Hut001 Facebook and Instagram ad

I checked the security camera footage and discovered every Tuesday afternoon, our neighbor, Kirston, dressed well, came over, and had intercourse with my husband. I started scrolling backward through the footage. Three days earlier. Tuesday. 1:47 PM. Jake put his hand on a beautiful woman's lower back and guided her through the door. I recognized her immediately. Kirsten Vance, she lived thirty feet from my front door. They...cheated... My throat tightened. Then I scrolled back to the week before. Same day of the week. Tuesday. 1:52 PM. Kirsten again. This time, Jake was shirtless. She put her hand flat on his bare chest. He looked down at her with hunger. He pulled her inside by the wrist. Jake snored through the bathroom wall. I sobbed on the cold floor, due to his affair. Two weeks before that. Tuesday. 2:01 PM. And there he was, on my porch, pecking the neighbor's wife with his hands on her hips and her arms around his neck. I scrolled through weeks. Through months. Every Tuesday, the same pattern. Kirsten arriving between 1:30 and 2:00 PM. Sixteen arrivals. I sat on the edge of the bathtub in the dark, tears flowed down. The grief lasted ninety seconds. Then it converted. The neighborhood block party was in twelve days. Kirsten was building a slideshow. And I had sixteen Tuesdays of footage. The game began... ———————— Reagan I knew something was wrong the way you always know — not all at once, but in the small things that don't add up until suddenly they're the only things that do. It was a Tuesday when I came home to a clean house. Not my kind of clean, where everything has a place and the counters smell like the lavender spray I keep next to the paper towels. This was panic clean. Lemon Pine-Sol, the bottle I kept under the sink that Jake had never once reached for in three years of marriage, suddenly half-empty and working overtime on every surface in the kitchen. The dishes were put away — actually put away, in the right cabinets, not just rinsed and abandoned in the drying rack. The couch pillows were fluffed and centered. The blanket I kept folded over the armrest was refolded. Jake didn't fold things. Jake didn't fluff things. Jake didn't know our throw pillows had a front and a back, and he certainly didn't know that the navy ones went on the outside and the cream ones went in the middle. But there they were, arranged like a magazine spread by a man who once asked me why we needed "so many little pillows that nobody sits on." He was on the couch when I walked in, showered and relaxed in a way that didn't match a man who'd supposedly been working all day. Pharma sales. Flexible schedule. The kind of job that sounded impressive at dinner parties and meant absolutely nothing in practice — he set his own hours, made his own calls, and as far as I could tell, spent most of his work-from-home days cycling between ESPN and DoorDash. "Hey, babe. Long shift?" I'd been on my feet for twelve hours. I'd started the day holding pressure on a nineteen-year-old's femoral artery while a trauma surgeon tried to save what was left of his leg after a motorcycle turned left in front of him doing sixty. The surgeon saved the leg. The kid coded an hour later in the ICU and we lost him anyway. I clocked out at seven with my knees aching and my scrub top stiff with someone else's blood. "Long shift," I said. "There's Thai in the fridge. I ordered around seven." He'd ordered Thai. For one. At seven o'clock, while I was changing out of bloody scrubs in the locker room and leaning my forehead against the cold metal of my locker trying to remember what it felt like to not be tired. He hadn't texted. Hadn't called. Hadn't asked if I wanted him to keep a plate warm or leave the porch light on. I ate cold pad Thai standing at the kitchen counter — the counter that smelled like Pine-Sol and wrongness — and I told myself I was imagining things. Told myself I was just tired. Told myself that a clean house was a nice thing, a thoughtful thing, the kind of thing I'd been asking Jake to do for three years. Maybe he'd finally listened. Maybe this was him trying. I went to bed and he was already asleep, turned away from me, breathing the slow, satisfied breath of a man with nothing on his conscience. I lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling and thought: since when does Jake try? The package is what cracked it open. Two days later I was expecting a delivery — a compression sleeve for the knee that had been grinding since a ten-hour shift the week before. The tracking said delivered. Left at front door, 2:14 PM. But when I got home the porch was bare, and when I asked Jake about it over dinner he barely looked up from his phone. "Nah, nothing came. Probably got stolen. Happens all the time on this street." It didn't happen all the time on this street. It had never happened on this street. We lived in Riverside Heights, the kind of neighborhood where people left their garage doors open and waved at each other from their driveways and posted in the group chat if they saw an unfamiliar car parked too long. Nobody was stealing packages. But Jake said it with the easy confidence of a man used to being believed, and I almost let it go. Almost. That night, after Jake fell asleep, I sat on the edge of the bathtub with my phone and opened the Ring app. The doorbell camera — the one Jake had insisted on installing when we moved in, back when he still did things like care about the house — recorded everything that happened on our front porch. Motion-activated, cloud-stored, timestamped. I scrubbed to 2:14 PM. There was the delivery driver. There was my package, set neatly on the welcome mat. There was my front porch, empty and ordinary in the afternoon light. Then 2:20 PM. The door opened. Jake stepped out in basketball shorts and bare feet, picked up the package, tucked it under his arm, and walked back inside. He'd taken my package. Told me it was stolen. Looked me in the eye over leftover chicken and lied about a compression sleeve, of all things, and I still didn't know why. Maybe he'd opened it by accident and thrown it away. Maybe he'd put it somewhere and forgotten. But the lie was there now, small and sharp as a splinter, and I couldn't stop pressing on it. I sat in the bathroom with the blue glow of my phone lighting up the tile and I did something I'd never done before. I started scrolling backward through the footage. Not looking for anything specific. Not expecting anything. Just looking. The way you touch a bruise to see how deep it goes. I wish I'd stopped. ..... The first clip confused me more than it scared me. Three days earlier. Tuesday. 1:47 PM. A woman walked up our front path in a sundress and wedge sandals, her hair blown out and shining in the afternoon light. She didn't ring the bell. Didn't knock. She took out her phone, typed something — a text — and three seconds later the front door opened from inside. Jake, smiling. Not the smile he gave me when I came home from a shift, the tired half-smile that said oh, you're here. A real smile. Wide and warm and directed at this woman like she was the thing he'd been waiting for all day. He put his hand on her lower back and guided her through the door and it closed behind them. I recognized her immediately. I would have recognized her from space. Kirsten Vance lived thirty feet from my front door. She was the woman who'd brought us banana bread the week we moved in, who organized the block parties and the holiday cookie exchanges, who ran the neighborhood group chat with cheerful efficiency and posted reminders about recycling day and whose trash cans were still at the curb. She taught yoga. She had an Instagram following — not huge, but dedicated — full of stories about alignment and showing up for yourself and choosing peace. She'd suggested book club. She'd invited me on neighborhood walks. She'd hugged me at the last cookout, both hands on my shoulders, big smile, and said we should do this more, just the two of us, I feel like I never see you. She'd been seeing my husband. While I was at work seeing the worst moments of strangers' lives. But I told myself it was nothing. I was sitting on the edge of my bathtub in a dark bathroom at eleven at night and I told myself that neighbors visit each other. People borrow things, drop things off, have conversations in kitchens. Kirsten was on the HOA social committee. Maybe she needed Jake's input on the block party layout. Maybe she was returning a casserole dish. There were a hundred innocent explanations. I could have closed the app and gone to bed and woken up tomorrow and never looked again. I scrolled back to the week before. Same day of the week. Tuesday. 1:52 PM. Kirsten again. Same approach — the text, the three-second wait, the door opening from inside. But this time Jake was shirtless. Not coming-from-the-gym shirtless. Fresh-from-the-shower shirtless, hair damp, towel still draped across his shoulders like he'd cleaned up for company. Like he'd prepared. She put her hand flat on his bare chest. Left it there. He looked down at her hand and then at her face, and the expression he gave her — I had been married to this man for three years and I had never once seen that expression directed at me. The hunger in it. The focus. Like she was the only thing in the frame worth seeing. Like everything outside of her had gone soft and blurry and she was the only part of his life in high definition. He pulled her inside by the wrist. The door closed. I could hear Jake snoring through the bathroom wall. Sleeping in my bed, in my house, ten feet away from me while I sat on cold porcelain and watched him pull another woman through my front door with the eagerness of a man who'd been counting the minutes until she arrived. My hands were shaking badly enough that I almost dropped the phone. I scrolled back again. Two weeks before that. Tuesday. 2:01 PM. This time the pecking happened on the porch. Not inside, not in the doorway — out in the open, in full daylight, on the front steps of the house I'd bought with my own money before I ever met Jake Holt. Three years of ER overtime, doubles on holidays, every extra shift the charge nurse would give me. I'd saved since I was twenty-four. I'd done the inspection and the closing and signed the papers myself. It was the first thing I'd ever owned that was entirely mine, and Jake had moved in after the wedding because my house was bigger than his apartment, not the other way around. And there he was, on my porch, pecking the neighbor's wife with his hands on her hips and her arms around his neck. Not a quick pecking. Not an accident. His mouth was open and his fingers were pressing into the fabric of her dress and she was rising up on her toes to reach him and it went on and on and on, eight seconds, ten, twelve, long enough for the camera's motion sensor to decide nothing new was happening and stop recording.

