"You're being stupid."
"And you're being an asshole."
For a moment, we just stare at each other, locked in another standoff. Then his mouth twitches, and that almost-smile appears again. "Yeah, I've been told that before."
Despite everything, despite the fear still coursing through my veins and the pain throbbing in my face, I almost laugh. Almost.
"Where are we?" I ask instead, looking around the garage.
“Safe house. Belongs to the club." My mind flashes to the kind of place women whisper about when they’re trying to get free: quiet doors, quiet help, nothing official. The club’s version of that scares me… but it also feels real.
He heads toward a door at the back of the garage, expecting me to follow. "You'll stay here tonight."
"I have my own apartment."
"Which the Reapers probably know about by now." He doesn't look back. "They found you once. They'll find you again. Unless you want another round of interrogation, you'll stay here."
He's right, and I hate that he's right. My apartment isn't safe anymore. Nowhere is, really, not after tonight. The Reapers know my face now; they know I'm investigating them. And whoever hired those men in the parking garage earlier knows it, too.
I'm caught between multiple threats, and the only person offering protection is a biker with Saint’s Outlaws colors and a reputation for violence.
What choice do I have?
I follow him through the door and up a flight of stairs. The safe house turns out to be a studio apartment, sparsely furnished but clean. There's a bed against one wall, a small kitchenette, and a door that probably leads to a bathroom. Nothing personal, nothing that would identify who uses this place.
"Sit," Ice Pick orders, pointing to the bed.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding. Sit down."
I sit, mostly because my legs give out. The adrenaline's wearing off, leaving exhaustion and pain in its wake. Ice Pick disappears into the bathroom and returns with a first aid kit that's seen plenty of use. Ice Pick doesn’t reach for his phone.
He kneels in front of me, and I'm struck by how strange this is. This massive, dangerous man, covered in tattoos and scars, carefully opening antiseptic wipes and bandages like he's done this a thousand times before.
"This is going to sting," he warns, and then he's cleaning the cut above my eyebrow.
I hiss through my teeth, but I don't pull away. His touch is surprisingly gentle, his free hand resting on my shoulder to keep me steady. Up close, I can see the details I missed before. The scar that runs through his left eyebrow. The tattoo that creeps up his neck is some kind of bird with spread wings. And the way his jaw clenches when he concentrates.
"You do this a lot?" I ask, needing to fill the silence. "Patch up people after rescuing them?"
"More than I'd like." He applies a butterfly bandage, his fingers brushing my skin. "Usually it's my brothers, though. They're better at following orders."
"I don't follow orders well."
"I noticed." He sits back on his heels, studying his work. "You're going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow."
"Worth it if I got what I needed."
His eyes snap to mine. "Did you? Get what you needed?"
I think about the USB drive in my bag, the one the Reapers didn't find because I'd hidden it in the lining. The recordings I'd made before they discovered the wire. The photos I'd managed to take of their supply records while pretending to use the bathroom.
"Maybe," I say carefully.
"Let me guess. You're not going to tell me what you found."
"Would you tell me club secrets?"