CHAPTER 10 — BARSTOOLS & BURNER PHONES

Sable

The house still smelled faintly like lavender and sawdust when I woke up.

I lay there for a minute, staring at the cracked ceiling above the couch, listening to the neighborhood come alive—sirens in the distance, a car stereo rattling windows two streets over, someone yelling about a dog. It wasn’t peaceful. But it wasn’t Luke’s house either.

That was enough.

My phone sat on the coffee table where I’d left it, burner screen dark. I picked it up before I could talk myself out of it and scrolled until I found the number I hadn’t dialed in years.

Hannah Moore.

We’d been inseparable in high school. Late‑night drives. Shared secrets. The kind of friendship that felt permanent when you were seventeen. Then I married Luke. Then she moved. And somehow, the distance became more than miles.

I stared at her name for a beat, then typed.

Me: This is Sable. Long shot… is this still Hannah?

The reply came less than a minute later.

Hannah:

Oh my god. Sable Arden? Are you alive???

A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.

Me: Barely. You still in town?

Hannah:

Yeah. Moved here after high school. I bartend now. You?

I hesitated.

Me: Just… relocated. Could use a friendly face.

Hannah:

Then you’re coming to see me. I’m working right now. Come by.

I frowned at the time on my phone.

Me: It’s not even noon. What kind of bar is open already?

Three dots. Then—

Hannah:

It’s not just a bar.

We serve food.

Trust me.

That should’ve been my first warning.

I showered, changed, and grabbed my keys. The truck started on the second crank, coughing like it hated me but willing to cooperate. I plugged Hannah’s address into the GPS and rolled out, telling myself this was just lunch. Just catching up.

Not a bad idea.

Not a dangerous one.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up in front of a place that absolutely was not “just a bar.”

Steel gate. Skull logo. Rows of motorcycles lined up like guard dogs. Men in leather cuts leaned against the building, smoking, talking, watching everything.

A motorcycle club.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered.

I sat there for a full ten seconds, fingers still on the steering wheel. Every instinct screamed to leave. Luke’s world was bikers. MCs. Power and violence wrapped in chrome.

But Hannah was inside.

I parked.

The air felt heavier the moment I stepped out of the truck. Conversations paused. A few eyes followed me. Not hostile. Curious. Measuring.

I pushed through the front door anyway.

The inside was loud, dark, and warm—music humming low, the smell of grease and beer in the air. And behind the bar, wiping down the counter with a rag like she owned the place, was Hannah.

She froze when she saw me.

Then she squealed.

“SABLE!”

Before I could even brace myself, she was around the bar and hugging me so hard my feet almost left the floor.

“I thought you disappeared!” she laughed. “I kept your number forever. I’m so glad you texted.”

“Yeah,” I said, hugging her back. “Me too.”

She dragged me toward a booth like she was afraid I might vanish.

“Sit. You’re eating. You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in years.”

“That’s because I haven’t.”

She slid a menu in front of me, but I barely looked at it. My eyes kept drifting—to the men, to the patches, to the way the room felt like it had a pulse.

“You work here?” I asked.

“Yeah. Six years now.” She smirked. “Not exactly the dive bar I thought I’d end up in, but it pays the bills and the guys are mostly harmless.”

Mostly.

“You look… different,” she said gently. “Not bad. Just… tired.”

I swallowed.

“Three years married to Luke Jones will do that to you.”

Her eyes widened. “The Vipers’ Luke?”

“That’s the one.”

“Holy shit.”

I nodded. “I left him.”

Her hand shot across the table, grabbing mine. “Good. Tell me everything.”

So I did.

Not all of it. But enough.

The control. The silence. Steve. Cassandra. Jack. The way I’d been erased inch by inch.

Hannah listened without interrupting, jaw tight, eyes fierce.

“He doesn’t get to own you,” she said when I finished. “Not anymore.”

I wanted to believe that.

Lunch came and went. Fries. A burger I barely tasted. Conversation that felt like oxygen after years underwater.

But through all of it…

I kept feeling it.

Eyes.

Not Hannah’s. Not the men inside.

Something heavier.

Watching.

I told myself it was paranoia. Luke lived in my bones. Of course I expected him to come dragging me back.

After a while, I slid out of the booth.

“I should hit the grocery store before I go full hermit,” I said. “I’ve got nothing but soup and regret at home.”

Hannah laughed. “Text me anytime. Seriously.”

“I will.”

Outside, the daylight felt too bright after the dim bar. I climbed into my truck and drove to the grocery store down the road, picked up what I needed—milk, bread, fruit, something that resembled real food.

Next door was a craft store.

I hesitated.

Then went in.

I came out ten minutes later with a diamond‑painting kit and zero shame. Something to keep my hands busy at night. Something that wasn’t thinking.

By the time I got home, dusk had started to settle in.

I carried my bags inside, locked the door, and set everything on the counter.

And that’s when I heard it.

That low, smooth rumble.

The same pipes.

Somewhere nearby.

I didn’t go to the window.

I didn’t need to.

Whatever biker had looked at me through the hardware store glass yesterday…

Had found my street.

And he wasn’t done yet.