“I knew who you were the minute I saw you sitting by his bedside,” Melissa said, her blonde curls bouncing as she stepped closer. “I’m Bigfoot’s ol’ lady. We have a son together. You’re just some opportunistic bimbo who was in the right place at the right time.” My heart stopped. I turned to look at the man I’d held on the side of the road, the man I’d killed for, the man who’d called me my angel. He was awake now, but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “Our son doesn’t need to see some next-level club bimbo leech trying to take advantage of his daddy,” she sneered. I couldn't breathe. Club bimbo. That’s what he’d let them think I was. I backed toward the door. Bigfoot finally looked up. “Sammy—” But I was already gone. I drove past the state line, trembling, replaying every soft word, every hand squeeze. Call my club. They won’t harm you. He lied. Or maybe I was just the fool who believed him. My phone buzzed. Baffle. I let it ring. _______________ I knew the minute the eighteen-wheeler flew around me on US-60 that my night was about to take a turn for the worse. We just rolled over the state line coming from Arizona into New Mexico when the prick thought it would be fun to try to pass. Either he didn't realize there was a man on a Harley in front of me or he didn't care. "F-ck!" I yelled into the empty cab of my truck as he blew by. The wind gust he kicked up rocked out of my little Toyota Tacoma and made me wonder how that would feel to the Harley he was about to breeze by in the same way. I didn't have a moment to think about it. As he passed the motorcycle, one of his tires blew and the debris flew right into the biker. I stepped on my brake and swerved off to the side of the road, thanking every deity known to man that there wasn't anyone else on the road at the time. I also thanked my "adopt a biker" mentality. The cushion of distance I kept between us was the only reason I didn't roll right over him. The motorcycle took a direct hit from the debris, but I thought the rider may have taken a large chunk to his side, as well. He flew off the bike and flipped in the air, which might have been a good thing, considering the way the motorcycle bucked up and came off the ground before it finally landed and slid over into the into some scrub brush at the side of the road. The biker had been thrown backward as he was launched off the bike and slid to stop just in front of my truck when all was finally said and done. I couldn't even imagine what the impact had done to him, especially after taking a hit from the truck debris. I was so thankful that I had eased off the gas when the truck tried to pass me. Had I not, the biker would have ended up in my windshield or under my tires. Neither of those options were good for me. The trucker kept on trucking like his tire never blew out, like he hadn't just taken out a motorcyclist. My irrational anger almost got the best of me. Instead, I threw my hazard lights on, grabbed my phone, and jumped out of my truck to go check on the biker before calling 9-1-1, so I could let them know whether to send an ambulance or a clean-up crew with the police. When I reached the man, he groaned and tried to sit up, but I stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Please, don't try to move. You don't know what could be injured and you might make everything worse," I explained. He moaned but laid back down as I asked questions. "I'm going to grab my first aid kit and call for an ambulance. Can you tell me what hurts?" He shook his head once before groaning again. "Call my club." "Your what?" It was then I noticed the leather vest he wore and the tell-tale one percent patch on the front of it. "You want me to call your club?" I asked as I pointed at the patch. "They won't harm you. Need them to get my bike." His voice was trailing off. "I don't know how to call them." He quickly rattled off a number that I put in my phone on instinct. My fingers pushed to dial before I realized what I was doing. "I really need to call for help." "Club first." I rolled my eyes just as someone picked up. "Baffle," the gravelly voice spat out. "A man just crashed in front of me on US-60 headed into New Mexico from Arizona. He's one of yours." As I rattled off the information something glinted from across the street. My eyes tracked the source. There was a man crouched down behind some scrub on the other side of the road. If he'd been there the whole time, it was a small miracle the accident hadn't been worse. He wasn't watching me. The man's eyes were trained on the fallen biker. It only took another second for me to process the fact that the glint I'd seen a moment ago was from the pistol in his hands. My headlights created enough light that his scope picked it up and reflected it back. Without another thought, I dropped my cell phone and snatched my sidearm out of my holster, aimed, released my breath, and pulled the trigger. I wasn't stupid. If he planned to shoot the biker on the side of the road, there was no way he would leave me behind as a witness to what happened. I heard a harsh voice yelling in the background and realized the noise came from the cell I dropped. "Who the heck is this and what is going on?" I could hear him giving orders to someone in the background as I glanced down and snatched the phone back up while keeping my Springfield 10 mil trained on the man who I'd just shot. "Your man, I think he's passed out now," I called into the phone as I took a quick glance down at the biker again. "His vest thing says 'President' on it. Wait..." I glanced around and realized the tape under it probably showed his name. After I dusted it off, I called out his road name. "Bigfoot." "Prez is down. We gotta go!" the man yelled into the phone before he started to speak to me again. "How bad is it?" "He was more worried about his motorcycle getting picked up, it's a few feet away from where he landed. We have a bigger problem, though." "Does that bigger problem have to do with the gunshot I just heard?" "There was a man on the other side of the road. He was just about to take a shot at your president when I took him out. Your brother needs an ambulance in a bad way, but there's a body here that I'm responsible for now as well." "You shot the man? Are you sure he's dead?" "Well, I'm no expert, but I am a good shot, and he hasn't moved since." "Listen, darlin', we're bringing a doc with us. Do not call anyone." "I can't make any guarantees that someone else won't call or that the truck driver whose blown tire took out your president won't make his way back." A thought occurred to me then. "What if the guy I shot was working with the truck driver? He seemed pretty bent on passing me and the motorcycle." I hoped that wasn't the case and continued to ramble my fears away. "If it was a civilian, they might have called the cops about getting their tire shot out, if they realized that was what happened. Then again, why wouldn't a trucker pull over to fix his tire, even if he didn't realize he took a man out with the one that blew?" I was rambling, but my brain wouldn't stop turning over as the possibilities came crashing down around me. "lady. Shut up! We have a guy that is two minutes out from you. Name's Jester and he's in a white work van with ladders on top." "You're sending a murder van, and you want me to be okay with it?" "A what?" the man on the other end of the line asked. "Never mind. Look, stay put and do what you can for Bigfoot." I hung up the cell and stuffed it back in my pocket. Bigfoot was awake again when I glanced down to check on him. "I have to make sure the prick across the street is dead," I explained. He seemed to understand and attempted a nod. It was such a subtle movement that I couldn't be sure. I ran across the road and checked on the prick who had the pistol trained on the crashed biker. There was no need to check for a pulse when I got there. It was obvious he was dead since half his head was blown off. I had aimed for center mass, as I'd always been taught, but since he was crouched down, that was about as central as I could get. His head was in pieces on the ground around him. There was no point in lingering around a corpse. I snatched his pistol up and then ran back across the highway as I sent up a silent prayer and thanked my lucky stars that no one else seemed to be traveling this late – or early, I supposed. Once I got back to Bigfoot, I crouched down and checked on him again. He was still breathing and didn't appear to be bleeding profusely. That didn't mean much, since it was the internal bleeding that would probably kill him after taking that kind of impact and rolling the way he did. "I would take your helmet off, but I'm honestly afraid that it would do more harm than good." I kept any signs of panic out of my voice as I assessed the man. I was halfway down his body, palpating for possible damage when a dingy, white work van with ladders on top pulled off near where Bigfoot's motorcycle came to rest. "What's going on, Bigfoot? Are you taking a nap on the side of the road?" the man joked, but I could tell by the way his eyes tracked every inch of his friend that he was just trying to put the man at ease. The newcomer was worried, and that quickly turned to fear when he realized his buddy didn't answer back. "He's been fading in and out, but there isn't a lot of blood." Bigfoot groaned as though he were in a lot of pain. "On the outside, anyway," I tacked on. "There is a body over there, and I would appreciate it if you could hide that fact before the law rolls up here and wants to know why I shot him." The newcomer, Jester, nodded his head, hopped into his van, and positioned it across the street where he could easily load the body into the back. He took a jug of something out of his van and doused the area with it after he moved the body. When he was done with that, he pulled back over and started to load up the motorcycle. All the while, I noticed he was having a conversation via whatever hands-free device he had clamped to his ear. "VP wants to know how bad he is," Jester called out to me. "Well, an eighteen-wheeler was in the middle of passing us on the left when his tire blew, and a huge chunk flew into your buddy. He