Page 9 of Traitor

I let out a small sob and clutched the tattered paper to my chest, rocking back and forth on the couch. This wasthelist—with the three things that had kept her sober. It was so simple, yet my heart felt like it was being forced through a meat grinder seeing it there, in writing.

The papers fell from my hands as I leaned over to clutch my knees, trying to catch my breath. They blended into one large blur as my eyes filled again. My grief was a bottomless pit that pulled me down a little more each time I inhaled.

Maybe it would’ve been easier to have kept my walls up with her, but if I had, I never would’ve understood the woman behind the addict.

My phone vibrated and Josué’s name flashed across the screen. I jabbed the decline button and leaned over again. He’d called every day this week, but I couldn’t answer. He was still hellbent on convincing me to move to Austin with them. He thought I could leave everything behind and let them baby me. The thought of being waited on hand and foot with nothing to do to distract my mind filled me with a sense of dread.

In the early days, I’d expected Mike to call. He hadn’t phoned or texted once though. I guess in his mind we’d said all there was to say the morning after she died.

I still didn’t understand his reluctance to help me—he could’ve moved her to a safehouse and it would’ve been enough to keep her alive.

Instead, he’d chosen to go home. And while he was sleeping peacefully, she was dying on a dirty street. My phone buzzed again as Josué left yet another voicemail. Obviously, telling him no hadn’t been enough of a clue that I wasn’t leaving Lubbock behind. Not until I knew who killed Monica.

I ran my hands through my hair and stared blankly at the beige carpet beneath my feet. A paper coaster peeked out from beneath the couch. Seeing my mother’s handwriting on the back, I grabbed it.

SOD.

Roll over?

Chon.

None of it meant a thing to me as I flipped it over.

Leather & Lace.

Now that, I’d heard of. It was a seedy little bar just north of the city limits, nestled in between a boarded-up strip club and an adult video store.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. The biker who’d confronted me earlier told me if I wanted Torch to go find him myself. And now I had a lead—he probably wasn’t there, but someone would know where I could find him.

It was late and I had no plan, but that didn’t stop me from punching the accelerator down to the floor. Torch hadn’t shown his face once since she passed; as if she’d meant nothing to him.

It was just after eleven when I pulled into the crowded parking lot. The gravel kicked up under my car with loud thuds and each pop had me white knuckling the steering wheel while I looked for a place to park.

“This is fine,” I told myself as I maneuvered into a small space near the dumpsters in the back and got out. I’d never changed out of my work clothes and my heels sank down almost immediately. I trudged through the weeds that had sprouted up from beneath the gravel and made my way to the front door, the well-lit parking lot illuminating my every step.

I was suddenly wishing that I’d taken a shot of something beforehand. Deciding I had nothing left to lose, I stepped inside. I was immediately assaulted by the heavy fog of cigarette smoke and it took me a second to make out the men gathered around the bar.

Okay. No big deal.

I was just going to grab a table near the back and wait for Torch to show his face. A pair of arms stopped me before I’d even made it all the way in and my entire plan went out the window.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, bitch?” The male voice snarled the words.

I was getting really sick of being called that. Enough that I spun around and grabbed a fistful of the biker’s shirt before hissing, “I’m Lauren Fuckin’ Santiago-McGuire and I’m here to see Torch, bitch.”

The minute the words were out, I realized what a mistake they were. This man was something other than human. His thick wiry beard hung down to his chest and, while the sides of his head were shaved, long charcoal colored hair descended down the back of his neck like a mane. Blue-green eyes narrowed at me as he lifted an arm that was bigger than my entire body. He was obviously half Viking, half Norse god.

And I had just pissed him off entirely.

His hand closed around my throat and the back of my head connected painfully with the wall. “What did you say to me, bitch?”

The barrel of his gun pressed into my forehead and the click of it only reinforced the idea that I should’ve kept my mouth shut. My pulse thrummed in my neck and the hairs on the back of my arms stood at attention. The numbness that had surrounded me over the last month suddenly evaporated. It turned out that I did have a strong aversion to dying. And here I thought that I was immune to feeling anything other than soul-crushing grief.

“I-I-I,” I stuttered, all strength gone from my voice.

Another biker began feeling me up. “She’s not carrying,” He said casually to the biker holding the gun.

“You must be the dumbest bitch alive; showing up to a biker bar without a weapon,” he said with a grin as his hand tightened around my neck. “Won’t be a mistake you’ll make twice though.”

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