger than her, but you’d never find a more well-matched couple.

He grins, hauling her back in again for another, longer, kiss as his biker brothers cheer.

They’re free.

I’m happy for her, don’t get me wrong. But watching them together, watching the way he holds her as if she’s his entire world, makes something horrible twist in my chest.

I turn back to the bar, taking another swig of the beer I’m nursing. It’s my third and the kind of cheap stuff that reminds me of the college frat parties I once attended back in my school days, and trying very hard not to stare at the man across the room.

Stone.

The President of the Stoneheart MC is talking to his Sergeant at Arms, Hawk, about something. On the surface, Hawk looks like a man built like a semi with a bad attitude. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his dark eyes scanning the room even as he listens to Stone. But I’ve seen him with his partner, Andi, and their three kids, watched him melt into a puddle when one of the twins tugs on his beard or baby Adam falls asleep on his chest. The man’s a softie wrapped in leather and scowls.

Stone, on the other hand…

His face is serious, his hands moving in that deliberate way he has when he’s working through a problem. The party swirls around them, but Stone stands apart from it. Like a rock in the middle of a river, the jovial energy flows around him, glancing off his controlled facade.

He’s only in his late forties, still young and fit, but the silver threading through his dark hair and beard gives him a distinguished edge that makes my stomach flip. His weathered face tells stories of bar fights and hard years, but it’s his eyes that get me every time. Steel gray and missing nothing. The kind of eyes that make you feel seen in ways you’re not sure you want to be.

God, you’re pathetic, Bright. Just go talk to him.

We’ve been dancing around this thing between us for months. The lingering looks. The accidental touches that don’t feel accidental at all. The late nights in his office when the conversation drifts from legal issues to topics far more personal.

I’m not imagining this thing between us. I know I’m not imagining it.

The question is whether either of us is brave enough to do something about it.

“You’re staring.”

I nearly jump out of my skin. Kya materializes beside me, a knowing smirk on her face.

“I’m not staring. I’m... people watching.” The excuse is basically the lamest thing that’s ever stumbled out of my mouth.

“Uh-huh.” She slides onto the stool next to mine, taking a sip of her drink. “You’ve been ‘people watching’ the same person for the past hour.”

Her blonde hair is piled in a messy bun, her mouth painted cherry red. She’s gorgeous with curves that won’t quit. Kya bought Devil’s Bar a few months back and has been running the place ever since, turning it from a dive into a dive with standards.

Until three days ago, when Summit burned it to the ground.

“How are you holding up?” I ask, partly because I care and partly to deflect from the whole staring-at-Stone situation. “With everything?”

A series of emotions flicker across her face—anger, grief, maybe exhaustion—but she shrugs it off. “I’m okay. It’s just stuff, right? Stuff can be rebuilt.”

“Are you going to? Rebuild?”

“Yeah.” Her smile turns genuine. “Lee’s already setting up meetings with an architect. Insurance is being difficult, but the club’s fronting the costs until it comes through.” She glances across the room to where her boyfriend is mixing drinks, her expression softening. “He keeps saying we’ll make it bigger. Better. That Summit gave us an excuse to upgrade.”

I follow her gaze. Lee moves behind the makeshift bar with easy competence, all broad shoulders and dark hair cut military-short. He’s got his father’s steel-gray eyes and that same commanding presence—the kind that makes people pay attention without him having to say a word. A scar cuts through his left eyebrow, adding an edge of danger to features that are already sharp enough to cut glass. At thirty, he’s the club’s Enforcer, and he wears the role like he was born to it.

Which, I suppose, he was.

“That’s a good way to look at it.”

“It’s the only way to look at it without falling into a heap.” She takes another sip of her drink. “I refuse to let those bastards win. Devil’s has been part of this town for decades. It’ll take more than a match and some gasoline to kill it.”

I squeeze her arm. “Let me know if you need help with the insurance company. I know a few tricks.”

“I might take you up on that.” Then her smirk returns, and I know the deflection is over. “Now. Back to you and your ‘people watching.’”

“Kya—”

“You know, you could just go talk to him.”

I don’t even pretend to not know who she’s referring to. “We talk all the time.”

“Sure, about legal briefs and cartel shell companies. That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

I do. That’s the problem.

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s really not.” Kya bumps my shoulder. “He likes you. You like him. The whole club’s been taking bets on when you two will finally get your shit together.”

“There are bets?”

“Ginger’s got fifty on next month. I’ve got twenty on tonight.” She grins. “Don’t let me down, Counselor.”

Before I can respond, she’s melted back into the crowd, leaving me alone with my beer and my excuses and the weight of her words pressing against my chest.

Tonight.

I look at Stone again. He’s moved to the back porch, visible through the window, standing alone in the darkness.

Screw it.

I set down my drink and go after him.

The night air is sharp, the kind of cold that makes your breath visible and your fingers ache. Woodsmoke drifts from somewhere nearby, mixing with the smell of coming frost. Stone stands at the porch railing, looking out at nothing, his shoulders tense beneath his cut.