took the hit directly to his left side, maybe a bit of his chest too. That sent him flying over to the right side of the road while his bike took off without him and crashed where you just picked it up. He was talking to me at first and told me to call you guys before he passed out. Seemed to have a great deal of pain while trying to shake his head, so either the tire hit his neck too or the fall did enough damage that it hurt much. He's still breathing. I think his arm is broken. Honestly, I'm more concerned about possible internal bleeding or the damage he might have done to his head and neck. Thank god he wore a helmet, but I don't want to be the one to remove it." "It's okay. Can you stick with him while I finish up here?" "Of course." "Did the trucker stop at all?" "No, but I have a dash cam in my car, and it has been running the whole time." "Do not tell the cops. If anyone happens to show up before my club, keep quiet. My VP will want that footage." "I have reason to not want that video going to the cops, too." "You on the lamb or something?" the man joked. "No, I'm not on the lamb." I rolled my eyes, then rethought that. "I might be if they look at the video and see that I shot someone." "Wait, you're the one that shot that prick?" "That's what I said before. He was about to kill your friend, and it didn't take a genius to determine I'd be next." I had a healthier fear of a one percent motorcycle club than the cops, so his wish was my command at that point. It took another minute before I realized Jester was no longer focused on me. He was back across the street policing brass. He picked up one bullet casing and pocketed it. I guessed that meant he had most likely shot the truck's tire after all. I glanced down and groaned. Hopefully, they really did have a doctor on the way, because Bigfoot didn't look too good. I sat with the man, who was objectively very good looking, despite the bruises and swelling that started to bloom all over his face. His leathers were toast, and his helmet was scuffed and dented in spots. It appeared it might also be cracked on the side, but I didn't want to speculate what that might mean for his head. "Do I take your helmet off or leave it?" I wondered out loud. "What if your head swells and..." "Off," the man groaned. I jumped. "I thought you were still passed out." He huffed at me as if to say he was until I bothered him with my inane questions. I carefully reached up and unlatched his chin strap and then put one hand under the base of his neck and head to support it while I gently removed his helmet. "Okay, Bigfoot, I'm just going to put my sweater underneath your head, so it isn't resting on the ground." The sweater had been tied around my waist because it was too hot to wear earlier when I was in a crowd of people. Then I got chilly after getting into my truck. The heater took forever to kick in and push out anything but cold air. Since I had been sitting on my sweater at that point, I put on my emergency jacket I always kept in my truck – for when the stupid, temperamental heater refused to blow hot. "Mmm," The sound – something between an appreciative moan and a painful groan – was all he managed. It was then that my eyes drifted down his body, assessing for further damage again. "Yep, you definitely broke that arm," I said aloud, even though it appeared he had passed out again. I saw blood near the waistband of his jeans and gently pulled his shirt up to have a look. It didn't appear as though there were any deep gouges or anything. It was more like he had really bad road rash. His jeans on his left side were worn down in spots and there was a bit of blood seeping through there as well. Thankfully, nothing I could see looked life-threatening. If the man didn't have internal bleeding and his head didn't swell up and pop off, then he might be okay after all. His left arm drooped at a weird angle making me think it had either been dislocated or something worse. Considering there wasn't any blood coming from up there, I hoped it meant everything was still attached. "I guess this would be a good time for me to be a nurse or a doctor or know more than basic first aid," I murmured to myself and was surprised when the man attempted to chuckle. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you laugh." "No apologies," he insisted in a garbled way that was barely understandable. "Your men are on the way." It was the only reassurance I could give him as we waited in the dark along the lonely stretch of highway in the middle of the night. I shivered and realized the temperatures had dropped again. I took my jacket off and draped it across his torso. There was a chance he couldn't even feel the difference, but it was the only thing I knew to do that might not harm him more. We sat on the roadside for another ten minutes as Jester did his thing cleaning up the mess on the other side of the road. It looked as though he was policing for more brass over there and combing through the brush. It made sense. Beyond the tire being blown out, it might tell us something more if he were to find other casings, or perhaps evidence that the man had been lying in wait for a long time. I didn't believe in coincidences, so the probability of a man lying in wait with a pistol at the exact place an eighteen-wheeler's tire blew to take out a motorcycle, felt a little too convenient to be anything else but an ambush. I heard the distant roar of motorcycles. "Doc is coming with the men; he'll be able to assess things. If we need to run him to the hospital, we'll take him ourselves." I glanced up to see Jester was back, and he stared down at me with a strange look in his eyes. "Not sure that's smart. What if moving him makes things worse or delaying treatment gets him dead?" I asked "M'k," Bigfoot huffed. I was fairly certain it was his way of saying he was okay enough to wait, but I didn't believe him for a minute, especially since he passed out again after mumbling almost incoherently. "Jester!" "Yeah?" "If he dies on me, I'm going to kill the person who made him wait for treatment." The man chuckled and came to stand beside me. "Bigfoot's a tough prick. He'll pull through." "Says you." "Yep, I've seen enough riders go down in my time that I can tell you with certainty that he'll have one of a recovery, but he'll live." "I hope so." "Also, it ain't wise to threaten to off our VP, since he's the one who gave the order." "Whatever, I'm not scared of him." "I guess you wouldn't be, considering I just cleaned up the last body you dropped." "That was also the first," I admitted. "Well, you did a good job of it, lady." He glanced across the road and then back at me. "You were standing over here?" "Yeah?" "You used that?" He pointed at the 10 mil that was secured into my holster. I nodded. "Big sidearm for a little lady." "Not really. They fire smoothly, barely any kickback." Jester nodded his head. "Fifty feet give or take to where the prick was lying in wait." When I didn't say anything, he tacked on, "In the dark and high on adrenaline." He was assessing my skill level, I realized. "You a cop?" I laughed at his question. "Not by a long shot." "Former military?" I gave a quick nod. "No combat duty, but served honorably, nonetheless. The military doesn't account for my shooting skills, though. That would be my Uncle Brady's doin'." "Why did good ol' Uncle Brady decide to teach his precious niece how to shoot so well?" "Because he wanted me to be able to defend myself if it was ever necessary." I glanced down to see that Bigfoot's eyes were open again. "Took a little nap again, huh?" I asked as the distant rumble of motorcycle engines grew heavier in the air. The ground seemed to vibrate as they moved closer, too. "Your friends are almost here." I felt a squeeze on my hand and glanced down to see that Bigfoot managed to get his good hand over to mine. "Thank you." "Don't mention it. Saved me from a boring night of going home to wash my hair." "What the heck?" Jester asked as he laughed and looked down at his phone – presumably to see the time. I shrugged my shoulders. "That was my excuse when I left the double date from he-ll. My coworker Jake convinced me to go to this concert over in Arizona with his girlfriend and another guy. Basically, he set me up to be the fourth wheel to a three-some he didn't know he was involved in." "Let me guess, the set-up date was more interested in you than your buddy's girl and it pissed her off?" I nodded my agreement. "Exactly that. When Matt seemed too interested, Sandra lost it and started screaming at him that the date wasn't meant to be real." I started to mimic her tone. "How dare you act like you're interested in someone else – in front of me!" I shook my head and remembered Jake had seemed upset by the revelation, but not entirely shocked. It made me wonder if he had asked me so that he could get exactly that response from his girlfriend. I don't like to feel used by people. Jake and I would have it out about that later. He should have found a better way to bust his cheating girlfriend, like hire a PI or something. That's what normal people did. Jester laughed and Bigfoot squeezed my hand again. I could have sworn he smiled, but then again, most of his face was a swollen mess already, so it could have been a twitch of pain. "Sorry," I apologized on a whisper. "I forgot I'm not supposed to make you laugh. You probably have a broken rib or three. Know for a fact that stuff hurts." I glanced back up at Jester to finish my story. "So, when the cr-ap hit the fan, I said I had to go home and wash my hair." "Left your boy there to deal with the fallout of a cheating girlfriend?" I groaned. "He put me in that situation knowing full well I've always thought she was a giant freaking diseased twat." "You don't have a filter, do you?" the man inquired. "Nah. I don't really see the point. If people don't like what I have to say, they can pretty much off." "If he don't claim you after he wakes up, I'm next in line," Jester said and then jogged back to his van as the first motorcycle rolled up. I tilted my head to the side and chuckled. "What do ya know? It really is a murder van." "God's sake," Bigfoot mumbled as his chest shook. "Sorry," I whispered again.

