Page 6 of Hellraiser

“And then?” he probed before pulling a long drag of his blunt.

I sighed. “I don’t know. Right now, my gut is telling me we need to watch and wait and let shit cool off. As long as she’s here at the clubhouse, she’s safe.”

Ghost nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation but still visibly on edge. He’d never been afraid to go to war, but he needed to know the who, the why, and the worth.

“Yeah, but for how long? The Outlaws may have eaten shit tonight, but you know those mothafuckas are ruthless. He knows you have her, and because you do, he’ll come for her, and when he does, we both know he won’t show restraint just because it’s you.”

I looked at Ghost, my expression unyielding. “He’s not going to lay a fuckin’ hand on her, all right? We’ll keep her safe as if she were one of our own. As far as Cannon goes, that mothafucka may be dumb, but he’s not stupid. He knows better than to step foot on our territory. Put the word out to everyone to stay alert. Have the prospects take shifts standing watch,” I ordered.

Ghost took another puff of his blunt, the orange glow highlighting the gritty look on his scarred, melanated face.

“Orders received, boss. We’ll watch her back. But if it comes down to it, we’ll end up doing a lot more than watching and waiting. We need a goddamn plan,” he urged.

I dipped my chin, appreciating his loyalty and readiness to go to war.

“If we have to go to war, then we go to war. No matter what, we won’t falter, and we won’t fail. We’re Savages, and we’ll get through this like we always do.”

We fell back into a meditative silence, the uncertainty of war suspended in the air, wondering when our enemies would choose to strike. The distant rumble of motorcycles was an ever present reminder of the dangers we faced, of the war I’d started all because of one beautiful fuckin’ damsel.

I tooka shower while my phone charged and changed into an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants Dre had left for me on the bed. I didn’t know whether to like or hate him, and I hadn’t been in his presence for twenty-four hours.

I stepped over to my phone and hesitantly dialed my boss’s number. As I explained my absence, trying to sound as sick as possible, I was quickly met with frustration on the other end.

“You’re calling out sick? Do I have to remind you that you’re still in your probationary period? This isn’t the time to be unreliable.”

I drew in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I feel horrible. My body aches everywhere, and I have a fever. I think it might be theflu. Can Ipleaseget an extension on the deadline, Mr. Charles? All I’m asking for is a few more days.”

There was a pregnant pause, then a heavy, reluctant sigh. “Fine. You can have a one-week extension, but this is your last chance. If you miss this deadline, you’re done here. Got it?”

I felt a knot tighten in the pit of my stomach. Lord knows I didn’t want to lose another job. “Understood. Thank you, sir.”

I ended the call and sat there, wishing my situation was as simple or ordinary as the flu. My uncanny situation weighed down on me, and I started to feel sick to my stomach. I lay down, curling into the fetal position on the bed, eyes scanning Dre’s room.

A large, dark wooden dresser was against one wall with a vintage motorcycle poster strung up above it. On top of it were a few of his items—a worn brown leather wallet, a set of keys, a gold Cuban link chain, and a framed patch from his MC. A pair of leather boots sat by the bedroom door, and a leather vest hung on a white hook.

I closed my eyes with thoughts of Dre dancing through my head. Who was he? How long would I be trapped under his protection? And how long until I stopped wishing it was all one big, bad dream?

With thoughts of him came the realization of the danger I was in. The memory of the Outlaws snatching my press badge, ruining my recording, and knowing my identity haunted me like a bad dream. I’d never be able to fall asleep. I needed something to calm my nerves and take the edge off.

The door creaked open, and Dre walked in, the scent of marijuana clinging to him like a second skin. I slowly opened my eyes and looked up, my gaze meeting his.

“You good?” he asked.

I shook my head slightly before clearing my throat. “Can’t sleep. My anxiety is on ten, and I need something to mellow me out.”

I was too afraid to tell him the truth—that my self-doubt had my mind in a fucking chokehold.

He nodded, empathetic to my need for some relief after the night we’d had. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a blunt and offered it to me.

“You smoke?”

I hesitated for a second before reaching out to take it. The gesture was unexpected, but I appreciated it. He nodded toward the door, and I got up to follow him. We headed outside to his truck, where the cool night air provided fresh air I didn’t know I needed.

As we reached his truck, he draped his leather jacket over my shoulders, and the warmth and masculine scent of the leather comforted me in a way I had never expected. I took a deep breath, feeling a little more relaxed.

“Thank you.”

He lit the blunt, the flame flickering in the darkness as he passed it to me. I took a quick drag, the thick smoke filling my lungs and easing my nerves. We stood in silence for a moment, the only sounds being the distant sounds from the clubhouse and the chirp of crickets and yowling of stray cats.

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