Page 1 of Matrix

Chapter 1: Matrix

For some people, sleep is a luxury. For me, it’s filled with nightmares. I haven’t slept through an entire night since Blackstone became the governor of Montana. Cutting myself isn’t an option anymore. The last time I tried it, I fucked up and ended up in the hospital for a few days. I sliced a little too deep and hit an artery in my arm. Blood shot all over my office at the clubhouse. The guys had to rip out the carpet to remove the stains. What a fucking mess.

The guys in the MC have treated me like a child ever since. They’re constantly checking on me, not trusting me enough to leave me the hell alone. All I wanted was to get out of my body for a while—to free myself from the prison of my mind and get to that floaty place where nothing could hurt me. The others will never understand. We all spent years trapped in Blackstone’s dungeon, but we deal with it in different ways. Some of them fight. Some of them fuck. Some of them kill. But none of them cut themselves. They never learned to harness the pain and float away as I did. That’s my fucking superpower. I can escape my body whenever I want. All it takes is pain.

Since I can’t sleep and I can’t cut myself anymore, I’ve only got one option. Instead of lying in bed suffering through flashbacks of those hellish years spent in Blackstone’s dungeon, I’m going for a run. Scar, the MC’s president, can’t stop me from running. He put an end to the cutting by threatening to kick me out of the club. I believe him. He’ll toss me out on my ass if I ever do it again. Scar doesn’t put up with any bullshit from anyone, not even his club brothers. Out of respect for him, I stored my knife downstairs in the basement. It’s on a shelf next to Reaper’sspecialtools, the ones he uses to interrogate our enemies. I miss the sharp sting of the blade slicing through my skin, but Scar’s right. I could have died. Now, all I can do is run. Run to escape the past. Run to escape the pain. Run until I get to that floaty place where nothing and no one can touch me.

I throw on a pair of gray sweatpants and a black hoodie, then grab a platinum gray knitted winter hat and pull it over my shaggy blond hair. The hat was a Christmas gift from Nina, the woman who took us in after we escaped the dungeon. When she found out about the cutting from Scar, I thought she would whoop my ass. Fortunately, I’m a full foot taller than her five foot two, so my long legs made it easy to outrun her. I feel like I’ve been running ever since, but no matter how many miles I put between my demons and me, it’s never enough.

I check the weather app on my phone. It’s January in Montana. It’s also four in the morning, so it’s well below freezing. This run will suck, which is exactly what I need right now. A blizzard would be helpful, too. The more suffering the better. I can’t get to the floaty place as fast as when I’m cutting, but I can still get there on my runs. It just takes longer.

When I open my bedroom door, silence greets me. No one else is awake in the clubhouse. Now that Scar and Nitro have moved into their own homes with their wives, the only other people living here are Talon and Reaper, my club brothers, Tucker, the prospect, and Daisy, the club girl. Her bedroom’s down the hall from mine, closer to the kitchen, and her door’s closed. She’s probably sleeping. Not that I care. Not that it matters.

My footsteps slow as I pass her room, but I force myself to keep walking. She’s been a pain in my ass since Scar invited her into the clubhouse last year. She’s a prissy, country-bumpkin of a girl who’s always flitting around in the same damn outfit: jeans or cut-off shorts and a t-shirt. She looks like a farmer’s daughter with her long, brown hair tied up on each side with matching ribbons. She’s gorgeous in that girl-next-door kind of way, but she annoys the fuck out of me. I don’t know what the hell Scar saw in her that made him bring her into the fold, but I wish she’d leave. She’s too sweet and innocent for club life.

As I stroll into the kitchen, I don’t bother turning on any lights. This isn’t the first time I’ve stumbled out in the middle of the night looking for something to take the edge off my nightmares. I shouldn’t drink and run, but there’s no one around to stop me.

I open the refrigerator door and pull a beer off the top shelf. After closing the door with my foot, I grab the magnetic bottle opener off the fridge. I’m about to pop the top when a sound breaks the silence.

I freeze. The softest creak echoes from somewhere down the hall. The first footfall has me on full alert. I reach for my gun but realize I left it in my cut, which is in my room. Fuck!

Sliding back into the shadows of the kitchen, I reach behind me for the knives in the butcher block and grab the seven-inch hollow-ground santoku knife. This will cut through anything, including an intruder. I don’t know how the fuck they got past my perimeter security, but I’m about to find out.

A petite shadow glides out of the hall, past the kitchen, and into the living room. I follow silently, using all the stealth of a predator. As the figure passes through a shaft of moonlight, I relax my grip on the knife. It’s fucking Daisy. What the hell? I’m about to make my presence known when she stops at the front door. She punches the security code into the box, disarming the perimeter alarm. What’s she up to?

She glances back toward the hall but doesn’t see me hiding in the darkness. Satisfied that she’s alone, she carefully twists the doorknob before slowly opening it. I wait until she slides out into the night before following.