I watched an eighteen-wheeler's blown tire send a biker flying, then I put a bullet between the eyes of the sniper waiting to finish him off. One minute I was just a woman driving home from a bad date. The next, I was knee-deep in MC warfare, protecting a fallen Kings of Anarchy president from an ambush. Now Bigfoot's club thinks I'm some kind of guardian angel, but his so-called "old lady" sure as inferno doesn't. Turns out saving a biker's life comes with strings. Dangerous ones. And the biggest threat? The way my body reacts every time those dark eyes lock onto mine. ——————— I knew the minute the eighteen-wheeler flew around me on US-60 that my night was about to take a turn for the worse. We just rolled over the state line coming from Arizona into New Mexico when the prick thought it would be fun to try to pass. Either he didn't realize there was a man on a Harley in front of me or he didn't care. "God!" I yelled into the empty cab of my truck as he blew by. The wind gust he kicked up rocked the inferno out of my little Toyota Tacoma and made me wonder how that would feel to the Harley he was about to breeze by in the same way. I didn't have a moment to think about it. As he passed the motorcycle, one of his tires blew and the debris flew right into the biker. I stepped on my brake and swerved off to the side of the road, thanking every deity known to man that there wasn't anyone else on the road at the time. I also thanked my "adopt a biker" mentality. The cushion of distance I kept between us was the only reason I didn't roll right over him. The motorcycle took a direct hit from the debris, but I thought the rider may have taken a large chunk to his side, as well. He flew off the bike and flipped in the air, which might have been a good thing, considering the way the motorcycle bucked up and came off the ground before it finally landed and slid over into the into some scrub brush at the side of the road. The biker had been thrown backward as he was launched off the bike and slid to stop just in front of my truck when all was finally said and done. I couldn't even imagine what the impact had done to him, especially after taking a hit from the truck debris. I was so thankful that I had eased off the gas when the truck tried to pass me. Had I not, the biker would have ended up in my windshield or under my tires. Neither of those options were good for me. The trucker kept on trucking like his tire never blew out, like he hadn't just taken out a motorcyclist. My irrational anger almost got the best of me. Instead, I threw my hazard lights on, grabbed my phone, and jumped out of my truck to go check on the biker before calling 9-1-1, so I could let them know whether to send an ambulance or a clean-up crew with the police. When I reached the man, he groaned and tried to sit up, but I stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Please, don't try to move. You don't know what could be injured and you might make everything worse," I explained. He moaned but laid back down as I asked questions. "I'm going to grab my first aid kit and call for an ambulance. Can you tell me what hurts?" He shook his head once before groaning again. "Call my club." "Your what?" It was then I noticed the leather vest he wore and the tell-tale one percent patch on the front of it. "You want me to call your club?" I asked as I pointed at the patch. "They won't harm you. Need them to get my bike." His voice was trailing off. "I don't know how to call them." He quickly rattled off a number that I put in my phone on instinct. My fingers pushed to dial before I realized what I was doing. "God, I really need to call for help." "Club first." I rolled my eyes just as someone picked up. "Baffle," the gravelly voice spat out. "A man just crashed in front of me on US-60 headed into New Mexico from Arizona. He's one of yours." As I rattled off the information something glinted from across the street. My eyes tracked the source. There was a man crouched down behind some scrub on the other side of the road. If he'd been there the whole time, it was a small miracle the accident hadn't been worse. He wasn't watching me. The man's eyes were trained on the fallen biker. It only took another second for me to process the fact that the glint I'd seen a moment ago was from the pistol in his hands. My headlights created enough light that his scope picked it up and reflected it back. Without another thought, I dropped my cell phone and snatched my sidearm out of my holster, aimed, released my breath, and pulled the trigger. I wasn't stupid. If he planned to shoot the biker on the side of the road, there was no way he would leave me behind as a witness to what happened. I heard a harsh voice yelling in the background and realized the noise came from the cell I dropped. "Who the heck is this and what is going on?" I could hear him giving orders to someone in the background as I glanced down and snatched the phone back up while keeping my Springfield 10 mil trained on the man who I'd just shot. "Your man, I think he's passed out now," I called into the phone as I took a quick glance down at the biker again. "His vest thing says 'President' on it. Wait..." I glanced around and realized the tape under it probably showed his name. After I dusted it off, I called out his road name. "Bigfoot." "Prez is down. We gotta go!" the man yelled into the phone before he started to speak to me again. "How bad is it?" "He was more worried about his motorcycle getting picked up, it's a few feet away from where he landed. We have a bigger problem, though." "Does that bigger problem have to do with the gunshot I just heard?" "There was a man on the other side of the road. He was just about to take a shot at your president when I took him out. Your brother needs an ambulance in a bad way, but there's a body here that I'm responsible for now as well." "You shot the man? Are you sure he's dead?" "Well, I'm no expert, but I am a good shot, and he hasn't moved since." "Listen, darlin', we're bringing a doc with us. Do not call anyone." "I can't make any guarantees that someone else won't call or that the truck driver whose blown tire took out your president won't make his way back." A thought occurred to me then. "God! What if the guy I shot was working with the truck driver? He seemed pretty inferno-bent on passing me and the motorcycle." I hoped like inferno that wasn't the case and continued to ramble my fears away. "If it was a civilian, they might have called the cops about getting their tire shot out, if they realized that was what happened. Then again, why wouldn't a trucker pull over to fix his tire, even if he didn't realize he took a man out with the one that blew?" I was rambling, but my brain wouldn't stop turning over as the possibilities came crashing down around me. "God, lady. Shut up! We have a guy that is two minutes out from you. Name's Jester and he's in a white work van with ladders on top." "You're sending a murder van, and you want me to be okay with it?" "A what?" the man on the other end of the line asked. "Never mind. Look, stay put and do what you can for Bigfoot." I hung up the cell and stuffed it back in my pocket. Bigfoot was awake again when I glanced down to check on him. "I have to make sure the prick across the street is dead," I explained. He seemed to understand and attempted a nod. It was such a subtle movement that I couldn't be sure. I ran across the road and checked on the prick who had the pistol trained on the crashed biker. There was no need to check for a pulse when I got there. It was obvious he was dead since half his head was blown off. I had aimed for center mass, as I'd always been taught, but since he was crouched down, that was about as central as I could get. His head was in pieces on the ground around him. There was no point in lingering around a corpse. I snatched his pistol up and then ran back across the highway as I sent up a silent prayer and thanked my lucky stars that no one else seemed to be traveling this late – or early, I supposed. Once I got back to Bigfoot, I crouched down and checked on him again. He was still breathing and didn't appear to be bleeding profusely. That didn't mean much, since it was the internal bleeding that would probably kill him after taking that kind of impact and rolling the way he did. "I would take your helmet off, but I'm honestly afraid that it would do more harm than good." I kept any signs of panic out of my voice as I assessed the man. I was halfway down his body, palpating for possible damage when a dingy, white work van with ladders on top pulled off near where Bigfoot's motorcycle came to rest. "What's going on, Bigfoot? Are you taking a nap on the side of the road?" the man joked, but I could tell by the way his eyes tracked every inch of his friend that he was just trying to put the man at ease. The newcomer was worried, and that quickly turned to fear when he realized his buddy didn't answer back. "He's been fading in and out, but there isn't a lot of blood." Bigfoot groaned as though he were in a lot of pain. "On the outside, anyway," I tacked on. "There is a body over there, and I would appreciate it if you could hide that fact before the law rolls up here and wants to know why I shot him." The newcomer, Jester, nodded his head, hopped into his van, and positioned it across the street where he could easily load the body into the back. He took a jug of something out of his van and doused the area with it after he moved the body. When he was done with that, he pulled back over and started to load up the motorcycle. All the while, I noticed he was having a conversation via