Princess Wrapped in Leather

Chapter 4

Knox

The shop smells like motor oil and beer, which is pretty much how every celebration here goes. Someone cranked up the music—classic rock, loud enough to feel in your chest but not so loud you can't hear people talking. The overhead lights are dimmed, and someone strung up some of those cheap party store decorations that say "Congrats Grad" in shiny letters. It's not fancy, but it's ours.

I'm leaning against the workbench in the back corner, nursing a Coke and watching the room. Sam's over by the pool table with a couple of her friends—girls from school I've seen around but don't really know. She's laughing at something one of them said, her cap and gown long gone, replaced by jeans and a tank top. Her hair's down now, and she keeps tucking it behind her ear when she leans over to line up a shot.

She's terrible at pool. Always has been.

"You gonna stand there all night like a creep, or you gonna join the party?" Bobbie appears next to me, beer in hand, grinning like he knows something I don't.

"Just making sure nobody gets too rowdy," I say, taking a sip of my Coke. "You know how these things go."

"Uh-huh." Bobbie's still grinning. "That why you've been staring at the pool table for the last ten minutes?"

I shoot him a look. "I'm keeping an eye on things. That's what we do."

"Sure, kid. Sure." He claps me on the shoulder and wanders off toward the keg, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

He doesn't know. None of them do. And that's how it needs to stay.

I watch as Sam misses her shot completely, the cue ball rolling pathetically to the side. Her friends laugh, and she throws her hands up in mock defeat, grinning. God, that smile. It does something to me every time—makes my chest feel tight and my brain go a little fuzzy.

I've known her since she was fifteen. I started working here when I was seventeen, fresh out of high school and looking for something that wasn't my old man's disappointment. Her dad gave me a shot, taught me the trade, brought me into the crew. And Sam was just... there. This smart-mouthed kid who'd wander into the shop after school, do her homework on the bench, and give me s**t about whatever I was working on.

Back then, she was just the boss's daughter. Funny, sharp, a little wild. I didn't think about her like that.

But somewhere along the way, things shifted. Maybe it was the way she started looking at engines like puzzles she wanted to solve.

Maybe it was how she never flinched when the guys got loud or rough around the edges—she fit right in, held her own. Or maybe it was just... her. The way she laughs with her whole body. The way she's loyal to the people she loves, fierce and unshakable.

I don't know when it happened. I just know that one day I looked at her and thought, Oh. s**t.

She's seventeen. Just graduated high school. I'm nineteen, which isn't a huge gap, but it feels like it right now. She's still figuring out who she is, where she's going. And I'm... I'm here. Working in her dad's shop, riding with the club she doesn't even know exists yet, trying to keep my head on straight.

I can wait.

I will wait.

"Knox!" Her voice cuts through the noise, and I look up to see her waving me over. "Come help me! These two are hustling me and I need backup."

I push off the workbench and make my way over, weaving through the crowd of bikers and shop guys. Her dad's over by the bar, talking to a couple of the older members, and he glances my way as I pass. I give him a nod, and he returns it. He trusts me. That means something.

"What's the situation?" I ask when I reach the pool table.

"The situation," Sam says, gesturing dramatically at the table, "is that I'm getting destroyed and my reputation is on the line."

"Your reputation as the worst pool player in the shop?" I say, and one of her friends snorts.

Sam narrows her eyes at me, but she's smiling. "You're supposed to be on my side."

"I am. That's why I'm being honest." I pick up a cue and chalk the tip. "Move over. I'll take the next shot."

She steps aside, and for a second, she's close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral, light. My hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to touch her shoulder or her arm or just... something. But I don't. I line up the shot instead, focusing on the angles, the physics of it. Anything but the way she's standing right there, watching me.

I sink two stripes in a row, and Sam cheers like I just won the lottery.

"See?" she says to her friends. "I told you I had backup."

"That's all Knox," one of them says. "You're still terrible."

"Details." Sam waves a hand dismissively, and I can't help but grin.

This is the hard part. Being close to her, joking around, pretending like everything's normal when all I want to do is tell her how I feel. But I can't. Not now. Not when she's just starting to figure out her life, not when her dad trusts me, not when she deserves to have her own space to grow without me complicating things.

So I play it cool. I take my shots, I laugh at her jokes, and I keep my distance.

Later, when the party's winding down and people are starting to drift out, I'm back at my corner, cleaning up empty bottles and tossing them in the recycling bin. Sam's sitting on one of the stools by the bar now, talking to her dad. He's got his arm around her shoulders, and she's leaning into him, looking tired but happy.

I watch them for a second longer than I should.

"You good, Knox?" Her dad's voice startles me, and I realize he's looking right at me.

"Yeah," I say quickly, straightening up. "Just cleaning up."

He nods, but there's something in his eyes—like he's reading me, the way he always does. He doesn't say anything, though. Just turns back to Sam and says something that makes her laugh.

I grab another bottle and toss it in the bin.

Two years. Maybe less, depending on how things go. She'll be nineteen, I'll be twenty-one. The gap won't feel so big then. She'll have had time to figure out what she wants, where she's going. And maybe—maybe—I'll still be here. Still waiting.

I can do that.

For her, I can do that.