“Isabel—” I start.
But she’s already gone, disappearing down the hallway like the hounds of hell are at her heels.
“Well,” Ginger says after a moment. “That was cryptic.”
“She’s hiding something,” Mercy says, frowning.
“Obviously. The question is what.”
“Maybe she’s shy?” Poppy offers, though she doesn’t sound convinced.
“That’s not shyness.” Emma shakes her head. “That’s fear. But fear of what? We’re not exactly threatening.”
“Speak for yourself,” Kya mutters.
I push my plate away, my appetite gone. “Well, whatever it is, it’s eating her alive. She can barely sit still.”
“You think she’s in some kind of trouble?” Maggie asks.
“I think she’s been in some kind of trouble for a long time.” I touch my face, reminding them silently of her bruises “And I think she’s used to handling it alone.”
“Well, she’s not alone anymore.” Ginger’s jaw sets stubbornly. “Whether she likes it or not. That girl saved your life, which means she’s ours now.”
“She doesn’t seem to want to be ours,” Emma mutters.
“Too bad. We’re very persistent.” Ginger stands, gathering plates. “Give her time. Whatever she’s running from, she’ll figure out eventually that having a safe space to land is better. And when she does, we’ll be here.”
The morning wears on.
I try to work. I pull out my laptop, and start reviewing files but the pain meds make it hard to focus, and my head is pounding within twenty minutes. Maggie confiscates the laptop with a look that dares me to argue.
I don’t, I’m too tired.
Instead, I find myself drifting from room to room, learning the layout of the clubhouse. The main room with its battered leather couches and massive TV. The kitchen, heart of the operation. The bar in the corner, well-stocked and frequently visited. The hallway lined with doors—rooms for members who need a place to crash, offices, storage.
And everywhere, people. Club members coming and going, conducting business, shooting the shit. The women who’ve adopted me, constantly checking in, offering food or coffee or company.
It should feel overwhelming. Instead, it feels safe.
When is the last time I’ve felt safe?
I’m standing at the window in the main room, watching prospects do complicated things with motorcycles in the back lot. Ginger moves beside me, watching them work.
“Ridgeline crew’s coming in,” she says, her voice carefully casual.
“Stone mentioned that.”
“Mmhmm.” She’s trying—and failing—to suppress a smile. “My brother’s coming with them.”
“The famous Bradley?”
“Brick, they call him now. Though he’ll always be Bradley to me.” She practically glows. “I haven’t seen him in forever. Not since Christmas, when he came up for the week. He helped me reorganize the entire storage room.”
“He sounds like a good brother.”
“The best. A little rough around the edges—all these boys are—but underneath?” She presses a hand to her heart. “Biggest softie you ever met. Used to cry at dog food commercials, you know.”
Something about that image that makes my chest tight.
