“They barely know me. In fact, outside of you, none of the men actually do,” I told him.

“Don’t matter. You walked in with homemade pie. You strutted your ass right onto Chaos with homemade pie for a brother who did you a good deed. Then you got kicked in the teeth by your ex. No good woman gets kicked in the teeth on Chaos without retribution. He’s gonna feel our displeasure, and that’s just the way it is. Again, don’t fight it.”

Although something about that made me feel something that was not unpleasant in the slightest, still, I couldn’t let it go.

“That’s slightly insane.”

“That’s our world,” he returned. “We claim you, you’re ours. No goin’ back.”

I shook my head in confusion. “You’ve claimed me?”

“I haven’t. Chaos has.”

That didn’t feel pleasant. It kind of hurt.

“Listen,” he kept going, “I saw the way you looked at me when I stopped to deal with your tire. That’s the way a lot of people look at my brothers and me. They make assumptions. They judge. You mighta done that for a second, but then you let that go. After that, you showed here, and I’ll tell you straight up, unless they want auto parts or a custom ride, no one shows here. Definitely not with pie. Not unless she’s a biker groupie, a girl who gets off on rough trade, or a woman fit for the life of an old lady who’s throwin’ her hat in the ring. And none of those bitches bring pie. We judge right back and that would be, we judge people who judge us or live narrow lives or have sticks up their asses. But people who open themselves to our world without bullshit coloring it, we let in. You met Elvira. She’s one of ’em. Now, you’re another. Anything threatened Elvira, every man who has a patch would throw down to protect her. As insane as you think that is, yesterday, you became Elvira but in a cute butterfly dress and sexy shoes.”

He thought my dress was cute.

And my shoes were sexy.

Wow.

“I had my son with me and I was in an uncertain situation,” I stated, feeling the need to explain my first reaction to him, which unfortunately he didn’t miss. “Any man who approached us when we had our flat—”

“I hear you. I get you,” he interrupted me quietly. “You still did it because I’m a biker.”

That was true, regrettably.

So there was nothing else to say but what he deserved to hear.

So I said it.

“I’m sorry.”

“’Preciated. Now, we done?”

His curtness was both annoying and upsetting.

Further, I wasn’t done.

“I don’t judge you,” I told him. “Or your people. They’re all very nice.”