Page 24 of Chaos
There’s something else in the bag. An envelope. I open it and pull out what appears to be a driver's license with my photo. My name. But the address listed is the club compound.
Chaos sits beside me on the bed, his weight making the mattress dip. "You're my ol' lady now. That means I take care of you." His words send a confusing mix of emotions through me. Part of me thrills at hearing him claim me so easily. Another part wonders if this is all for show—just protection because I witnessed something I shouldn't have.
"Get dressed." He runs a finger down my bare arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Let's go down and have breakfast with the club.”
"Breakfast?” With everyone? The thought of facing all those bikers and club women makes my stomach knot.
He nods, already pulling on jeans. "Everyone needs to get used to seein’ me with my ol' lady."
My ol' lady.There it is again.
Is this real to him? Or just a ruse to convince the club I’m off limits and not a cut slut? If I had to guess, I’d say last night was about real feelings. I mean, last night…last night was amazing, but then I don’t have anything to compare it to. I want to ask Chaos to clarify our relationship, to let me know exactly where I stand, but the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I quickly dress. The new boots add an inch to my height and make me feel more confident somehow. Stronger. More badass.
When I emerge, Chaos is fully dressed in his usual jeans, t-shirt, and cut. His eyes rake over me, approval evident in his heated gaze.
"Perfect," he murmurs, reaching to run his thumb over my lower lip, like he seems to have a habit of doing. "Ready?"
No. Not even close. But I nod anyway.
The clubhouse is buzzing with activity when we descend the stairs. The party remnants have been mostly cleared away, though the lingering scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and sex hangs in the air. Tables are set up in what must serve as a dining area, loaded with plates of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and pitchers of orange juice. And the place is packed. Bikers sit clustered in groups, talking and laughing. The cut sluts, in various stages of undress, look rough this morning.
The moment we appear, conversations die down, heads turn, and I feel the weight of every stare. Chaos's hand settles on the small of my back, guiding me forward. His touch anchors me and keeps me from bolting back up the stairs.
We approach a table where Fury and Fiend are already seated. Fiend is shoveling eggs into his mouth while Fury nurses a mug of coffee, looking like death warmed over.
"Morning," Fury grunts, barely lifting his gaze from his coffee.
"Rough night?" Chaos asks, pulling out a chair for me.
"Someone thought it'd be funny to challenge me to a whiskey drinking contest." Fury glares at Fiend. "Asshole."
Fiend grins, unrepentant. "Not my fault you can't hold your liquor like you used to, old man."
I slide into the seat, hyperaware of the stares still coming my way. Some brothers nod respectfully. Others look amused. A few of the cut sluts look at me with open curiosity. Kandi’s gaze burns into me with pure hatred.
"Food's good this morning,” Fiend tells me, pushing a platter of bacon my way.
I take a piece of bacon just to have something to do with my hands. "Does everyone eat together like this every day?"
"Nah." Chaos fills a plate with food and sets it in front of me. "Only after parties or before church."
"Church?"
"Club meetings," Fury explains, looking marginally more human after another sip of coffee. "Held once a week, unless there's emergency business."
"Which there will be today," Chaos says, his voice dropping. He turns and meets my eyes when he says, “We got word late last night that Biggy didn’t make it."
No one else looks surprised, so I have to assume I’m the only one who didn’t know. I almost forgot why I'm here in the first place. Those cartel men killed two of the Renegade Kings’ club members and are hunting me as a witness.
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Good morning, all.” Mama Pat's warm voice soothes my startled nerves. "Just refilling my coffee.”
I relax, offering her a small smile. Today she’s dressed in a bright orange business suit—an A-line skirt and blazer. The outfit might make any other woman look like a pumpkin. On Mama Pat, it looks bold and daring and sophisticated.
She leans closer to Chaos’s ear. “Don’t look now, but someone’s sending death glares your way.”
