Page 49 of Seeking Peace

BLAKE

Ember moans as I move to get out of bed. She drapes her leg over my hip, clamping on. "Mmm. Stay just a little longer," she mumbles, half asleep.

I chuckle and kiss the top of her head. "Sorry, babe. We ride before dawn." I slide from beneath her, instantly missing the heat of her naked body against mine, and stroll into the bathroom. I flip the light on, stand in front of the sink, and splash cold water on my face a few times. I'm staring at my reflection when thin arms wrap around my middle from behind.

"Talk to me," she pleads. "I know this trip has you stressed. Does it have something to do with Bellamy?"

I spin around and lift her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs. She rests her forehead against my chest. "You know I can't talk about club business, babe." I rest my chin on her head, run my palms up and down her thighs, and close my eyes.

Ember sighs and the warmth of her breath brushes my skin. "I know. It's just that I can't shake this feeling that something will happen."

I gently touch her chin. "Look at me." I wait for her to make eye contact. "Danger comes with the patch, baby. Taking all steps necessary to keep our families safe comes with risks we're all willing to take."

"Just make sure you come back to me."

"Nothing will keep me from returning home to you." I grip her hips, pulling her closer to where I feel the heat of her center against me. "I've got a long-ass ride ahead of me, so kiss me, Vita Mia. And make it good."

We're several hours into our road trip, and my ass is feeling it. We've been pushing through, only stopping to fill tanks and drain lizards every two hours. Jake tosses his hand, signaling to pull into the gas station ahead. At the same time, three riders pass, heading in the opposite direction, too fast for me to catch if they're wearing any colors.

We bring our bikes to a stop beside the gas pumps, and I look back in the direction the three bikers are headed. "Anyone catch their colors?" A chorus ofnofollows up my question.

"Could be weekend riders," Quinn says. "Everyone knows the drill. If you have to hit the head, do it now. This is our last stop before reaching the Utah-Nevada border." Finished filling his tank with gas, he strolls inside.

I finish topping off my tank, pull out my phone, and text Ember.

Me:Everyone good?

Her reply comes through instantly.

Ember:Yep. We're all piled up in the common room, watching a movie waiting for Grey to return with pizza.

My stomach rumbles with hunger at the mention of food, so I walk inside the gas station to use the restroom and buy a quick snack to shovel down my throat.

Me:Got to go.

Ember:Stay safe.

Me:Always.

I shove the phone back into my pocket and tend to business. Everyone is ready to hit the road when I return to my bike.

"Listen up," Jake barks. "We have roughly two more hours of ride time before reaching our destination. Remain vigilant of our surroundings. Any signs of Satan's Hounds outside of the agreed-upon neutral location are considered a threat, and we will act accordingly." He throws his leg over the seat of his Harley. "Roll out."

Time slows to a crawl on the last leg of the road trip. The closer we get to the border, the heavier my body feels. I always knew the day would come when I would have to face my past. My priority is the club's and my family's safety, including Bellamy's. I won't let her return to the hell she lived in before; nor will the club. My uncle has been keeping tabs on me, but the question is why, and for how long? What is their motive? Do they know Bellamy found her way to Polson? And if so, why haven't they attempted to bring her home? Was this all a setup and they're using my sister to get to me?

I take a deep breath and try to clear the rampant invasive thoughts in my head. Not that they don't hold validity, but I don't need the distraction. My head needs to be in the present. I need to focus on having my brothers' backs and protecting the club. I need to lay the past to rest once and for all, so I can move forward and build a life for Ember and myself without looking over my shoulder all the damn time.

Once we reach the Utah-Nevada border, we exit the highway. We take a frontage road, riding another several miles until a rundown motel comes into view. Across the street is a rundown brick building with a sign that reads Dirty D's, which has half-a-dozen vehicles parked in the dirt field adjacent to it. We pull into the parking lot riddled with potholes. Across from the office is an unclean pool filled with brownish-green stagnant water, which explains the pungent smell of rotten eggs. Logan dismounts his bike and strolls inside the office. A few minutes later, he returns with one key, twirling it around his finger. "Our room is twenty-seven, down on the end."

"You mean to tell me all five of us are sharin' a room?" Quinn stays seated on his bike.

"No bitchin'," Jake fires back. "We're in unfamiliar territory. Safety first, which means we're bunkin' together on this one." He revs his engine, rolls his bike back across the narrow parking lot toward the end of the building, and backs his Harley in front of room twenty-seven. Grumbling, the rest of us follow suit.

Logan unlocks the door, and we file inside. A stale, musty odor greets us. The room is small, and the dark wood-paneled walls make the space feel more cramped. Overhead, the dingy white ceiling is tinged with tobacco smoke residue. There are two double beds with a small nightstand in between, covered in a thin layer of dust. I walk over and part the curtains, peering outside, but the window has a hazy layer of filth coating it. It barely lets any light in. The place is a shithole, but we've stayed in worse conditions. Jake moves one of the two chairs in the room close to the window, a few feet from the door, and sits. "Rest up. The sit-down doesn't take place until 10:00 pm."

With nothing more to do, we wait.

We're currently sitting inside Dirty Ds. It's a dingy, dimly lit hole-in-the-wall dive bar that smells of beer and stale cigarette smoke. Near the entrance, along the wall is the bar counter lined with wooden stools. With rolled-up sleeves, the guy tending the bar moves from one end of the counter to the other, wiping the surface clean. His eyes keep cutting in our direction, suspicious of our presence, but his attention doesn't linger. In the farthest corner of the bar room, a nude redhead with big tits begins her third set, working the pole, dancing to Buckcherry's Crazy Bitch.

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