Addicted To The MC President

Chapter Seven Black Saints

~ Lily ~

Three days after waking up in Hector’s room above the bar, I did something I would never admit out loud. I investigated who he was— not because I was obsessed, not because I was curious, and certainly not because I had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about him during board meetings but because I was responsible. There was a difference. At least that was the lie I told myself while sitting behind my office desk.

The lie sounded significantly less convincing when I considered the fact that I’d already checked my phone twice in the last ten minutes hoping for absolutely nothing, because he didn’t even ask for my number. Which somehow felt insulting because most men practically threw themselves at me while he couldn’t even be bothered to ask.

The memory irritated me enough that I finally picked up my office phone and pressed a button.

“Hello Ma'am,” a familiar voice answered.

“Hi, Martin. I need a background report,” I said, keeping my voice even.

There was a brief pause. “Corporate or personal?” he asked

“Personal.”

Another pause, longer this time. Martin had worked with my family for years. He knew exactly how rarely I made personal requests.

“Anyone dangerous?” he asked sounding suspicious.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“Name?”

I hesitated, which felt ridiculous, then sighed. “Hector.”

“Last name?”

“That’s the problem,” I tell him.

He went Silent. Then he let out a heavy sigh.

“I’ve got a first name,” I said, before he could get comfortable enjoying himself.

“You’re being remarkably unhelpful but first let me get this straight your hiring a private investigator because you met a man and don’t know his last name?” he asked, and when he said it out loud, it sounded significantly stalkish.

“I want basic information,” I said firmly.

“Of course you do,” he replied.

“Martin,” I called.

“I’m working on it,” he said, still clearly amused.

I ended the call before he could silently continue to laugh at my request but unfortunately, the damage was already done because even my private investigator thought I was losing my mind. The worst part was that he might be right.

The report arrived the following afternoon. I opened it expecting something simple — a business owner, a former athlete, maybe a military background. Something ordinary. Instead, I spent the next thirty minutes staring at the screen in complete silence, then read everything again, and again, because apparently once wasn’t enough.

The first thing that caught my attention wasn’t the motorcycle club. It was the businesses. Three bars, two garages, a logistics company, private security contracts, real estate holdings, community outreach programs, charity partnerships. The man pouring whiskey behind a bar owned half the report.

I leaned back slowly. Interesting. Very interesting. Most wealthy men I knew couldn’t wait to tell people how important they were — they introduced themselves using net worth, job titles, influence even Dylan practically treated success like a personality trait. Yet somehow Hector had spent hours talking to me without mentioning any of this.

The second surprise arrived several pages later.

“Black Saints Motorcycle Club President.”

I stared at the words, then reread them. Former outlaw club, currently operating legitimate businesses across several states — community programs, employment initiatives, private security, transportation contracts. The report painted a picture that looked nothing like the stereotypes I’d grown up hearing. My father had always told me the world was rarely as simple as people wanted it to be. Apparently, he had been right. Again.

I clicked through several attached photographs they were photos of small charity events, fundraisers, community projects, club rides and Hector appeared in most of them — sometimes speaking to reporters, sometimes helping organise events, sometimes standing quietly in the background looking like he wished he were somewhere else. One photograph caught my attention. He was laughing, not smiling, actually laughing, and the expression transformed his entire face. I found myself staring at it longer than necessary, then immediately closed the image. Because that was becoming weird.

The problem wasn’t what I discovered. The problem was how little it bothered me. It should have — any reasonable woman would probably read the words motorcycle club president and start reconsidering her life choices. Instead, I felt more curious than before, which was probably its own warning sign.

The sudden sound of my office door opening without warning brought me right back and Elias walked in carrying coffee and stopped immediately, his eyes landing on me with that look he reserved for things that didn’t add up. “You look guilty,” he said.

I slammed shut my laptop but it was too late.

His eyes narrowed. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

“Lily.”

“Elias,” I said, matching his tone exactly.

