The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 301

Chapter 148-1

On an average morning, the clubhouse kitchen smells like stale beer, cold grease, and decades of questionable decisions.

Clam

It’s a commercial-grade space. It has stainless steel counters that have seen better days, an eight-burner industrial stove with two stubborn pilots that refuse to light without a grill lighter, and a walk-in cooler large enough to store an entire steer.

It’s used by serve up customers who order bar food with their drinks, so the professional cooking is basic. Left to their own devices, the men of the Grinning Skulls MC treat it like an oversized microwave station.

Right now, the counters are littered with crumpled paper bags from the burger joint down the highway, half-empty bags of stale tortilla chips, and a staggering pyramid of empty energy drink cans left behind by the night watch.

I set my heavy canvas grocery bags down on the center island with a loud, satisfying thud.

Outside, the late-morning sun cuts through the gray horizon, puncturing the air with the periodic thunder of pipes echoing off the gravel lot.

I pull a thick maple cutting board out from my tote, along with my own chef’s knife rolled tightly inside a clean, white dish towel.

I learned long ago not to rely on the club’s cutlery; I well remember watching Brick use the heavy butcher knife to pry open a stubborn lid on a can of axle grease.

“What in the hell is all this?” Diesel’s gravelly voice booms from the wide doorway. He wipes his oil-stained hands on a filthy shop rag, squinting into one of my brown paper bags with deep, theatrical suspicion. “Is that… leafy green shit? Zara, if you bring kale into this clubhouse, you’re gonna have to kill me on principle for letting it cross the threshold.”

“It’s fresh flat-leaf parsley and rosemary, Diesel,” I say, leaning over the counter to tie a plain black apron around my waist, pulling my dark hair back into a loose knot at the base of my neck. “And you’re going to eat every bite, unless you want your digestive tract to completely shut down from another week of gas station hot dogs.”

“Hey, those hot dogs build character,” he mutters, though his eyes widen as I begin unloading the haul onto the stainless steel prep table:

Four massive pork shoulders, mesh sacks of sweet yellow onions, whole heads of garlic, coarse sea salt, smoked paprika, dark brown sugar, and Six heavy blocks of unsalted butter.

“You’re cooking for the whole damn club?” Tucker asks, ambling in right behind Diesel. He leans his broad frame against the steel doorframe, a rare, appreciative glint warming his weathered eyes.

“It’s my day off,” I say simply, dragging a massive, fifty-quart stainless steel stockpot out from the bottom cabinet and setting it onto the front burner. “I have time. And frankly, watching you idiots survive on cold pizza and instant noodles was starting to make my chest hurt. You’re all walking heart attacks, I swear.”

I keep my eyes on the prep table, not wanting to tell the guys my real motivation, that coming down here isn’t about proving anything or playing housewife. It’s about filling my hands with work and feeding the

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Chapter 148

people who keep me standing.

“Tucker,” I call out, pointing a wooden spoon in his direction. “Do me a favor and light those back two burners. The igniter’s dead.”

“On it, princess,” Tucker grunts, pulling a brass Zippo from his pocket and striking it with a crisp clack.

“Where’s the rest of the crew?” I ask, pulling my knife from its towel. “I know Dad and Mayhem and Hammer are holding down the warehouse perimeter, but it feels light in here.”

Clam

“Rook’s in the back office dealing with paper,” Tucker replies, stepping back as the blue flame catches under the heavy steel grate. “Bear’s out on road patrol. Stitch and Byte are up in the comms room trying to trace a dead signal, and Stray’s out back patching up a torn tire on the van. Oh, and we got two new prospects floating around, Spoon and Trench. If they get in your way, kick ’em.”

“Got it,” I say.

“Hey, don’t forget Riff and Big Mac,” Diesel chimed in. “They’re over in the pit trying to fix the lift. Big Mac almost dropped a transmission on his foot twenty minutes ago.”

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