Canon limped over, handed me a roll of gauze. “You think she’s okay?”
I wrapped my hand, tight enough to hurt. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
He nodded, then went back to the others, who were already trading war stories and making bets on who’d have the most arrests by morning.
I popped a beer, took a long pull, and looked out at the city. Somewhere out there, Darla was waiting. And so was her father.
It wasn’t over. Not even close.
19
Axel
Christmas lights burned along the gutters of Maple’s residence, but the glow on the street didn’t feel like holiday cheer. It was more like a warning sign to get lost, asshole. I throttled down, rolled past slow with my Harley set to a barely audible growl. My breath came in clouds, the December air knifing my face beneath the helmet, and my knuckles itched white on the bars. The house sat perched above the street, all brick and smug stability, the kind of place that said no one inside ever fucked up in their entire life.
I circled once, eyes on the windows, scanning for that telltale flick of blonde, a curtain shifting, the silhouette I craved more than cigarettes. Nothing. Only the little puffs of fake snow spray on the glass, and behind that, shadows you’d miss if you weren’t looking for trouble. On the second pass, I killed my lights and coasted to the curb across from the driveway, letting the engine tick and creak. I’d seen enough safe houses to know a perimeterwhen I saw it. Two extra cars in the drive, a black Escalade at the curb, and a battered old minivan with a church decal half-scraped from the back window. Subtle as a shotgun blast.
I made the mistake of glancing up at the second-story window—the one I guessed was hers, judging by the way it faced the street, the glimmer of gaudy pink Christmas lights sneaking out from the edges. No sign of Darla. Not even a ghost.
Movement on the porch. The front door cracked, and out stepped Sarge. The bastard moved with military efficiency, scanning the yard, one hand buried in his coat. The bulge said “firearm,” but the way he walked said “I want a reason to use it.” I watched him test each step on the icy walk, eyes always sweeping, never missing a detail. The way he looked up and down the block, you’d think he knew a wolf was sniffing his little flock.
I thought about gunning it straight at the door, running the fucker over, making a scene. For a split second, the fantasy played out: glass shattering, wood splintering, me charging through like a goddamn medieval battering ram. But I’d played enough suicide missions to know how they ended, and tonight wasn’t about me. It was about getting Darla out without leaving her in a puddle of blood and regret.
I reached into my jacket for the burner, thumbed the home screen. Zero new messages. Of course not. I hadn’t heard from her since last night, when she said, “He knows,” and then nothing but the soft whine of the call disconnecting. I punched the tank, hard enough to make my knuckles scream.
Sarge made another lap around the house, pausing near the minivan. I could see the glint of a shotgun barrel as he adjusted his coat, the way a man would cradle a sleeping child. I felt a hot spike of envy; Darla probably never saw this side of her father’s empire. The muscle. The intimidation. The lengths they'd go to to keep a pretty thing in a cage.
Something shifted behind the second-story glass. I strained, heart racing, but all I saw was a flicker of movement—then the curtain snapped shut. The briefest glance. Could’ve been her. Could’ve been a reflection. Didn’t matter. My chest burned with the need to run in and drag her out, but I forced myself to stay put, breathing slow, reminding myself why I was still alive after all these years: impulse got you dead.
Sarge’s head jerked up, eyes locking onto my bike. Recognition. The kind you feel in your marrow. He squinted against the porch light, tilted his head like a junkyard dog scenting fresh meat. I could almost hear the gears in his head grinding through possible outcomes, all of them ending in violence.
Fuck it.
I snapped the throttle, lights still off, and tore down the block. The rear tire fishtailed on the frozen patch at the corner, and I corrected with muscle memory, letting the bike’s rage bleed into my own. I didn’t look back until I hit the main road and felt safe enough to flip my lights on again. By then, my hands were shaking so hard I had to pull over and steady myself on the shoulder, boots scraping asphalt, helmet pressed to the tank.
I’d never admit fear tasted like metal and bile, but there it was, slick on my tongue with a healthy chaser of shame. I lit a smoke with trembling fingers, watched the ember burn down to nothing. Then I aimed the bike toward the only place left to go: the Rusty Chain clubhouse, where the beer was cold and the loyalty colder.
I just hoped I’d see Darla’s eyes again before they went hollow like all the other ghosts in my rearview.
***
The Rusty Chain didn’t smell like Christmas, unless your idea of the holiday was stale Bud, wet leather, and testosterone gone sour. That was fine by me. The air throbbed with bad classic rock, barely covering the yelling and clatter from the pool table. Somewhere, a bottle shattered; nobody looked up. I pushed through the door and clocked the crowd—same as always: grizzled fucks, prospects desperate for attention, and a few women with questionable taste in men. The place was a rotting barn, walls lined with biker flags and dartboards peppered with more holes than sense.
I caught my reflection in the bar mirror: hollow-eyed, beard full of road dust, a fresh gash on my cheek courtesy of yesterday’s fun with a tire iron. My helmet thunked onto the bartop like a warning shot. Red—Heather, but no one called her that unless they wanted a face full of attitude—wiped a mug with a rag that probably had more DNA than a crime lab. She eyed me, slow and deliberate, then poured three fingers of whiskey without asking.
“Rough night, sugar?” she drawled, sliding the glass down the rail. The varnish was so worn I could see the ghosts of a thousand other lonely drinks.
“Rougher than your dating history,” I growled. I took the shot, let it burn a path to my stomach. It didn’t help.
Behind me, some asshole barked my name—well, “Axel!”—but I didn’t turn. I paced the boards, checking my phone, willing a message to appear from Darla, or God, or whoever was in the mood to save me from myself. No dice. I stared at the screen until the battery begged for mercy.
Red watched me, her lipstick perfect, not a hair out of place despite the tornado of humanity around her. She dried another glass, eyes never leaving my hands as I drummed the bar. If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was bored. If you did, you’d know she was waiting for the right moment to strike.
She waited until the bandit at the end of the bar started a brawl over a disputed eight-ball—predictable as sunrise—and then crooked a finger. “Walk with me,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
I followed her down the hallway, past the half-assed Christmas tree with beer cans for ornaments and the restroom door still missing a lock. She shoved open the supply closet, yanked me inside, and closed the door. The air was thick with Pine-Sol and mildew.
Red got right to the point, eyes glittering in the shitty fluorescent light. “Word from my contact—church mouse, runs the bookstore. Paid off in bourbon and gas cards. Maple’s shipping her off.”
