by Devney Perry
“No, not really.” People were more easily forgotten than anyone wanted to think, certainly about themselves.
Would I forget Mom one day? I didn’t want to. Angry as I was, I didn’t want to forget her smile. Maybe if I kept enough pictures around, I’d never lose her.
“Anyway,” Isaiah continued, “he worked for a company that did a bunch of overseas development. They ended up moving him to Asia. He’d call. I remember Mom taught me to use the phone when I was little so I could say hi. But he didn’t visit more than once or twice a year. He’d send me gifts on my birthdays and Christmas. Then when I was eight, Mom sat Kaine and me down and said that Dad was sick. He died eight months later.”
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “What was it?”
“Pancreatic cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” I put my hand over his.
He lifted a shoulder. “I was just a kid. When it came to the stuff that a dad should teach a boy, I had Kaine. He taught me how to ride my bike. How to throw a ball. And a punch.”
He had a tight-knit family, sort of like mine. Given his shock at Suzanne’s reaction to the news of our marriage, Isaiah must have expected them to go ballistic at our out-of-the-blue relationship. I could see why he’d kept it from them. It wasn’t about me. He didn’t want to disappoint them.
I bumped his shoulder with mine. “Thanks.”
“Welcome.” He bumped it back.
“Why did you think I wouldn’t like you?” Nothing he’d told me seemed bad. I didn’t care what his family situation was. Look at mine. His was tame compared to the tale of my origin.
“Those were safe questions, doll.”
“Oh.”
Maybe he’d expected me to ask about Shannon again. But I’d gotten the hint last week. That was a no-fly zone.
Who was she? His ex-girlfriend? Or . . . ex-wife? Had he been married before? All these questions I wanted to ask, but they didn’t seem safe. And he was talking—finally talking. I was worried that with one wrong question, he’d shut me out.
“How about this? What should I know about you?”
He leaned forward, dropping his elbows to his knees. “Not many people here know I was in prison for three years. I don’t hide it. Won’t deny it. But I’m not broadcasting it either.”
“I can understand that. Will you tell me why you went?”
He stared at the door.
Second after second ticked by. The tension that normally came when Isaiah ignored a question wasn’t there. This was different. He was ashamed. It pulsed off him in guilty, thick waves. It was hurting him. He was enduring it, because I’d asked for an answer.
“You don’t have to—”
“I killed someone.”
I froze. “Who?”
“A woman and her unborn baby.”
I flinched. I didn’t want to, but it happened involuntarily.
He hung his head.
This couldn’t be real. Isaiah wouldn’t kill a pregnant woman. It had to have been an accident, right? The Isaiah who’d saved my life wasn’t a murderer.
He was kind and reserved and thoughtful. I refused to picture this man as a cold-blooded killer.
Wait, was that why he didn’t drink? Did the woman’s death have something to do with an addiction? He hadn’t spent long in prison. Three years plus parole was common for manslaughter. So it had to be an accident. Maybe drunk driving?
Or drugs?
My mind whirled with the possibilities but stopped when a loud pair of footsteps echoed up the stairs outside. That staircase was better than any doorbell. No one could sneak up here unnoticed.
Isaiah was off the bed in a flash, striding to the door. He opened it just as our visitor knocked.
“Dash.” Isaiah waved him inside.
Dash strode in and scanned the room.
I stood from the bed, wishing his first visit to our apartment wasn’t when it was covered with paint supplies. The brush I’d thrown at Isaiah was on the edge of a plastic drop cloth—thank God—not the carpet.
“What’s up?” Isaiah asked, closing the door.
“Got some news,” Dash said. “The Warriors are making a move. Tucker called me today and said they’re coming over Saturday and expect a meeting.”
My heart dropped. No. Nonononono. Had they learned that Isaiah and I had been in that cabin?
“About?” Isaiah asked.
“The fire. They’ve spent time trying to figure out who started it but haven’t had any luck.” He turned to me. “They want to talk to you and Bryce about the guy who took you.”