whatever hands-free device he had clamped to his ear. "VP wants to know how bad he is," Jester called out to me. "Well, an eighteen-wheeler was in the middle of passing us on the left when his tire blew, and a huge chunk flew into your buddy. He took the hit directly to his left side, maybe a bit of his chest too. That sent him flying over to the right side of the road while his bike took off without him and crashed where you just picked it up. He was talking to me at first and told me to call you guys before he passed out. Seemed to have a great deal of pain while trying to shake his head, so either the tire hit his neck too or the fall did enough damage that it hurt like inferno. He's still breathing. I think his arm is broken. Honestly, I'm more concerned about possible internal bleeding or the damage he might have done to his head and neck. Thank God he wore a helmet, but I don't want to be the one to remove it." "It's okay. Can you stick with him while I finish up here?" "Of course." "Did the trucker stop at all?" "No, but I have a dash cam in my car, and it has been running the whole time." "Do not tell the cops. If anyone happens to show up before my club, keep quiet. My VP will want that footage." "I have reason to not want that video going to the cops, too." "You on the lamb or something?" the man joked. "No, I'm not on the lamb." I rolled my eyes, then rethought that. "I might be if they look at the video and see that I shot someone." "Wait, you're the one that shot that prick?" "That's what I said before. He was about to kill your friend, and it didn't take a genius to determine I'd be next." I had a healthier fear of a one percent motorcycle club than the cops, so his wish was my command at that point. It took another minute before I realized Jester was no longer focused on me. He was back across the street policing brass. He picked up one bullet casing and pocketed it. I guessed that meant he had most likely shot the truck's tire after all. I glanced down and groaned. Hopefully, they really did have a doctor on the way, because Bigfoot didn't look too good. I sat with the man, who was objectively very good looking, despite the bruises and swelling that started to bloom all over his face. His leathers were toast, and his helmet was scuffed and dented in spots. It appeared it might also be cracked on the side, but I didn't want to speculate what that might mean for his head. "Do I take your helmet off or leave it?" I wondered out loud. "What if your head swells and..." "Off," the man groaned. I jumped. "Oh God, I thought you were still passed out." He huffed at me as if to say he was until I bothered him with my inane questions. I carefully reached up and unlatched his chin strap and then put one hand under the base of his neck and head to support it while I gently removed his helmet. "Okay, Bigfoot, I'm just going to put my sweater underneath your head, so it isn't resting on the ground." The sweater had been tied around my waist because it was too hot to wear earlier when I was in a crowd of people. Then I got chilly after getting into my truck. The heater took forever to kick in and push out anything but cold air. Since I had been sitting on my sweater at that point, I put on my emergency jacket I always kept in my truck – for when the stupid, temperamental heater refused to blow hot. "Mmm," The sound – something between an appreciative moan and a painful groan – was all he managed. It was then that my eyes drifted down his body, assessing for further damage again. "Yep, you definitely broke that arm," I said aloud, even though it appeared he had passed out again. I saw blood near the waistband of his jeans and gently pulled his shirt up to have a look. It didn't appear as though there were any deep gouges or anything. It was more like he had really bad road rash. His jeans on his left side were worn down in spots and there was a bit of blood seeping through there as well. Thankfully, nothing I could see looked life-threatening. If the man didn't have internal bleeding and his head didn't swell up and pop off, then he might be okay after all. His left arm drooped at a weird angle making me think it had either been dislocated or something worse. Considering there wasn't any blood coming from up there, I hoped it meant everything was still attached. "I guess this would be a good time for me to be a nurse or a doctor or know more than basic first aid," I murmured to myself and was surprised when the man attempted to chuckle. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you laugh." "No apologies," he insisted in a garbled way that was barely understandable. "Your men are on the way." It was the only reassurance I could give him as we waited in the dark along the lonely stretch of highway in the middle of the night. I shivered and realized the temperatures had dropped again. I took my jacket off and draped it across his torso. There was a chance he couldn't even feel the difference, but it was the only thing I knew to do that might not harm him more. We sat on the roadside for another ten minutes as Jester did his thing cleaning up the mess on the other side of the road. It looked as though he was policing for more brass over there and combing through the brush. It made sense. Beyond the tire being blown out, it might tell us something more if he were to find other casings, or perhaps evidence that the man had been lying in wait for a long time. I didn't believe in coincidences, so the probability of a man lying in wait with a pistol at the exact place an eighteen-wheeler's tire blew to take out a motorcycle, felt a little too convenient to be anything else but an ambush. I heard the distant roar of motorcycles. "Doc is coming with the men; he'll be able to assess things. If we need to run him to the hospital, we'll take him ourselves." I glanced up to see Jester was back, and he stared down at me with a strange look in his eyes. "Not sure that's smart. What if moving him makes things worse or delaying treatment gets him dead?" I asked "M'k," Bigfoot huffed. I was fairly certain it was his way of saying he was okay enough to wait, but I didn't believe him for a minute, especially since he passed out again after mumbling almost incoherently. "Jester!" "Yeah?" "If he dies on me, I'm going to kill the person who made him wait for treatment." The man chuckled and came to stand beside me. "Bigfoot's a tough prick. He'll pull through." "Says you." "Yep, I've seen enough riders go down in my time that I can tell you with certainty that he'll have one inferno of a recovery, but he'll live." "I hope so." "Also, it ain't wise to threaten to off our VP, since he's the one who gave the order." "Whatever, I'm not scared of him." "I guess you wouldn't be, considering I just cleaned up the last body you dropped." "That was also the first," I admitted. "Well, you did a good job of it, lady." He glanced across the road and then back at me. "You were standing over here?" "Yeah?" "You used that?" He pointed at the 10 mil that was secured into my holster. I nodded. "Big sidearm for a little lady." "Not really. They fire smoothly, barely any kickback." Jester nodded his head. "Fifty feet give or take to where the prick was lying in wait." When I didn't say anything, he tacked on, "In the dark and high on adrenaline." He was assessing my skill level, I realized. "You a cop?" I laughed at his question. "Not by a long shot." "Former military?" I gave a quick nod. "No combat duty, but served honorably, nonetheless. The military doesn't account for my shooting skills, though. That would be my Uncle Brady's doin'." "Why did good ol' Uncle Brady decide to teach his precious niece how to shoot so well?" "Because he wanted me to be able to defend myself if it was ever necessary." I glanced down to see that Bigfoot's eyes were open again. "Took a little nap again, huh?" I asked as the distant rumble of motorcycle engines grew heavier in the air. The ground seemed to vibrate as they moved closer, too. "Your friends are almost here." I felt a squeeze on my hand and glanced down to see that Bigfoot managed to get his good hand over to mine. "Thank you." "Don't mention it. Saved me from a boring night of going home to wash my hair." "What the heck?" Jester asked as he laughed and looked down at his phone – presumably to see the time. I shrugged my shoulders. "That was my excuse when I left the double date from inferno. My coworker Jake convinced me to go to this concert over in Arizona with his girlfriend and another guy. Basically, he set me up to be the fourth wheel to a three-way he didn't know he was involved in." "Let me guess, the set-up date was more interested in you than your buddy's girl and it pissed her off?" I nodded my agreement. "Exactly that. When Matt seemed too interested, Sandra lost it and started screaming at him that the date wasn't meant to be real." I started to mimic her tone. "How dare you act like you're interested in someone else – in front of me!" I shook my head and remembered Jake had seemed upset by the revelation, but not entirely shocked. It made me wonder if he had asked me so that he could get exactly that response from his girlfriend. I don't like to feel used by people. Jake and I would have it out about that mess later. He should have found a better way to bust his cheating girlfriend, like hire a PI or something. That's what normal people did. Jester laughed and Bigfoot squeezed my hand again. I could have sworn he smiled, but then again, most of his face was a swollen mess already, so it could have been a twitch of pain. "Sorry," I apologized on a whisper. "I forgot I'm not supposed to make