Page 1 of Claimed By The Club
1
SIERRA
Islow my car to a crawl the moment I spot the dusty sign welcoming me to Clearwater Springs, population 2,503. That number hasn’t changed since I did my frantic internet search last week, so I guess no one’s come or gone in a while—except for me. My phone vibrates again, an angry rattlesnake of a sound against the cupholder, but I keep both hands on the steering wheel. I refuse to check who’s calling. My entire life has become a series of missed calls and menacing messages, and I’m tired of my heart hammering every time I see an unknown number.
A bright wave of heat blurs the asphalt ahead, rippling the horizon. My sleek, pearl-white SUV stands out like a starlet in a spaghetti western, and I can practically feel the local vultures circling, just waiting to see who dared show up in designer sunglasses and a city license plate. My rearview mirror reveals the leftover miles of desert behind me, punishing sunlight bouncing off burnt-orange rocks. I’m suffocating in this dryness, but it’s safer than the alternative. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
“Come on, Sierra,” I whisper under my breath. “You’ve made it this far. Keep going.”
I’m exhausted from driving, but giving up isn’t an option. Three days ago, I found out my so-called business partner, Jen, or “that conniving snake,” as I’ve been calling her since embezzled a chunk of our shared finances. Then she vanished without a trace, leaving me to deal with creditors who have ties to a biker gang I never even knew existed. I try to swallow the rage and betrayal boiling inside my chest. I can’t focus on that yet; I have to live long enough to be angry properly. Step one: stay alive.
My GPS has been silent for the last half hour, which means I’m off the beaten path. I decided that’s exactly where I need to be, somewhere too boring for criminals to bother. It’s close to noon now, and if I don’t find a motel soon, the heat alone might kill me. I glance over at my phone. Twelve missed calls, five texts. My stomach tightens because I know they aren’t from a well-meaning friend.
Against my better judgment, I tap the screen. The latest text says: You owe us more than money, sweetheart. Better start running.
My throat constricts. I toss the phone onto the passenger seat like it’s scalding me. My foot presses harder on the accelerator, ignoring the posted speed limit. I spot a tiny gas station up ahead, a lone building with two grimy pumps out front. If I’m going to hide out here for a while, I need a place to sleep and a plan for how to keep these vultures off my back.
A swirl of dust chases me as I pull up next to the pumps. When I step out, I’m assaulted by heat so intense it feels like opening an oven door. My tight black skirt clings to my hips, a far cry from the more casual clothes the desert calls for, but I didn’t exactly have time to shop before skipping town. A wave of vulnerability hits me. My pointed heels sink into the dusty lot.I quickly switch them out for a pair of flats that I stuffed in the car’s back seat. I don’t care if I don’t look runway-ready right now; function matters more than fashion when I’m standing in the middle of nowhere.
The gas station door squeaks as I step inside. A box fan rattles near the cash register, stirring the stale air in half-hearted circles. Behind the counter stands a wiry man with a sun-creased face, probably in his fifties. His name tag says WAYNE in faded letters.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Afternoon. You look like you came a long way.”
“That obvious?” I force a smile, ignoring the trickle of sweat creeping down my temple. “I need directions to the nearest motel…or decent lodging. Maybe a place that rents monthly if I decide to stay longer.”
Wayne sets down a newspaper and adjusts his trucker cap. “We got the Desert Rose Motel ‘bout a mile down the road. If you’re looking for anything else, you’ll be disappointed. Not much here in Clearwater Springs.”
“It’ll do,” I say, rummaging in my wallet for a credit card I hope still works. The last thing I need is an overdraft alert. “Also, can I get fifty on pump one?”
He taps the register. The total flashes on a screen that looks older than I am. “Most folks ‘round here pay cash. You sure you wanna use a card?”
I glance behind me, my spine prickling with the sense that danger can catch up any second. “I’m sure.”
He gives me a cautious nod and runs it through. Thankfully, it doesn’t decline. I exhale. Small victory. Taking the receipt, I head outside and start pumping gas, my eyes scanning the road. I can’t decide if it’s more nerve-wracking to see it empty or to imagine a caravan of men on Harleys roaring around the bend. If I still had my empire—my brand deals, my modeling gigs,my online influence—I’d leverage every contact I had to fix this mess. But Jen’s disappearance cut me off at the knees. She was our CFO, the numbers whiz behind our success. Now I’m left with partial access to locked accounts and a tidal wave of threats from shady lenders.
A heavy rumble in the distance jolts me. I spot two motorcycles cruising along, the riders wearing black leather cuts that glint under the sun. Instantly, my pulse jumps. I can’t make out the patches on their vests from this distance, but the possibility they belong to the same gang that’s after me makes my throat go dry.
I yank the nozzle out too soon, splashing a bit of gasoline onto my flats. Cursing under my breath, I stomp my foot to shake off the droplets. I jam the nozzle back in place, cap my tank, and slip behind the wheel. My heart slams against my ribs, even though the bikers never even slowed down. Calm down, Sierra. Not every biker is here to kill you. But fear doesn’t listen to reason. I clutch the steering wheel and force myself to exhale until my chest stops fluttering.
I pull back onto the road. A mile later, I see a neon sign flickering against a beige stucco building: Desert Rose Motel—VACANCY. The parking lot is almost empty. That’s fine by me. Less foot traffic, fewer prying eyes. My SUV crunches over scattered gravel as I navigate to the front office. Inside, the air conditioning hums like a lullaby. A middle-aged woman, curly red hair piled in a messy bun, greets me with a faint, friendly smile.
“Need a room?” Her nametag reads Gina.
“Yes, please. Possibly for more than one night,” I say. My voice trembles despite my best effort to stay composed.
She passes a form across the counter. “We got weekly rates if you decide to stick around.”
“Thank you.” I scribble the fake name I’ve been using for days—S. Baker—and supply a made-up phone number. I can’t risk these people tracing me. The less anyone knows, the better.
Gina hands me a room key. “Second floor, all the way to the end. It’s quieter there.”
I offer a grateful nod and head back outside, my muscles taut from adrenaline. I climb the metal staircase, each step echoing in the silent corridor. The desert wind whips sand against the railing, the sting reminiscent of tiny needles. When I unlock my room, the smell of bleach and stale cigarettes greets me. A battered dresser, a small table, and a TV from the early 2000s fill the space. Not exactly five-star luxury, but it beats sleeping in the car.
I set my phone on the nightstand and double-lock the door. A quick check reveals the shower works, the bed’s not crawling with insects, and the curtains are thick enough to block out prying eyes. Dropping onto the edge of the mattress, I glance at my phone again. Curiosity nags, but the fear of seeing another vile threat is paralyzing. Still, I can’t bury my head in the sand forever.
I inhale, pick it up, and open the text thread. More messages from that unknown number.
“You think you can hide? You owe us everything.