“We don’t know anything,” I blurted. “We told you everything.”
“Now you’ll tell them.”
“Why?”
“Because.” He scowled. “We’re cooperating with them. The last thing we need is a war that we’ll never win. These guys don’t play by the rules. They kill first and ask questions later.”
I gulped. “So what do we do?”
“You tell them what you know.” He pointed at my nose. “And it better be the exact same story as the one you told me.”
Chapter Twelve
Isaiah
“I don’t like this place,” Genevieve whispered as she huddled closer to my side.
“Me neither.”
We’d just walked through the front door to the Tin Gypsy clubhouse, where we’d be meeting with the Warriors.
I tightened my grip on Genevieve’s hand. It had become something of a habit for us—linking hands. At first, it had been the easiest way to show the world we were a couple, far less stressful than a kiss or even a hug. But then it had evolved. It had become . . . more. We were united. We were a team. We were in this together, until the end.
After months of reaching for her, months of winding her dainty fingers through mine, her hand had become a shelter.
We both needed the comfort today.
Waiting two days for this meeting with the Warriors had been agonizing. Genevieve was so keyed up, she’d hardly slept. Something I knew as fact because I’d hardly slept. Last night, I’d finally had enough of the two of us shuffling in our respective beds. I’d gotten up and flipped on the TV. We’d already finished the Harry Potter movies, so I’d restarted them from the beginning.
I still hadn’t read the books. Maybe Genevieve was right. Maybe prison had ruined reading for me. If we survived this mess, I’d pick up a book and find out.
This morning had been stressful at best. With nothing to do but wait, Genevieve and I had painted. She’d relented and let me help. When Dash and Bryce had arrived, followed shortly by Draven, Emmett and Leo, we’d met them in the parking lot and followed them to the clubhouse.
I hadn’t given a lot of thought to this building. From the outside, it was fairly unassuming. It sat abandoned at the far end of the lot, shadowed by a copse of trees. The leaves had turned and most had fallen into the overgrown grass around the dark-stained building.
The windows were all boarded up with sturdy sheets of plywood. Whoever had done it had used screws, not nails, and secured the boards from the inside, not out. There’d be no way to pry them open. To break in from the outside, you’d have to shatter the dirty glass first, then use a saw to cut your way in.
Escaping from a windowless building would be impossible. Years ago, I wouldn’t have thought a thing of it, but prison had a way of changing a man’s perspective.
Now, I always looked for an escape.
After following Dash inside, none of us spoke. We stood in the open room behind the doors, waiting as he and Emmett flipped on the lights.
It wasn’t the musty smell that made my skin crawl. It wasn’t the stale air, thick with an undercurrent of booze and smoke. It wasn’t the dust on the pool table or the spiderwebs on the bar. My heart was racing and my palms clammy because we were trapped. There was only one visible way to get out of this clubhouse—to get Genevieve out—and that was through the door at my back.
“We’ll meet in here.” Leo waved us through a s
et of double doors directly across from where we were standing.
Genevieve clutched my hand with both of hers as we shuffled into the room.
“This is the chapel.” Draven ran his hand over the long table that ran the length of the space. “This is where we held our club meetings.”
Genevieve’s wide eyes took in the room, the grip on my hand tightening. It looked like a normal conference room and didn’t smell as bad as the outer room. The leather from the black high-backed chairs seemed to chase away the stink from the bar. The scent of lemon polish filled my nose. While the rest of the place was dusty, someone had recently been in here to wipe the table and chairs clear of dust.
“We’ll all sit on this side.” Dash pointed to the opposite side of the table. We’d be able to see the front door, but it made escaping more difficult. Between us and the exit would be the Warriors.
Maybe Dash didn’t expect a fight. Maybe this really would be a simple meeting. But the knots in my stomach would only vanish when it was over and we were outside, breathing free.