you laugh. You probably have a broken rib or three. Know for a fact that stuff hurts." I glanced back up at Jester to finish my story. "So, when the hit the fan, I said I had to go home and wash my hair." "Left your boy there to deal with the fallout of a cheating girlfriend?" I groaned. "He put me in that situation knowing full well I've always thought she was a giant freaking diseased twat." "You don't have a filter, do you?" the man inquired. "Nah. I don't really see the point. If people don't like what I have to say, they can pretty much heck off." "If he don't claim you after he wakes the mess up, I'm next in line," Jester said and then jogged back to his van as the first motorcycle rolled up. I tilted my head to the side and chuckled. "What do ya know? It really is a murder van." "God's sake," Bigfoot mumbled as his chest shook. "Sorry," I whispered again. Just as one of the motorcycles pulled up next to us, I glanced down to see that Bigfoot was out of it again. The new arrival hopped off his motorcycle and headed directly to us. He assessed his friend as if he had training as a battlefield medic. Maybe he did. "Jester took care of the body?" he asked and immediately I recognized his voice. My eyes drifted down to where his road name was written and sure enough, he was Baffle, the club's vice president. The same man I spoke with on the phone. "Yes, he got everything packed away in his murder van." I quirked up an eyebrow at him because it was apparently an apt description. "Don't think you can complain about that, since it was your murder we cleaned up with the van." I shrugged my shoulders. "Not murder if it's self-defense." "True enough. How long has he been out?" "He comes and goes. I think the pain is the cause, more so than any potential head wound. His helmet seems to have done a good job." Baffle picked up the helmet in question and winced when he noticed the crack down the side. "Did you take this off?" "He asked me to. Plus, I thought it might be important for your doc to be able to see his head, assess for swelling, bleeding, or whatever else." Baffle nodded at me just as Jester walked up again. "Handed keys off to the prospect. He took the van back to the clubhouse for us." "Good," Baffle replied. His dark eyes seemed almost black in the limited light, since his back was to my headlights. His dark hair blended with the night and the leather of his cut. It almost gave him a grim reaper appeal, except that was an unsettling thought considering I didn't want the man I'd tended to in all of this to lose the battle for his life. "She tell you about the dash cam yet?" Jester asked. Baffle shook his head and then brought his eyes up to meet mine for the first time. Yep, they looked black even in the light. "So, I have a dash cam on my truck that recorded the whole thing. She's probably still recording, since I didn't think to turn it off." "Grab that cam!" Baffle ordered. "I want whatever backup file it goes to." "It operates off a large flash drive. When it runs out of space, it alerts me, and I can either record over what I already have or stop it there and feed it a new memory stick." "Why do you have it?" Baffle asked. "Are you kidding? I hit a freaking elk a few years back and insurance tried to tell me I could have avoided the prick. After having to fight with them to pay out the damages, I swore I'd never be without proof again." I glanced back at my beat-to-inferno, powder blue Toyota. "They shorted me so much that I wasn't able to replace my old 2500-series. That's all I could afford when all was said and done, and even that wasn't cheap since it's a Toyota." "Fair enough." The man turned to another MC member. "Grunt, grab that memory stick." "Wait a minute!" I called out. "No offense, but I don't know or trust you guys. There is clear evidence of me shooting a firearm at something across the road." Baffle stood to his full, beyond six-foot height and stared down at me menacingly, as if that would have some sort of effect on me. "It won't show the person you shot, so it doesn't matter." "It will show us standing here talking about it," I sassed back. Baffle rolled his eyes. "Look, the club already owes you for taking care of our Prez, what more do you want?" I glanced around as they all waited for me to answer. "I want to stay with him until he wakes back up." "Why?" "Why?" I asked before I narrowed my eyes on him. "Why would I want to make sure the man I saw thrown from his motorcycle, and who I killed someone for, wakes up? Gee, I don't know, maybe because I need to know he's going to be okay." Baffle nodded and then tipped his head toward my truck. "Follow behind us, then. I promise you can stay with him as long as it takes to appease your big heart. If he wakes up and wants you gone-" "Then I'm gone," I stated quickly. I was destined to be in Arizona, apparently. That was where we headed instead of where I knew the MC's clubhouse to be. The minute I realized we were headed back in the direction I'd come from earlier, I almost decided that it didn't matter what happened to the man. Nothing good had come out of my little trip across the state line before, and I didn't think that would change as I crossed into Arizona again. It took a few minutes for me to realize that we were headed toward the White Mountain Emergency Room. I breathed out a sigh of relief that they were going to take their buddy to an actual hospital to get him treated. I didn't want to imagine what would happen if they tried to treat his injuries themselves. When we got there, I parked as close as I could to the door without being in the way of all the men who had caught up and followed us there on their motorcycles. I was out of my truck and headed inside before most of them had even managed to back into their spots. Baffle was already there, along with a man who barked orders at the medical staff. "Dr. Waters," One of the nurses nodded her head toward the man who wore the same motorcycle club cut that the other men wore. I guess when they said they had a doc on the way, they hadn't lied. "We need to get him into an MRI, Mercedes." "Yes, sir." The nurse and some other staff wheeled Bigfoot off behind a set of doors as Dr. Waters turned to speak in rushed, hushed tones with Baffle. I stood there, not knowing what to do with myself until Jester came in and pulled me aside. "Come on, sweetheart, let's settle in over here for a minute until they know more." I followed along, not that I had much choice, since his arm was wrapped around my shoulders as the biker who cleaned up after my mess earlier guided us toward some chairs in the corner of the waiting room. His warmth seeped into me, and it was only then that I realized I had no clue what happened to my sweater or the jacket I used to cover Bigfoot. Not that it mattered, except the air condition in the hospital was cranked to full-blast despite it being a chilly night. I shivered involuntarily and Jester pulled me closer. "You cold or is the adrenaline starting to crash?" he asked. I leaned my head back to look up into a pair of deep brown eyes that seemed legitimately worried about me. I managed to shrug my shoulders before another shiver ran through me. "Prospect!" Jester called out in a tone that said someone better answer him immediately. "What's up, Jester?" A boy answered. There was no other way to describe him, as he was so thin, and looked incredibly young. "Run out and grab a hoodie from the van." Jester threw the kid a set of keys and then sat me down in a chair next to him. All the while, his arm remained around my shoulders. We sat there for a few minutes as the rest of the club brothers filtered into the waiting room and took seats surrounding us. There was a wall directly next to Jester, since he'd seated us in the corner, but the seats in front and beside us were filled with motorcycle men, which put a buffer at least three men deep in either direction between me and the next non-motorcycle club brother in the waiting room. Baffle finally made his way to us, but I didn't like the angry look on his face as he did. When he got to us, he squatted down in front of me and looked me straight in the eye. Yup, his eyes were still so dark brown they appeared black, even under the messy fluorescent lights of the hospital. "Someone called it in. I can only assume the trucker did after his buddy didn't catch up to him." That was disturbing information. "He was behind me for a good haul," I muttered. There was no need to say the rest out loud. Whoever Bigfoot's enemies were, they might know exactly who I was and that I stopped to help him. The disappearance of the shooter would be linked to me. "I know. We're handling it. These men," Baffle stated as he tipped his head to indicate the human wall of his club brothers that surrounded me, "are here to protect you until we can get Prez in a room and you in there with him. Then we'll make sure no one gets to either of you while you're both here." I gave a sharp nod of my head, but then I groaned. "You said someone called it in. They called the police?" "Quickest way for them to assess what happened to their hitman." "They have to work out logistics, since we crossed state lines to get Bigfoot to the hospital. Rest assured someone will come and they will want to speak to you." "What do you want me to say to them?" I asked. Baffle and Jester shared a look that said they were shocked that I would cooperate that easily. "You don't mind leaving pieces of the details out?" Baffle questioned. "Not at all. As far as I'm concerned, a truck blew a tire and kept going. Your friend was thrown from his bike, and I stopped to help him