“Are you hungry?” Looking down at me, his brows furrow. “You’ll have to talk to Pen.”
I turn my gaze to the woman who’s all smiles as she pours drinks. Just thinking about going over there, surrounding myself with those in leather, has my heart racing. Without thinking, I try to take a step back, but end up stepping on his boot.
Before panic can settle in, I feel a firm warmth against my shoulder. Hammer’s fingers curl against my body, and he squeezes hard enough to ground me. The pressure is not a punishment, but a way that drowns out the urge to flee.
“Wait here.” Planting the order, he leaves my side to approach the bar.
I notice the way that some of the bikers immediately get out of his way. Moving over to an empty booth, I take a seat and stare at the table. A glass of orange juice appears next to my hand before Hammer slinks into the seat across from me.
Sniffing the glass, it doesn’t have the stench of alcohol. Taking a sip confirms it’s safe to drink.
“She’ll have something in a minute.” He watches me drink, his eyes staring hard as he goes silent for a few passing peaceful seconds. “How’d you end up with Crimson Road?”
My next swallow catches in the back of my throat, and I almost choke. When my brows pinch together, he doesn’t push. Instead, he just stares. All he’s done is stare at me. It’s unsettling, but now I recognize the calculation in it, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“I didn’t. My father did.” My stomach clenches. “He had a gambling addiction. Spent money he didn’t have in their casino.”
“He trade you off?” Resting his cheek against his propped-up hand, he cocks a brow. “To pay the debt?”
Sounding like he’s seen it before, he’s so casual about it. He doesn’t flinch when I scowl.
“Asking from experience?” Pain fills my limbs just thinking about it. “Do you offer such a thing, or are you like them, pulling the trigger first?”
Hammer scowls, his face matching mine. “We don’t do that here.”
“Right.” I scoff, looking away from him. “Because you guys are the good guys?”
He taps his fingers against the table, and I can feel his irritation. Seems like I’m testing his patience more and more. “I’ve only helped you since I found you. In that shipping container. I got you food and water when we arrived. Hell, even last night—”
“Stop.” Shaking my head, I sigh into my hands, my cheeks burning. “Don’t talk about last night.”
He grunts, leaving it at that, but the unspoken thing hangs between us, thick and heavy.
We frown at each other for what feels like an eternity. I’m the first one to break eye contact.
“…They somehow knew about me. I don’t know how, but my father wouldn’t have offered me up like that.” Curling against the table, I blink a few times. “They wouldn’t have killed him ifit were a trade. My mother tried to stop them, but they killed her for it. Left them both there to bleed out.”
By the time I finish speaking, I realize my cheeks are wet. Angrily, I swipe at the streaks.
Hammer doesn’t mock me for it. Instead, his gaze softens almost imperceptibly, and he pulls out his phone. “We can get their bodies.”
“What?” Choking on the word, I shake my head.
“If they’re still there.” He continues with a grim look. “We have a guy. He can lay them to rest. Will that put you at ease? Make this transition easier?”
This man, who cufffed me to a bed, is now offering me the only peace and closure I can ever hope to have. The contradiction is staggering.
“Who…?”
He offers me his phone, a message already half-typed. At the top, Hammer’s got the contact saved as Grim. “We call him the Grim Reaper. He collects bodies and disposes of them however we need.” He turns when Penelope calls for him. “Put the location, and tell him what you want done. Simple as that.”
I’m caught off guard when he leaves me with his phone, with this profound trust.
Emotions clash around in my body, and it feels like my heart is at war. It wants to beat in sorrow, but it also wants to flutter because of the kindness Hammer offers without prompting.
Following him with my eyes for a few seconds, I swallow thickly.
Just thinking about my parents being alone makes my body throb. Exhausted from being in pain, I type out our address. Trying to figure out what he means by ‘what I want done’, my heart aches. Dad mentioned wanting to be cremated a few times. I don’t think my mother ever cared enough to voice her opinion.So, I request their bodies to be cremated. Can I request their urns? Unsure, I type it out and send the message.