Genevieve slipped her hand from mine and walked to the back wall of the room. It was lined with pictures of men in black leather vests. Some stood in front of motorcycles. Some were riding. In every picture, there were smiles.
The smiles threw me. These pictures made the Tin Gypsies appear friendly. It made the club look fun. Maybe they’d smiled right up until the moment they’d put a bullet through some person’s skull.
There’d been a guy in prison, Beetle, who’d been in a motorcycle club. He’d been assigned to the cell two down from mine. He was as far from a beetle as a man could get—Bear would have been more appropriate. Beetle had killed three men with a lead pipe in less than five minutes. Beetle never smiled.
My mind couldn’t connect that kind of violence and the men I’d been working alongside at the garage. Dash, Emmett, Leo—they were good men. But they were in a few of the hanging pictures. They’d worn the cut. I was kidding myself that they hadn’t been ruthless men.
Maybe, despite the masks of our normal lives, there was a streak of evil in us all.
After three years of living in a place where Beetle was one of the tame, I hadn’t thought twice about taking a job at a garage that was known to have ties to a former MC. I knew not to believe the smiles.
For Genevieve’s sake, I hoped she believed every single one.
She lingered over the photos for another moment, then stepped to a flag hanging between the frames. It was the Tin Gypsy patch. A skull was in the center. On one side, it was decorated with bright colors and jeweled adornments. On the other, the silver stitching made the face seem like metal. Flames licked the black background.
Genevieve cocked her head to the side, trying to make sense of it. If its purpose was to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies, I suspected that it had failed. It was too artsy. But if it was to make a statement, to be something a person could see once and remember for a lifetime, I’d call it a success.
“Take a seat.” Dash was already in a chair at the head of the table. Bryce sat in the first chair on our side. Next to her was Draven, followed by Leo and Emmett. Which put Genevieve and me at the end of the row.
I pulled out her chair, letting her sit beside Emmett. I trusted that if something went down, he’d help protect her.
“Can we go over this one more time?” Bryce asked, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m nervous.”
Dash covered her hand with his own. “Nothing to be nervous about.”
She rolled her eyes. “Says the man who has a gun in his boot and another in the waistband of his jeans.”
Fuck. Should I have brought a gun? The day I’d gone to the mountain to rescue Bryce and Genevieve, Dash had given me a gun. He hadn’t asked for it back. I hadn’t returned it either—having it close made me feel safe, and it wasn’t like I could go buy one of my own. It was hidden in a box on one of the new shelves I’d built in the apartment.
“Tucker agreed to bring only a few guys,” Dash told Bryce. “Nothing like the last time. That was an intimidation play.”
“So is this,” Emmett muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t like the way he demanded this meeting.”
“I don’t either,” Dash agreed. “But we don’t have a choice. The sooner he realizes we’re telling the truth, that we don’t know shit, he’ll be gone. And I, for one, would really like to get rid of at least one threat.”
Draven nodded. “Agreed.”
“We don’t know anything,” Bryce said.
“Tell him that, babe. Let him see the truth in your eyes.”
Her face paled. “Okay.”
Genevieve turned her chair, her worried eyes meeting mine. What if he does see the truth?
I took her hand.
The room went quiet, the only movement the rise and fall of breathing chests. It reminded me of nighttime in prison, when the air went still. Some nights it stayed quiet and I’d find a few hours of sleep. Others, I’d stay up listening through the night, waiting for the worst and wondering how the other inmates were able to sleep.
About a year into my sentence, I’d heard a rustle from a few cells down. A man who’d only been in prison for ten days had used his bedsheet to hang himself. His cellmate had slept through the whole thing.
“Are we allowed to come to the trial?” Emmett asked Draven, breaking the silence.
“You are,” Draven answered. “But don’t. You’ve got better things to do.”
Time was running out. December was approaching rapidly and once the trial started, no one expected it to last long.
