Page 48 of Ginger

"Maybe I do," he said finally. "But that's not my call to make."

I felt KiKi's hand go limp in mine. The resignation in her posture made my chest ache. I'd seen that look before—on women who'd given up, who knew there was no escape route left.

"What do you want, Detroit?" I asked, straightening my spine. "You could have gone straight to Vegas with this. Why come to us first?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, assessing me like I was a puzzle he hadn't expected. "Maybe I've got my own reasons."

"Such as?" I pressed.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Such as I don't particularly enjoy watching Vegas lose his shit on pregnant women."

A sliver of hope, thin as a razor. "So you're willing to help?"

Detroit laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "I didn't say that. I said I don't want to watch the show. Vegas and Memphis should be back within the hour. You've got until then to come up with a plan that doesn't end with her out on her ass or worse."

KiKi made a choked sound beside me.

"Or," Detroit continued, "you can tell him yourself. Might go easier if it comes from you."

I felt the weight of KiKi's gaze on me, desperate and pleading. The responsibility settled on my shoulders like a concrete slab.

"And if we don't?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Detroit's eyes glittered in the dim light. "Then I tell Vegas what I heard, and you both deal with the fallout. His temper isn't known for its reasonableness."

The threat hung in the air between us, as tangible as the scent of leather and gunpowder that clung to Detroit's clothes. I glanced at KiKi, whose face had gone from ashen to gray. Her hands cradled her still-flat stomach in an unconscious gesture of protection.

"Give us the hour," I said, meeting Detroit's gaze steadily. "And something to drink that isn't water."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before he masked it. He reached inside his cut and pulled out a silver flask. "Whiskey. The good shit." He tossed it to me. "Don't say I never did nothing for you."

I caught it one-handed, the metal cool against my palm. "Why are you doing this? The real reason."

Detroit paused at the door, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hallway. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of something haunted in his expression.

"Had a sister once. Similar situation, different club, different outcome." He didn't elaborate, but the tightness around his mouth told me everything I needed to know. "One hour. Make it count."

The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt like the first tick of a countdown clock.

KiKi's breathing had gone ragged, bordering on hyperventilation. "We're fucked," she whispered. "No, I’m fucked. So completely fucked."

I unscrewed the flask and took a long swallow, the whiskey burning a path down my throat. It was good—smoky and rich, the kind that cost more than most people made in a day. I handed it to KiKi, who shook her head.

"Baby," she reminded me.

"Right." I took another pull instead. "We need a plan."

KiKi laughed, a high, brittle sound that scraped against my nerves. "A plan? There's no plan for this, Ginger. Vegas finds out, and he'll think I tried to trap him. Best case, I'm out on the street this instant. Worst case..." She trailed off, but I could fill in the blanks.

The Dark Wrath MC had rules about lies and betrayal. None of them ended well for the betrayer.

"We don't know that," I said, though the words rang hollow even to my own ears. "Maybe he'll—"

"Don't." KiKi's voice cracked. "Don't pretend this can have a happy ending. I've been with the club long enough to know better. I've seen what happens to girls who cross the line."

I paced the room, the whiskey warming my blood, sharpening my thoughts. "Then we need to get you out of here.”

“And go where?” She sighed and closed her eyes. I watched as tears slipped down her cheeks. “This is the end of the line for me, Ginger. You know it, and I know it.”

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