until you got there. Nothing else to say." I gave him a solid look. "I assume you've already taken any evidence that I had a dash cam up?" I whispered my question, as if someone might overhear me. It wasn't necessary, but it made me feel better. "We have it," Baffle assured me as the prospect made his way back to us. The boy extended his arm out over the shoulders of the row of men who sat immediately in front of me. "Thanks," I continued to whisper as I took the hoodie. My hands shook as I tried to pull the bottom open, so Jester took his arm from around me and helped me pull the hoodie over my head and settle it around my body. When my head popped back through the hole, I noticed Baffle gave him a weird look. Jester gave a quick shake of his head, as if in answer to a question that hadn't been asked. "I used my sweater and jacket for your president, but I don't know what happened to them," I explained. It felt like that might have been what Baffle wanted to know. It was clear the sweatshirt I had been given belonged to a club member, since it had the masked skull king logo on it that the club used to identify themselves. "We'll get you replacements," Baffle insisted as he patted my leg and then stood in front of me. He turned to some of the men who had been silently watching our interaction. "No one gets to her. Prez wants her kept safe." That was news to me. I wondered when that had been determined. Then again, Baffle had ridden with him to the hospital, so I had to assume they spoke on the way. "What about LEO?" one of them asked him. "Especially LEO. We'll make sure she has someone with her at all times." I guess he didn't trust me to keep my word about not mentioning the shooter. "I meant what I said." Baffle glanced down at me. "Don't know you, why you were really there tonight, or what the heck you have going on, lady. Someone will be by your side until I say otherwise." His commanding tone said that he wouldn't put up with any arguments from me. "Going to check and see how mess's going. Keep her by your side and nothing more." Baffle gave Jester another weird look that I couldn't decipher, but the man didn't say a single word back to his vice president. Instead, he tapped his hand on my knee twice and then sat back and spread his legs out, as if he was the most relaxed man on the planet. As if he hadn't cleaned up a murder, helped his injured friend, and looked out for me. I'd think their behavior was weird had I not done my time in the Army. Their ability to speak full conversations with just looks was reminiscent of some of the people I'd worked beside over the years.

I saw his photo in the club inner circle forums—my biker, Road Captain of the Ironback MC, slept with another woman. The photo was taken in a dimly lit motel room. Priest was sitting on the edge of the bed. A woman was draped over him. She was leaning into the crook of his neck, and Priest's hand, possessively, on the woman's thigh. His fingers were dug into the denim of her jeans, pulling her closer. The timestamp in the corner of the image was from two nights ago. I felt the air leave my lungs in a slow, agonizing hiss. I kept my eyes locked on the screen, memorizing the way Priest's thumb rested against that stranger's skin. He was the man who told me he didn't have room for anyone else. He was the man I had allowed myself to believe in after a lifetime of watching my mother crumble under the weight of men who couldn't stay faithful to a shadow. He was my exception. Then he was the man who broke my trust. I stood up. My movements were slow, robotic. I didn't go to the clubhouse. I didn't go to the place we called home. I'd never make me the woman who stayed after betrayal. —— The scent of cedarwood oil and faint, lingering exhaust was the smell of Lena Farrow's peace. It was a domestic scent, layered over the sharp, metallic tang of the tools Priest kept in the garage and the rich, dark aroma of the French press coffee they shared every morning. To anyone else, the house on the edge of the Ironback MC's territory might have felt like a fortress or a cage, tucked away behind a high wooden fence and guarded by a man who made his living through intimidation. To Lena, it was the first place in thirty-one years that didn't feel like a temporary stop on a map toward disaster. She stood at the butcher-block island in the kitchen, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood. It was a sturdy thing, bolted to the floor, much like her life had become since Mateothe club called him Priest, but he was always Mateo in the quiet hourshad claimed her. She had spent her childhood in a state of perpetual motion, a human suitcase packed and ready at the door because her mother, Janine, had a talent for picking men who burned through grace like dry tinder. Lena remembered the sound of shattering glass as the soundtrack to her tenth year; she remembered the smell of cheap bourbon and the frantic, hushed tones of her mother apologizing for things that weren't her fault. Janine had been a woman who chased the heat of a new flame because she couldn't stand the cold of being alone. She had dragged Lena through a dozen different apartments, three different states, and a rotating gallery of "uncles" who all eventually turned out to be monsters, cowards, or thieves. By the time Lena was sixteen, she had learned the most valuable lesson of her life: trust was a luxury for people who didn't mind being homeless. She had built a wall around her heart made of reinforced concrete and barbed wire, vowing that no man would ever have the power to make her pack a bag in the middle of the night again. Then came Priest. He hadn't been a knight in shining armor. He was a Road Captain for a motorcycle club, a man with ink climbing up his throat and knuckles that had been broken more times than he cared to admit. But when he looked at her, he didn't look through her. He didn't look at her like she was a prize to be won or a fire to be put out. He looked at her like she was a truth he had been searching for. He was the "Confessor," the man who could pull secrets out of the most hardened outlaws just by sitting in silence and waiting for the weight of their own lies to crush them. With Lena, he never had to wait. She had been so tired of holding it all in that she had poured her history out at his feet, and instead of walking away, he had knelt and helped her pick up the pieces. She trusted him because he was the antithesis of the men her mother had loved. He didn't shout. He didn't drink himself into a stupor. He was a man of steady hands and heavy silences. When he said he would be home at six, the garage door rumbled at 5:58. When he promised her the club would never cross the threshold of their sanctuary, he made sure the brothers knew that his home was off-limits to the business of blood and chrome. For three years, Lena had allowed herself the dangerous indulgence of believing she was safe. She had stopped sleeping with her phone under her pillow. She had stopped keeping an emergency stash of cash in a hollowed-out book. She had, for the first time in her life, exhaled. The house was quiet now, the kind of silence that felt heavy and golden in the late afternoon sun. Priest had been gone for nearly three weeks on a protection run to a sister chapter in the north. It was the longest they had been apart since they moved in together, and the absence of him was a physical ache in her chest. She missed the vibration of his voice in the floorboards when he talked on the phone in his office. She missed the way his leather vest smelled when he draped it over the back of the kitchen chaira scent of wind, highway, and the man himself. She moved to the window, watching the way the shadows of the oak trees lengthened across the driveway. He was due back any hour now. She had already bought the steaks he liked and a bottle of the expensive scotch he saved for special occasions. It felt like a celebration, though she couldn't quite name the occasion other than his return. In her mind, every day he came back to her was a victory over the ghost of her mother's past. She had proven Janine wrong. She had found a man who stayed. She had found a man who valued loyalty above the fleeting thrill of a new face. The sunlight hit a framed photograph on the side table near the sofa. It was a candid shot taken at a club BBQ a year ago. Priest was looking at her, his expression softened in a way that he never allowed the world to see. His hand was on the small of her back, a possessive but gentle anchor. Lena looked at her own face in the photo and barely recognized the woman. She looked young. She looked unafraid. She looked like someone who believed that the floor wouldn't drop out from under her at any second. She walked over and touched the glass, her thumb trailing over the line of Priest's jaw. He was a man of honor, she told herself. He was the Road Captain. He was the one who held the line when things went south. He was the moral compass of a group of men who lived outside the law. If Priest Navarro wasn't a man of his word, then words had no meaning at all. She went back to the kitchen to start the preparations for dinner, humming a low, tuneless melody. The air in the house was cool and still, protected from the dust of the road and the noise of the world. She felt a deep, resonant sense of pride in the life they had built. It wasn't just a house; it was a testament to her own growth. She had survived her mother's chaos to build this temple of order. She had looked at the wreckage of her childhood and decided to build something that wouldn't break. The sound of a bike approaching