Chapter Eleven The Clubhouse
1980 Words
~ Lily ~
Three days passed before I used Hector’s number.
Not because I lacked opportunities.
But because I possessed something resembling self-control.
A rare condition, apparently.
By Wednesday afternoon, I was seated near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse while my nail technician worked quietly and my assistant attempted to organise next week’s schedule from across the room, outside, the stretched beneath a pale blue sky. Inside, my attention kept drifting toward my phone, which sat face down beside me.
Not because I expected Hector to text me.
Because I absolutely did not.
The fact that I checked twice in ten minutes was completely unrelated.
“Thursday is still open for the charity board luncheon,” Ava one of my assistants was saying. “And your meeting with the Singapore investors has been moved to Friday.”
“Mm,” I replied.
Ava narrowed her eyes. I recognised that look — it was the one people used when they suspected I wasn’t paying attention.
They were usually right.
“Are you listening?”
“Of course.”
“What did I just say?”
I considered lying, then decided I was too tired.
“Something about investors.”
“You’re impossible,” she said.
Before I could defend myself, my phone lit up with a number I recognised immediately, and a ridiculous amount of anticipation shot through me.
I hated that.
The nail technician noticed me smile before I did.
I picked up the phone.
Hector: Busy?
I stared at the message, then at the ceiling, then back at the message. A single word. That was all. Yet somehow it had completely improved my afternoon.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
Lily: Depends who’s asking.
The reply appeared almost immediately.
*Hector: That’s not an answer.
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. Across the room, Ava looked deeply concerned.
She should be.
I was beginning to concern myself.
Lily: I’m stealing your personality now.
Several seconds passed. Then.
Hector: Terrible idea.
The smile returned and stayed there. The conversation paused after that, but for some reason that felt natural with him. Neither of us seemed particularly interested in filling every silence.
A minute later another message appeared.
*Hector: What are you doing?*
I looked down at my hands. “Doing my nails,” I muttered.
The technician glanced up and said “Sorry is there a problem?”
“No problem,” I replied and went back to typing.
Lily: Being tortured.
Hector: By who?
I held the phone up and took a photograph of the woman currently filing my nails. The response came almost instantly.
Hector: She looks dangerous.
The man had no right being funny over text.
A few more messages followed before one appeared that was different from the others.
Hector: You doing anything tonight?
I stared at the screen and reread it twice. My pulse did something mildly embarrassing. Across the room Ava continued discussing schedules, completely unaware that a motorcycle-riding bartender was currently responsible for my inability to form coherent thoughts.
Lily: Why?
The answer took longer than the others. When it finally appeared, I sat up slightly.
Hector: We are having a clubhouse barbecue.
Not a bar or diner but his clubhouse.
For the first time since meeting him, a piece of the world beyond Hector himself appeared. Something private. Something that belonged to him. And judging by the fact he’d never mentioned it before, it's something he didn’t invite people into casually.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
Lily: Is this where I discover you’re secretly running a cult?
The typing bubble appeared..disappeared then returned.
Hector: Depends on how you feel about a lot of motorcycles.
A smile pulled at my mouth. I tried to suppress it but failed miserably.
Across the room, Ava set her tablet down.
“Who are you texting?” she asked.
“No one,” I replied.
She immediately laughed. “That’s definitely a man.”
Unfortunately, that was the exact response of someone who had known me too long.
I ignored her and looked back at the screen. For reasons I couldn’t entirely explain, curiosity had already won. Maybe it was because Hector never volunteered information about himself. Maybe it was because every conversation revealed another piece of something I hadn’t realised I was trying to understand. Or maybe it was simply because I wanted to see what his life looked like when he wasn’t standing behind a bar.
Whatever the reason, I already knew my answer.
Lily: What time?
The reply came immediately. As though he’d expected it.
Hector: Three.
Then another message.
Hector: And Lily?
Lily: Yes?
A brief pause. Then he replied.
Hector: Don’t wear heels.
I stared at that for a moment, then laughed, then spent the rest of the afternoon wondering what exactly waited for me inside the Black Saints clubhouse.
By Two-Thirty I had changed outfits three times.
Not because I cared what Hector thought.
But because I had absolutely no idea what someone was supposed to wear to a motorcycle clubhouse. Every image my brain supplied looked ridiculous. Leather jackets. Chain wallets. Men with names like Razor. The sort of people news anchors referred to as dangerous individuals while speaking in grave concerned tones.
Hector had spent weeks proving he wasn’t remotely what I’d expected, yet somehow the phrase motorcycle clubhouse still managed to trigger every stereotype I’d ever absorbed.
By three, I settled on dark jeans, a black sweater, and boots sensible enough to satisfy his warning. Then he sent a message twenty minutes later which was only an address.
No explanation. No instructions. Just an address.
Typical.
