I ran to the very back of the building—thank God it only had one entrance at the moment—and pulled a small table in front of the door. It was a pitiful attempt to block myself in, one that would get thrown to the side with ease, but…
I locked myself in the office. I shoved the desk against the doorway, using all of my strength to slide it over the wooden floor. I could not have given less of a shit about the damage done.
I had three lines of protection. I had the table that was nothing. I had the locked door, which was something, but the door could get kicked in. And I had this desk, which I could lean against and hide under, but it wasn’t impenetrable.
I opened my phone. I had no communication from Brock. I texted him one more time.
“Bandits are coming to my office. They’re going to rape me. Brock, please. Save me.”
The worst is about to happen. And if he doesn’t come—
My mind froze.
The sound of three bikes in front of the building came. They cut off.
I heard laughing, my car getting hit, and more laughter. They could have the car for all I cared—that was the best result if that happened.
I bit my lip. I had some pepper spray in my purse, but against three Bandits… I could only do so much. I’d have to hope it was enough, and—
A brick flew through the glass at the front.
The Bandits had broken in.
And there was only silence from Brock.
Brock
My phone vibrated to alert me I had a new text message, but I ignored it.
This wasn’t the time to send cute texts or flirt with Tara, nor was it the time to get a message from my old boss—a man I hadn’t technically quit on yet but was about to. No, for now, it was time to give roles to the rest of the motherfuckingBlack Reapers MC.
Steele and I stood at the front. We had paused the party, which made for an amusing sight as the four Bernard Boys stood in front of us, waiting for their titles, while the girls and the one random guy stood to the side, like parents at a graduation cheering their kids on. It was a little cornier and more public than I had hoped, but I’d make do.
“Mason,” I said. “Sergeant-at-arms.”
Mason came forward, a stoic look on his face. Steele put the cut on, patted him, and congratulated him with a handshake. Mason let a wry grin escape, but it returned quickly back to a neutral expression.
“Connor. Enforcer.”
“Fuck yeah,” Connor said with a snort.
Connor came over, put the cut on, said “fuck yeah” a couple more times, and then clasped hands with Mason into a hug. Steele and I chuckled.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. It wasn’t vibrating for a text, but for a call.
“Sorry, one second,” I said.
Reaching through my pocket, I hit one of the side buttons to end the vibrations. I figured it was probably Tara or my boss, but they could wait; we only had two more patches to hand out anyway.
“Garrett, secretary.”
“And partier!” he said.
Steele and I laughed. I glanced back at Cole. He had a bemused smile on his face, but it wasn’t the expression of someone who was happy that Garrett was acting this way. I had a feeling of everyone here, Garrett would wind up in the most shit with Cole and everyone else.
“And finally, Zack, treasurer.”
He put his cut on and returned to the lineup with the other three. It was a beautiful sight; we were no longer six kids wearing whatever ratty clothes we could get our hands on. We were men with MC cuts. It was like putting a uniform on, a uniform that said, “Don’t fuck with us, and we’ll protect you.” At the risk of sounding corny, it was mighty empowering.
