I'd taken the dull, dark, gray cinder block walls and slapped a coat of off-white on them to make it seem less like a dungeon since the only light I got was from the tiny casement windows that faced other buildings that tended to block a lot of the sunlight.
My queen-sized bed was no longer sitting on the floor, but rather had a frame and a nice, matching bed-set. Like I was a whole grown-ass human being. I'd taken some old, abandoned cabinets that must have been torn out a decade ago, fixed them up, and made myself a little kitchenette complete with a mini-fridge, coffee pot, and microwave.
Sure, there was a long way to go. I hadn't done anything to paint or soften up the cold, hard, paint-splattered cement floor. I had nothing on the walls. And my clothes were sitting inside a makeshift dresser built out of old milk crates that had been left by the previous owners.
But I'd made some progress.
"The bed is... unexpected," Grandpa added, making me realize he did pick up on some of the changes.
Turning, I inspected the bed through eyes that weren't my own.
And, okay, yeah, I could see it.
I'd gone for a white metal bed frame which, in and of itself, was almost like it came from a cottage. But the bedspread and shams were a cotton Jersey waffled quilt set in a blush color so light I was sure none of the guys would be able to tell it was pink.
After an entire lifetime of having all my choices dictated by what the men in my father's club would think, I had gone a little rebellious with the pink.
The only other way I had a little feminine rebellion was with my fancy underwear sets, things my men would never see.
"It was on sale," I said, brushing it off. "But I—"
"Yo, Danny," Pops called down the stairs. "Got a problem," he added.
"Ugh, if you guys broke something else, heads are going to roll," I grumbled, charging up the stairs, mind on some big plumbing or electrical or window replacement bill heading my way.
"No, actually, it's the Henchmen," Pops said as I moved out into the hall that led into the bar.
"What about them?"
"The president is here."
"Reign is here?" I asked, pushing through the door into the bar.
"No. The other one."
"Fallon?" I asked, heart tripping even as my stomach sank.
"Yeah."
"Tell him to fuck off," I said, shaking my head, hoping my tone sounded as indifferent as I tried to school it to be.
"Tell him yourself," Fallon said, making me grind to a stop, turning to find him standing just inside the door with two of his men.
One was the one who used to cage fight. Niro, I think. A fitting name, since he looked like a young Robert De Niro.
If I had to guess, he was the muscle.
The other was someone we hadn't been able to figure out yet. We knew his name was Brooks and that he built like a high school linebacker with dark skin and light brown eyes. According to my guys, whenever they saw him out with his brothers, he never really talked much, hardly drank, and rarely spent any time chatting up women. Work-focused, it seemed.
So he was the brains, I guess.
"Okay," I said, turning fully to face Fallon as I straightened to full height and casually rested my hands on my hips, widening my chest and stance, wanting to take up room, look like my role. "Fuck off," I said, chin raising.
"We need to talk," Fallon insisted.
An instantaneous cold sweat broke out over my skin as I became all too aware of my men scattered around, watching, listening.
"The fuck we do," I said, tone cold, sharp, cutting. It had to be, or it wouldn't hide the growing panic swirling through my system.
"We need to compare notes about the shoo—" Fallon started, trailing off when the door to the kitchen burst open at the side, and out walked a couple.
Well, no. That wasn't technically accurate. One of them was walking. The man. Tall. Massive, really. A big bear of a man with a full beard, medium-brown hair, and a belly that the clubwhores all found endearing.
The other part of the duo—a petite woman with thick thighs and red hair—was held upside down against his chest, her knees on his shoulders. With his face buried in her bared crotch thanks to her short skirt that was hiked up, giving us all a view of her ass.
"Munch," I called, barely able to keep my tone authoritative when he just kept walking, completely oblivious to all of us gathered around. "Munch, company," I called, making him lift his head from his task to look at the Henchmen for a second.
"Let's take this back to the cooler," Munch declared, burying his face as he turned and lead them back from where they came.