After her footsteps hit the ground outside, I pull the door open wide enough to slip out. She’s trudging through a foot of snow but she’s moving fast. She’s getting away. Fuck, I need my boots. I jog back inside, grab my boots from the mudroom, and quickly lace them up before taking off after her.

As soon as I’m outside, I pull my phone out of my pocket and type in the security code to rearm the clubhouse. I don’t know what the hell she’s up to, but I’m not leaving the others unprotected. Satisfied that the house is secure, I follow her trail. It disappears into the woods, but it’s easy to track. Last week, a massive storm dropped several feet of snow. Her boot prints are clearly visible.

Trudging into deeper snow, I curse my sweatpants. I enjoy tough runs, but I hate being wet. Cotton is the worst fabric to wear in these conditions since it gets bogged down with moisture. If I’d known I’d be up to my knees in snow, I would have worn something else. But I didn’t think I’d be doing this shit. I was supposed to be running on the plowed trail alongside the highway, not chasing our crazy club girl through rough terrain. Where the hell is she going?

When I finally spot her, I get a better look at what she’s wearing. She’s dressed in all-white snow gear, including waterproof pants and a thick jacket. She’s also carrying a white backpack. A bulge on one side of her jacket makes me think she might be carrying a gun. But she doesn’t have a gun—at least not one I know about. And why the hell would she need one anyway? I’m tempted to call out and ask what the hell she’s doing, but my curiosity gets the best of me. I stay a few yards back but keep her in my line of sight. She’s up to no good, but what exactly does that mean?

The day she moved into the clubhouse, I sensed something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but in my gut, I knew something was wrong. I ran plenty of background checks on her and used all my dark web knowledge to research her past. According to all the records, she’s a simple farm girl from a tiny town in Montana. I’ve got her report cards from first grade through high school. I know which sports she played. I know her hobbies. I even know who her friends are. But here’s the weird part. Her social media seems off. I can’t explain it, but it doesn’t feel genuine. It’s almost as if she’s not real. However, this isn’t the first time someone didn’t feel real in my life, so I don’t know what to think.

Wind whips swirling snow against my cheeks. My feet are nice and toasty because of the snow boots, but I’m freezing my balls off. Even though we’re moving quickly, it’s not like running, and my clothes aren’t doing a damn thing to protect me. I may as well be naked. This isn’t good. If she doesn’t stop soon, I’ll have to confront her. The last thing I need is frostbite on my dick.

After another ten minutes of trailing her, I’m about to call out when she abruptly stops. Dropping into a crouch, she slips her backpack off. I also squat. My head is on a swivel. It still feels like we’re alone, but I can’t drop my guard. If she’s on high alert, then so am I.

She pulls binoculars out of her pack. Holding them up to her eyes, she scans the forest in front of her. God dammit, is she bird-watching or some bullshit? It’s still dark as fuck. Is she insane? Maybe she’s lost her mind. I’ve had about enough of this crap. I’m cold. I’m pissed off. I’m going to rip her head off for this.

As I stand and take a step toward her, she pulls a pistol out. Her back is still to me, giving me enough time to melt against the nearest tree trunk. She spins toward me, searching the darkness. I press against the bark, praying she doesn’t distinguish the anomaly of my profile. She’s as still as the eye of a hurricane. I wait for her to point the gun at me, but she doesn’t. Instead, she turns back toward whatever caught her attention in the first place.

Relieved, I relax my muscles enough to take a deeper breath. In incremental movements, I slip my hand into my hoodie and pull the knife out of my pocket. Bringing a knife to a gunfight is stupid, but what other choice do I have? Until I know what the hell’s happening, I won’t know how to respond.

Sneaking up on her seems like an incredibly stupid plan, so I choose a different option. I need to see what she’s seeing. Using every skill Talon taught me about moving silently through the forest, I circle around until I spot what has her attention. There’s a campground about ten yards from her hiding spot. It’s full of men holding M4 carbine rifles. Two white SUVs with extreme terrain snow tires sit in the center of the snow-covered clearing. The only tracks in lead to the SUVs. There aren’t any tracks out. At least not yet.

At the sound of voices, I creep closer. A man in a black ski suit with feature-obscuring ski goggles is talking to another man wearing snow camo pants and a matching hooded jacket.

“The merchandise needs to leave Montana in the next twenty-four hours. Our mutual contact assured me you’re aware of the stipulations.”

“We are. The merchandise will be moved tonight. We should be out of the state before sunrise.”

“You have the money?” the man in snow camo asks.

“Fifty thousand in cash, small bills, as requested.” The other guy signals to one of the rifle-carrying men to bring a silver suitcase. After opening it and showing the snow camo guy the contents, he snaps it closed. “I’d like to inspect the merchandise.”

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