He sat across from me and studied my face. “You only use that voice when you’re lying.”

I took a careful sip of coffee. “Elias, I assure you, everything is completely normal.”

“You’re investigating somebody,” he said simply.

The coffee nearly went down the wrong pipe. His grin widened instantly.

“Wow,” he said.

“What?”

“I guessed,” he replied, looking far too pleased with himself.

I closed my eyes. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

“Elias,” I whispered meekly.

“Who is he?” he pressed, leaning forward.

“There is no he,” I answered.

“There is always a he.”

“I hate you,” I said flatly.

“You’ve already used that line this week,” he pointed out.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. Elias leaned back in the chair opposite me and studied me with the same expression he usually reserved for market crashes and corporate scandals, except this time he looked entertained — far too entertained.

“I’ve known you for years,” he said. “You never do research on people because you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored.” I snap.

“You publicly detonated your marriage, disappeared into the city, and now you’re staring at your laptop like it contains state secrets,” he said, tilting his head slightly.

I hated how accurate that sounded. “Maybe I’m being careful,” I replied.

“With a man?” he added, and the word somehow made everything worse.

I ignored him. Elias watched me for several seconds before laughing. “You’re never this defensive.”

“I’m not defensive,” I said.

“That’s exactly what a defensive person says,” he replied without missing a beat.

I pointed toward the door. “Leave.”

He stood immediately, still smiling, still entirely too pleased with himself. At the doorway, he paused and turned around. “Is he at least attractive?” he asked.

I threw a pen at him. Unfortunately, I missed. He left laughing.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of meetings, contracts, and conference calls, but my attention kept drifting back to the report waiting on my computer — not because Hector was dangerous, but because he wasn’t what I expected. Every detail seemed to contradict the previous one: bar owner, businessman, club president, community leader, former outlaw, legitimate entrepreneur. None of it fit neatly together, which made him far more interesting than anyone I’d met in years.

By six o’clock I finally gave up pretending to focus. By seven I was standing in front of my bedroom closet again.

The realisation annoyed me immediately. This was becoming a habit — a dangerous one at that. I stared at a row of designer dresses and wondered when exactly my life had taken such a bizarre turn. A month ago I had been attending charity galas and pretending my marriage still existed. Now I was trying to decide what to wear to an underground bar because I wanted to see a biker.

Fantastic. My therapist would have a field day with this.

By eight thirty I was sitting in the back of my car. By eight forty-five I was standing at the top of the familiar staircase as the music drifted upward — it sounded strange considering I’d only been here twice, yet somehow it already felt different from every place I normally spent my evenings.

As I descended slowly the crowd looked much the same as before, people talking, laughing, living. Nobody cared who I was, nobody cared about the headlines, nobody cared about my divorce. The relief hit me immediately.

Then I saw him.

Hector was behind the bar reviewing paperwork — not serving drinks, not talking, just focused on whatever was in front of him. For some reason, seeing him like that made the report feel real. Not the club president, not the businessman, not the man connected to half a dozen businesses. Just Hector the man who made coffee without expectations, who never once mentioned his own power, who somehow looked exactly the same after I’d spent two days learning things he had never bothered to tell me.

As if sensing my attention, he glanced up. Our eyes met across the room, and for a second neither of us moved. Then one corner of his mouth lifted slightly — not a smile, just recognition. Strangely, that felt better than it should have.

I walked toward the bar before I could overthink it.

“You’re back,” Hector said, setting down his pen and watching me approach.

I slid onto the same stool I’d occupied every previous visit and set my purse on the counter. “Apparently.”

His gaze lingered on my face for a second, then returned to the paperwork. “No charity galas tonight?”

“No public humiliations scheduled either,” I said.

“That’s progress,” he replied, the corner of his mouth pulling up again.

I smiled despite myself, because somehow, for the first time in years, I was looking forward to spending an evening somewhere — and that realisation felt far more appalling than anything I’d discovered in the report.