CHAPTER ONE
Gunnar
The first post comes through at nine-thirty.
I'm in the clubhouse common room, nursing a beer and half-listening to Ulf and Hakon argue about carburetor settings, when my phone buzzes against my thigh.
Instagram notification.
Ingrid posted to her story.
I shouldn't check it.
I know I shouldn't.
But my thumb's already swiping before my brain catches up, and there she is—red hair catching the dim bar lighting like fire, green eyes bright with alcohol and reckless energy, surrounded by Trisha, Lizzie, and Angela.
The caption reads: "Causing trouble tonight! "
Location tag: Riverside Tavern, downtown Tallahassee.
Civilian bar.
No club protection.
No prospects keeping watch.
Just Ingrid and three girls who don't know danger when it's buying them drinks, posting their location like an invitation to every predator with a smartphone.
Fuck.
"You good?" Hakon asks.
I lock my phone. "Yeah. Fine."
"You look like someone kicked your dog."
"Just tired."
He doesn't believe me, but he drops it.
I try to focus on the conversation, on Ulf's insistence that the newer Mikuni carbs are superior to the old Keihin setup, but my mind's already downtown.
Ingrid in a civilian bar.
Ingrid with those friends who enable every self-destructive impulse she has.
Ingrid looking for trouble because trouble's easier than feeling.
I've watched her do this for years now.
Ever since Bjorn.
No—longer than that.
Since Njal.
Bjorn cast her aside after the explosion, feeling like she was only staying with him just because, or because she felt sorry for him.