“Hey,” I say, because I’m apparently a master of witty conversation.

He turns and his expression shifts when he sees me—a softening, a warmth that makes my stupid heart do stupid things.

“Hey yourself.” He adjusts to make room for me at the railing. “Needed some air?”

“Something like that.” I move to stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. “Big night.”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You did good work, Josie. We couldn’t have pulled this off without you.”

“Careful,” I tease lightly. “That almost sounds like a compliment.”

His hand covers mine briefly, squeezing. “It is a compliment.” He lets it go, looking back at the far mountain.

I force myself not to read into it. “Then I’ll treasure it always. Write it in my diary. ‘Dear Diary, today Stone said something nice to me. Mark the calendar!’”

He laughs, the sound low and warm. It’s so pleasant it does things to my chest that are entirely inappropriate for a professional relationship.

Is this a professional relationship anymore?

I’m not sure, haven’t been for months. The lines blurred somewhere between the late-night strategy sessions and the way he always seems to find excuses to touch me—his hand on my lower back, his fingers brushing mine when he passes me a file, the weight of his gaze when he thinks I’m not looking.

“Josie.”

I glance up. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.

“Yeah?” 

“I’ve been wanting to say something.” He turns to face me fully, and the space between us feels very small. “About us. About... this.”

My heart is hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. “What about us?”

“I’ve been holding back.” His hand finds my hip, warm through the fabric of my shirt. “Trying to keep things professional. Telling myself it’s the right thing to do.”

“And now?”

He steps closer. His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone, and I forget how to breathe.

“I want you, Josie.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. “I’ve wanted you for months. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”

This is it. This is finally, finally it.

I lean in.

His mouth is so close I can feel the warmth of his breath, can see the way his eyes darken with want—

And then he steps back.

The cold rushes in where his warmth has been, and I stand there, lips parted, heart cracking down the middle, as Boone Armstrong puts three feet of careful distance between us.

“We can’t.”

Two words. That’s all it takes.

We can’t.

Not I don’t want to. Not I was wrong. Just we can’t, which means he still wants to, which makes this whole situation so much worse.

Hot humiliation floods my chest, right on the heels of disappointment so sharp it borders on pain. Anger sparks too, bright, sudden, and quickly smothered, because how dare he pull me close like that, let me believe he was interested, say those things, and then leave me standing here like a damned fool?

I should demand an explanation. Ask him what the hell that was, why he touched me like he meant it if he was already halfway out the door.

I should do any of the things a rational adult would do when confronted with emotional whiplash of this magnitude.

Instead, I laugh.

It comes out bright and brittle, a sound with sharp edges, the kind of laugh that convinces absolutely no one, but it gives us both an out.

“Well.” I step back, matching his distance, rapidly rebuilding my walls brick by brick. “That’s embarrassing.” I hook a thumb toward the bar, forcing a grin that feels like it might crack my face in two. I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t fucking cry.  “Shall we blame the cheap beer?”

“Josie—”

“No, it’s fine. Really.” I’m already moving away, retreating before he can see the damage, before my eyes can betray me. My voice stays light even as an ugly ache settles deep in my chest. “Too much excitement, too much alcohol. We got caught up in the moment. It happens.”

“That’s not—”

“I should get back inside. Mingle. Celebrate.” I keep that damn smile that feels like broken glass on my face, determined not to let him see how deeply this hurts. “Congratulations on the win, Stone. Really. You should be proud.”

I will not cry over this man. Not tonight. Not freaking ever. 

I don’t wait for his response. I walk back inside, and rejoin the party, but the shame follows me all the same. I laugh at jokes I don’t hear, dance with some of the prospects who are young and eager for attention, drink another beer, and force myself to pretend my chest doesn’t feel like someone has reached in and strangled my heart. 

Lesson learned, Bright. Lesson fucking learned.

Stone watches me for the rest of the night. I can feel his gaze tracking me through the crowd. It’s heavy and cool.

I don’t glance back. Don’t meet his gaze. Not even once.

He doesn’t deserve another piece of me.

By the time I leave, I’ve rebuilt every wall I let him knock down. Only this time, they’re reinforced with steel and spite and the bone-deep certainty that I’m done hoping for a relationship that’s never going to happen.

Stone wants me. I know he does.

But wanting isn’t the same as having. He could have had me. Easily. But damn if he’ll get more than friendly professionalism from me from now on.

Screw you, Stone.

One of the prospects drops me home, and I let myself into my empty small house.

“Alone once more,” I mutter to myself, and pour a glass of wine I don’t taste.

You came here for boring, I remind myself. Not to fall for a motorcycle club president who treats you like you’re nothing.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to being his lawyer. Professional. Distant. Polite.

Tomorrow, I’ll pretend tonight never happened.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll eventually stop feeling like an idiot for wanting the one person I can’t have.