The hell?
“I know you’re in there,” I growl, my voice rumbling through my chest and into the doorframe. “What the hell is going on, Goldie? If you don’t answer me, I’m going to bust your fucking door down.”
A sharp ping comes from my phone, and I pull up her message.
GOLDIE
I have a migraine. Leave me be, you heathen.
My lips twitch at her calling me a heathen because it’s a familiar hook with her, but the knot in my gut doesn’t loosen. It cinches tighter, a cold coil of iron. She’s too quiet. Even with a migraine, Marigold is a damn storm.
The churning in my gut refuses to fade.
ME
You need anything?
GOLDIE
Peace and quiet.
I glare at the screen, blue light scorching my eyes in the porch’s gloom. Usually, a migraine summons me to duty, her human shield in the shadows until the pain loosens its grip. She never lets me be useful without making me work for it, and I never object. Tonight, I’m left idle, uncertain if I’m relieved oruseless. This so-called peace and quiet? Feels like choking down a lie.
GOLDIE
You’re brooding outside my door. Go. I’ll let you know if I need you. This one isn’t too bad.
“You better,” I bark, my voice raspy enough to rip through the door. “Or I’ll spank your fucking ass when you’re upright again.”
I wait for her voice, expecting that sharp, teasing threat, the usual joke about not threatening her with a good time. The kind of comeback that makes me want to laugh and throttle her at the same time. But the silence presses in, as heavy as a winter coat.
I need a kill switch for this creeping paranoia.
“Hey, Goldie,” I say, my voice dropping to a low and dangerous tone. “What did I say to you when we first met?”
My eyes fix on the phone. My heart pounds wild in my throat as I watch those three gray bubbles flicker—typing, stopping, typing again. When her reply finally lands, something inside me uncoils, slow and shaky, like a fist letting go.
GOLDIE
Do you know your ABCs? Cause I wanna give you the 4th letter of the alphabet.
Relief floods me so fast my knees nearly buckle. Only two other men know those words, Pope and Cyanide, and I’d stake my life and my kutte on them.
“Call me, Goldie. I mean it.”
The phone pings with a thumbs up.
My jaw locks until my teeth throb. A digital brush-off, plain and simple. I know her migraine routine. I’ve seen it enough over the last four years. She’s probably curled up, light-shy and hurting, but the way she shut me out gnaws at my gut.
I knock my knuckles once on the door, a last thread tying me to her, then turn and head for the bike.
The ride to the clubhouse does nothing to drain the adrenaline. If anything, the wind just stokes the blaze. By the time I cut the engine, unease has settled into a fever under my skin.
As soon as I’m in the clubhouse, I head straight for the security room.
I need to see the timeline. Need to pinpoint the moment her laughter turned to escape. I already know the likely culprits. A few sweetbutts love to test her. Marigold can handle them. Her sunshine hides a razor tongue and an iron spine, but even the fiercest cat gets worn down by the pack. I’ve never stepped in because she’s never needed backup. If someone crossed the line today, they’ll learn just how much force I put behind her name.
Sometimes, some of these women forget the hierarchy. They chase the patch like it’s gold, hungry for the leather, blind to the man beneath it. They don’t understand that the women we keep, the ones like Goldie, don’t give a shit about the kutte. They look past the colors and seeus. Sweetbutt or not, if you see the man, he’ll probably see you right back. It’s not hard to learn if they pay attention.