Genevieve was hesitant around Draven. The two didn’t spend time together and hadn’t spoken about Amina since the day he’d pulled her aside after we’d announced our marriage. But he was there every morning to greet her before work. He’d left an opening for another conversation should she decide to take it.
Unless we found the man who killed Amina, Draven would go to prison. She’d effectively lose another parent.
If Draven was sentenced, I’d do everything in my power to keep Genevieve from visiting him in prison. She was too pure to set foot in that place.
Draven would probably handle prison better than I had. He’d go in hardened. I’d gone in numb. I’d been easy prey for beatings in the yard because I just hadn’t cared. I’d welcomed the physical pain—it was nothing compared to the pain on the inside. I’d deserved it, every hit and kick. Every broken rib and black eye.
The first time Mom had come to visit me, I’d been covered in bruises and my lip split. She’d cried the entire time. I’d asked her to stop visiting, but whenever she insisted, I made sure to cover my face before letting the animals have their fun.
The beatings had eventually stopped. I wasn’t a fun target anymore, and thankfully, I hadn’t attracted the kind of attention that came in the shower stalls. Not like the guy who’d hung himself ten days into his sentence because he’d been raped five days in a row.
Maybe Draven would get lucky and be in maximum security. Maximum was like living in the Four Seasons compared to the Super 8 of minimum.
The rumble of motorcycles cut through the silence. The tension in the room spiked and everyone moved at once.
Dash stood in a flash, striding out of the room. Bryce put her hands on her growing belly and closed her eyes. Leo took out the gun from his boot and set it on his lap, hidden beneath the table. Emmett and Draven shared a look, hardened their expressions and sat taller.
What the hell had I gotten into? What had I brought Genevieve into?
I should have told her to run that day. To run to Colorado and never look back.
All eyes were glued to the door as boots boomed in the front room. Dash appeared first, followed by five men.
I recognized Tucker plus three other men from the day the Warriors had surprised us at the garage. The fifth was new.
They were wearing the Warrior cut with the plain, white arrowhead stitched on the back. I caught a glimpse of it as one g
uy stretched across the table to shake Emmett’s hand.
“What’s up, Stone?” the man asked, calling Emmett by his last name.
Emmett stood. “Same old.”
Leo remained seated but he had a grin on his face. “Welcome to the party.”
If I didn’t know him better, I’d say Leo looked like he was enjoying this. He was good at putting on a show.
“Draven.” Tucker shook his hand. The gesture made the side of his cut flare out, revealing a gun holstered to his ribs. “Heard your trial kicks off in December.”
“Yep,” Draven said, resuming his seat.
“Have a seat,” Dash ordered, taking his position at the head of the table. He sat straight and tall in the chair. This meeting wasn’t his idea, but it was his meeting and he was in command of the room. “Tucker, you wanted to talk with my wife and sister.”
Genevieve’s hand jerked. Dash had never acknowledged her as his sister. The only reason to call her that today was to exert power. He was making it clear that she was under his protection.
“That’s right.” Tucker steepled his fingers under his chin, covered with a dark goatee speckled with gray. He had to be close to Draven’s age. The skin on his cheeks was weathered from the sun and wind. He’d probably spent his life on a bike, riding every second of the spring, summer and fall, much like Draven.
“Take care with your questions, Tucker,” Dash warned.
Tucker’s eyes flashed annoyance, but he nodded before turning his attention to Bryce.
Good. It was better if Bryce started. She was calmer than Genevieve, maybe because she wasn’t hiding anything. Whatever nerves Bryce had brought to this table were buried deep. There was defiance in her gaze now. She was facing an adversary head-on and had no plans to lose.
“Normally I ask the questions.” She smirked. “Mind if I take the first one?”
Tucker nodded. “Shoot.”
“How stuck are you?”
Draven grinned. Emmett stiffened. Dash frowned at his wife for taunting the Warrior president.
But Tucker didn’t take offense. He smiled, flashing white teeth. “Pretty fucking stuck.”
