Like Clark Kent becoming Superman, he’s gone from someone I would tease and irritate to someone I wouldn’t want to fuck with.
Now, in the clubhouse, with the heavy scent of an open wood-burning fire that’s too hot and too smokey, and an escalated level of shouting that’s taken my heart rate back to a faster pace than Blaze’s strides, I feel like the walls are closing in on me.
Again.
My palms are clammy, and I wipe them on the side of my jeans. The coffee I tried to drink earlier is acrid as it settles in my belly. My breath is coming fast, and the world starts to flicker a little.
Grudge steps into Catfish’s space. “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take. We have to think about what King is?—”
“No,” Catfish says, and there’s a level of menace in his tone I haven’t heard before. “Wren’s a fucking person. We can’t keep them locked up above the bakery.”
I’m watching a car wreck in slow motion. They’re two juggernauts that are going to collide. I can sense the shift of energy in the air.
“We’ll do whatever we have to do to keep them safe,” Grudge says. “And earn our money. Nothing can put that at risk. For the good of the club.”
“I already found two thirds of your money,” I say, but Grudge ignores me.
“The good of the club is fucking trusting one another to do the right thing,” Catfish says. “The good of the club is uniting us so we’re all on the same team to make enough coin that we needno one—not even the national president—to survive.”
Grudge steps even closer, and his hand goes up. I don’t know what makes me jump from my seat, land between them, and shove Grudge away as hard as I can, but I can feel the leather of his cut beneath my palms before I can process what I’m doing.
Which turns out to be not much given he’s twice my size in every way. He barely moves.
“Keep your hands off him,” I yell. My voice ricochets around the clubhouse in the brutal silence that follows.
Sweat gathers beneath my binder, running down my chest. I can’t catch my breath.
Grudge looks furious. Catfish stunned.
People I don’t know are staring at me like I just committed the most cardinal of sins.
I just attacked the president of the Iron Outlaws. He’s so much taller than me. Bigger even than Catfish, which is saying something.
“Fuck me. I wasn’t going to hit him, Wren,” Grudge says.
Tears sting my eyes, and I hate it. To me, crying represents fragility.
“It’s okay,” Catfish reassures, putting his hand on my shoulder and squeezing it gently.
I shake his hand off. Not because I don’t want it there, but I don’t need him acknowledging my weakness.
Stars begin to sparkle in the corners of my vision, and a weirdly metallic taste coats my tongue.
“Catfish—” I reach out my hand. To him, for the stool, I don’t know.
And it’s the last thought I have before I hit the ground.
“We need to get this off them so they can breathe,” a feminine voice says as the world comes back online.
“Wait.” The voice is Catfish.
I flutter my eyes open, and I’m in bed.
A strange one.
And I have no concept of how long I’ve been out. The woman standing over me has white-blonde hair in a fishtail braid that hangs over her shoulder. She looks older than me and is focused on Catfish.
There’s a warm sensation by my knee, and I can see Catfish is squeezing it. “Welcome back, Wren.”