The drive took longer than expected. The farther we moved from the financial district, the more the city changed around us with glass towers giving way to older buildings, warehouses, garages, workshops, and businesses that I'm sure were designed with the aim of lowering property value.
When my driver finally pulled into the parking lot, I found myself staring through the window.
And this was not what I expected.
At all.
The Black Saints clubhouse occupied a large brick building that resembled a renovated warehouse far more than any kind of secret criminal headquarters. The parking lot was full. Families moved between vehicles. Children ran across the pavement. Someone stood beside a barbecue grill laughing loudly while another man carried a tray of food toward a group gathered near folding tables.
I frowned. Then frowned harder.
My driver glanced at me through the mirror. “Everything alright, Ms Ryder?”
“I think I’m in the wrong place,” I said, and the words slipped out before I could stop them.
A second later the front door opened.
Hector stepped outside.
And just like that, I knew I wasn’t.
He spotted the SUV immediately and started walking toward it. The sight of him did something alarming to my chest that I chose to ignore.
The moment I climbed out, his gaze swept briefly over my outfit.
“Look at that,” he said. “You actually listened.”
“I assume you’re referring to the boots,” I replied.
“I am.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a way that was becoming alarmingly familiar.
Before I could say anything else, a small blur launched itself across the parking lot and collided directly into Hector’s leg. A little girl, no older than seven, looked up at him with an expression of genuine offence.
“You’re late,” she announced.
Hector looked completely unsurprised. “I wasn’t aware I was on a schedule.”
“You promised you’d bring ice cream,” she said, folding her arms.
Hearing that his expression turned thoughtful.
The little girl finally noticed me standing there. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again while she conducted what appeared to be a full evaluation of me. After several seconds she pointed directly at me.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
I nearly laughed. Children really had no interest in social etiquette.
Hector glanced toward me. “Lily.”
That only made the child’s curiosity worse.
“Lily who?”
“Just Lily,” he said.
She looked deeply unsatisfied with that answer, but before she could continue her interrogation, an exhausted woman appeared from behind a nearby truck.
“There you are,” she said, then looked at Hector. “Sorry. She’s escaped three times already.”
“Four,” the little girl corrected.
Her mother sighed like she had been sighing about this particular child for years.
I liked her immediately.
After they disappeared back toward the crowd, I looked around again. Nobody seemed dangerous. Nobody seemed intimidating. Nobody seemed particularly interested in me at all. A few people glanced over and returned to whatever they were doing.
Talking. Eating. Laughing. Living.
The complete lack of attention felt strangely refreshing.
“You look disappointed,” Hector observed.
I turned toward him. “I think I expected more crime.”
That earned an actual laugh — not the small amused exhale he usually gave me, but a real one.
“You watch too much television,” he said.
“Apparently,” I agreed.
He motioned toward the building. “Come on.”
The inside surprised me even more. The clubhouse wasn’t luxurious, but it wasn’t rough either — it felt lived in, which was something entirely different. Long wooden tables occupied most of the main room. Club photographs covered the walls. A bar ran along one side, and a large television played a baseball game nobody appeared to be watching. As we moved people greeted Hector constantly like a man who had completely earned his place here.
Then a tall man with grease-stained hands slapped Hector’s shoulder as we passed.
“Thought you weren’t coming,” he said.
“I am here,” Hector replied.
“Yeah, but you’re late.”
“I wasn’t aware this place had attendance requirements.”
“It does today,” the man said, then looked at me and grinned. “You’re Lily.”
I looked immediately at Hector.
He looked as if he were in a daze.
The man extended his hand. “Dean.”
“Lily,” I said.
“Nice to finally meet you,” he replied, and then he was already walking away before I could ask what that meant.
I turned back to Hector. “He knew my name.”
“So?” he said.
“How?” I asked.
His expression remained suspiciously innocent. I didn’t trust it for a second. The bastard was enjoying himself.
For the next hour, he guided me through the clubhouse, introducing me to people who ran garages, logistics companies, repair shops, security firms, businesses woven through the club like roots. The deeper I looked, the less the Black Saints resembled the outlaw organisation I’d spent days imagining.
What I found instead looked remarkably like a community.
People relied on each other here. Not because they had to but because they wanted to.
By the time we got to the garage bays behind the building, the evening sky had started turning gold. I watched several members arguing over an engine while two children rode bicycles through the parking lot nearby.
“You’re thinking again,” Hector said.
I glanced toward him. “Your club isn’t what I expected.”
“So we're not the dangerous outlaws you pictured us to be?” he said.
I shook my head. “Not in the slightest.”
He stared at the scene in front of us for a moment, arms folded across his chest. “Most things aren’t,” he muttered quietly.
I wasn’t entirely sure whether he meant the club.
Or himself.
Maybe both.
And for reasons I didn’t fully understand yet, I found that I very much wanted to learn the difference.
- Writer