in the distance caught her ear. It was a low, rhythmic thrum, the unmistakable heartbeat of a heavy V-twin engine. Her heart leaped, a fluttering bird against her ribs. He was home. The three weeks of solitude were over, and the peace she had cultivated would be made whole by his presence. She wiped her hands on her apron, a small smile playing on her lips as she moved toward the front door, eager to be the first thing he saw when he stepped out of the heat and the grime of the road. She had no way of knowing that the man on the bike was carrying a ghost with him, or that the peace she cherished was nothing more than a thin veil of glass about to be shattered by a single, digital image. ... THE AIR IN THE THIRSTY Crow was thick with the scent of cheap hops, floor sawdust, and the metallic tang of a failing air conditioning unit. It was the kind of place where the shadows felt heavy, clinging to the corners of the room like unsaid secrets. Lena sat across from Mindy, a girl barely twenty-two with neon-pink acrylic nails and the wide-eyed, dangerous enthusiasm of someone who had just started dating an Ironback prospect. Mindy was a talker, her words spilling out in a caffeinated rush that usually acted as a perfect white noise for Lena's own thoughts. Usually, Lena could nod in all the right places, sip her lukewarm bourbon, and let the chaos of the bar wash over her. Tonight, however, the silence Priest had left behind three weeks ago felt like a physical weight in her chest, making every laugh from the pool table sound like a serrated edge. Mindy was nursing a vibrant blue cocktail that looked like window cleaner, her phone never more than an inch from her hand. She was showing Lena pictures of a leather jacket she wanted to buy once her boyfriend, Jax, got his patch. Lena tried to focus, tried to be the supportive mentor-figure the younger women in the club circle often turned to. She was the one who knew how to handle the law, how to handle the bruises, and how to handle the long stretches of solitude. She was the woman who had built a life of iron-clad boundaries, a fortress designed to keep out the kind of volatility her mother had invited in like a welcome guest. Look at this, Mindy giggled, her thumb flying across the screen. Jax says the guys are having a blast at the sister chapter. They have this private forum, you know? Just for the inner circle. Jax gave me his login because he's a sweetheart. He says he wants me to feel like I'm part of the family. Lena felt a small, instinctive prickle of unease. The inner circle forums were supposed to be for businesslogistics, route changes, territorial updates. They weren't a digital scrapbook for prospects' girlfriends. She started to open her mouth to give Mindy a gentle warning about club protocol, about the way Priest would look at her with those cold, obsidian eyes if he knew she was browsing restricted data, but the girl was already swiping. "Look at the size of that steak Jax ate for dinner," Mindy said, thrusting the phone toward Lena's face. Lena leaned in, squinting against the glare of the screen. It wasn't a steak. Mindy had swiped too far, the screen lagging for a second before snapping into a high-resolution image that had clearly been taken with a steady hand. The world didn't stop. It didn't tilt on its axis. Instead, it became agonizingly sharp. The condensation on Lena's glass seemed to freeze into individual diamonds. The smell of the bar vanished, replaced by the sudden, metallic taste of copper on her tongue. The photo was taken in a dimly lit motel roomthe kind with beige wallpaper and thin, polyester bedspreads. Priest was sitting on the edge of the bed. He wasn't wearing his kutte; he was in a black t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, his dark hair messy, his jaw shadowed with a three-week beard. He looked tired, but he also looked present. He looked grounded. And he wasn't alone. A woman was draped over him. She was blonde, her hair a chaotic spill of gold against his black shirt. She was leaning into the crook of his neck, her eyes closed in an expression of pure, unadulterated safety. But it was Priest's hand that shattered Lena's heart. His handthe one with the scarred knuckles she had bussed every morning before he left, the hand that had traced the line of her spine with a reverence that felt like a prayerwas resting firmly, possessively, on the woman's thigh. His fingers were dug into the denim of her jeans, pulling her closer, his head bowed toward her as if they were sharing a secret the rest of the world wasn't allowed to hear. The timestamp in the corner of the image was from two nights ago. Lena felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, agonizing hiss. It was as if her internal organs had turned to lead, dragging her down through the barstool, through the floorboards, into the cold earth. The trauma recovery coordinator in herthe woman who spent forty hours a week explaining the physiological response to betrayalbegan to narrate her own collapse. Vasoconstriction. The blood was fleeing her extremities, leaving her fingers numb and white. Tachycardia. Her heart was hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs, like a bird trapped in a cage. Dissociation. The voice of Mindy, who had realized her mistake and was now stammering an apology, sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well. "Oh god, Lena, I didn'tI wasn't supposed to showJax said it was just a party," he said they were just hanging out, I'm so sorry, I Lena didn't look at Mindy. She couldn't. If she looked at the girl, she might vomit. Instead, she kept her eyes locked on the screen, memorizing the way Priest's thumb rested against that stranger's skin. This was the man who told her he didn't have room for anyone else. This was the man who had earned the name Priest because he was the keeper of everyone's darkest truths, the one who remained untouched by the filth of the world. He was her exception. He was the one thing she had allowed herself to believe in after a lifetime of watching her mother crumble under the weight of men who couldn't stay faithful to a shadow. The betrayal wasn't a sudden explosion; it was a silent, absolute erasure. Everything they had built over the last three yearsevery whispered promise in the dark, every plan for a future that didn't involve the club's violence, every moment of hard-won trustwas gone. It hadn't just been stolen; it had never existed. Lena stood up. Her movements were slow, robotic, governed by a survival instinct that had been dormant for a decade. She didn't scream. She didn't throw her drink. She didn't even cry. The tears were there, hovering just behind her retinas, but they were frozen solid. Lena? Mindy's voice was trembling now, her face pale. Please don't tell Jax. Please. He'll lose his chance at the patch. He said Lena didn't hear the rest. She reached down, picked up her purse, and slung it over her shoulder. The weight of it felt alien, like she was carrying someone else's life. She looked at the phone one last time, the image of Priest's hand on that woman's leg burned into her mind with the permanence of a brand. The air outside the bar was humid, thick with the scent of an impending storm. Lena walked to her car, her heels clicking rhythmically on the asphalt. Each step felt like she was walking away from a wreckage she hadn't realized she was standing in. She got into the driver's seat, gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned the color of bone, and stared at the dark horizon. She didn't go to the clubhouse. She didn't go to the place they called home. She drove toward the small apartment she had kept in her name, the one she had never officially given up because the girl who grew up with her mother's mistakes knew that every sanctuary was temporary. As she turned the key in the ignition, the first drop of rain hit the windshield, a single, heavy tear that smeared the light of the neon sign into a blurred, bloody streak. She was done. She was a ghost now, and ghosts didn't wait around for explanations that wouldn't change the truth of what they had seen.

Crafted from premium Cotton & wool blend for those who appreciate heritage craftsmanship, the Shelby Snap Cap is inspired by the sharp elegance of early 20th-century Britain. Blending classic character with modern comfort, it’s a versatile accessory designed for everyday wear.

Your secret weapon for when you need to look put-together in minutes. ⏰

Would you like the comfort of joggers without giving up the look of real jeans? If you take off your jeans as soon as you get home, they’re simply not comfortable enough! Meet the Akatsuki Denim Pants: a relaxed fit inspired by Japanese streetwear, a flexible waistband and comfortable fabric you can wear all day long. ✓ More room to move freely ✓ Less pressure when sitting down ✓ The authentic look of denim, without the stiffness ✓ Easy to wear at work, around town or at the weekend These aren’t just any pants. They’re your new everyday favorite.

Du möchtest den Komfort einer Jogginghose, ohne auf den Look einer echten Jeans zu verzichten? Wenn du deine Jeans sofort ausziehst, sobald du nach Hause kommst, ist sie einfach nicht bequem genug! Entdecke die Akatsuki Jeanshose: ein lockerer, vom japanischen Streetwear-Stil inspirierter Schnitt, ein bequemer Bund und ein angenehm weicher Stoff für den ganzen Tag. ✓ Mehr Bewegungsfreiheit ✓ Weniger Druck beim Sitzen ✓ Authentischer Jeans-Look ohne steifes Tragegefühl ✓ Perfekt für die Arbeit, die Stadt oder das Wochenende Das ist keine Hose wie jede andere. Das ist deine neue Alltagshose.