“Who,” he says, cutting me off mid-sentence, his voice dangerously quiet, “has been harassing you?”
The intensity in his voice stops me in my tracks. I blink at him momentarily thrown off balance.
“What do you mean, ‘who’? Your club, obviously. The old ladies have been coming into the coffee shop for weeks, ordering drinks and then making scenes about how terrible they are, how terrible I am. They’re trying to get me fired.” The words tumble out, my anger giving way to confusion at his reaction. “And there are bikers everywhere I go now. Watching me. Following me. At the grocery store, at the gas station, on my walk home from work.”
With each detail I provide, Roman’s face grows darker, his body more tense, like a predator preparing to strike.
“Names,” he demands. “Give me the names of the women who came into your shop.”
“Trinity,” I say. “Sara. Others. I don’t know their names, Roman. I don’t know their names because you kept me away from the club. You cut me out of a huge part of your life! And when you did bring me around, everyone treated me like shit!” My voice is getting louder the longer I talk. By the end, I’m practically shouting.
Roman swears under his breath, a string of profanities that would make a sailor blush. He runs his hands through his hair and pulls, a gesture I know means he’s trying to contain his anger.
“You didn’t know,” I say slowly, realization dawning. “You really didn’t know they were doing this.”
“No,” he says, his voice tight with barely contained fury. “I had no idea. But I promise you, Kayla, it ends today.” He takes a step toward me, then seems to think better of it and stops. “I promise you no one from the club comes near you again. Not the old ladies, not the brothers, no one.”
“If you didn’t tell them to do it, then why are they doing it?” I ask, my earlier certainty crumbling.
Roman hesitates, something flashing across his face that I can’t quite read. “I’m not sure,” he says carefully, “what matters is that it stops. Today.”
“You’re telling me the truth?” I press. “You really didn’t put them up to this?”
“Kayla,” he says, his voice low and intense, his eyes begging me to believe him. “I would cut off my own arm before I’d do anything to make you afraid. I swear to you, I had nothing to do with this.”
We stand facing each other across the shop, the space between us charged with a strange mix of tension and uncertainty. Without my anger to sustain me, I suddenly feel awkward, unsure what to say or do next. Roman takes a tentative step toward me, and I can see in his eyes that he wants to say more, to reach for me, to explain something.
“I—” he begins.
“I can’t do this right now,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “I just… I can’t.”
Before he can respond, before he can say whatever it is he wants to say, I turn and leave, the electronic bell chiming cheerfully behind me as I escape into the bright chilly winter afternoon, my thoughts more tangled than ever.
21
Chapter 21
Roman
The Devil’s Rejects clubhouse looms before us, a place I once considered home. I cut the engine of my bike and dismount. Beside me, Gray, Dragon’s granite faced VP, does the same thing.
I’ve been avoiding this place since the morning I realized Kayla had been taken by Demon. Been avoiding my so-called “brothers” since they refused to help me find her. The building hasn’t changed. Looks the same as it always has. But I feel like a stranger approaching it now. It’s amazing how quickly things can change. How quickly you can become something else, someone else.
“You ready for this?” Gray asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to walk in there and burn my entire life to the ground.
My eyes drift over the clubhouse as we approach, memories washing over me like waves, each one threatening to pull me under. My earliest memories took place inside those walls. Learning to play pool with my father, when the table was so tall I had to stand on a beer crate to see over the edge. Atlas teaching me to throw darts, his hand guiding mine as we aimed for the bullseye. My eighteenth birthday party. The night I finally got my cut and felt like I’d found my place in the world.
My father helped build this club. His blood, his sweat, the last twenty years of his life are poured into these walls, into this brotherhood that was supposed to last beyond his death. And it had. I’ve ridden with many of these men for most of my life. I’ve trusted them with my life, been willing to die for them more times than I can count.
But because of the club, Kayla got hurt. And instead of helping me find her, they turned their backs on me. And now they’ve been terrorizing her. Because I was so goddamn blind.
I push open the door and step inside, Gray a half step behind me. The familiar smells hit me first: beer and cigarettes, leather, the underlying funk of too many men in too small a space. Then the noise: music thumping, pool balls clacking against each other, the steady hum of conversation.
It all cuts off abruptly as we’re noticed. The silence spreads, men turning to stare at us, conversations dying mid-sentence. I scan the room, taking inventory of faces, and what I see makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.
Most of the old guard, the men who rode with my father when the club was founded, seem to be missing. Ace, who taught me how to throw a punch. Steel, who could always be relied on for his wisdom. Wrench, who could fix anything with an engine, Guzzler who faithfully handled the clubs money for decades. The ones who are here won’t look me in the eye, suddenly very interested in their beer bottles or the scuffed wood floor.