I picture faces—Cipher, Pluto, some of the older patch-holders who always seemed vaguely embarrassed by the newer crop.
“They didn’t like the direction things were going,” Babydoll goes on. “Didn’t like the extra product. Didn’t like all the paid girls. And they really didn’t like what happened to you. Don’t get me wrong, nobody stood up and made some heroic speech. But they looked away. They drank harder. Some of them still can’t look each other in the eye about it.”
A bitter taste fills my mouth. “If they thought it was so terrible, they could’ve done something.”
“I know,” she says. And for the first time, there’s real shame in her voice. “I could’ve done something too. I didn’t. I’m not saying they’re heroes, Max. But if you walked in there now, the guys who are left aren’t the ones who thought the sun rose and set out of Billy’s ass.”
I stare into my latte, the foam collapsed into a thin ring.
“They still give a shit about you,” she says quietly. “In their fucked-up way. Some of them are even thinking about getting out,” she adds. “They talk about calling some hotline they saw in a PSA.” She snorts. “They won’t. Not unless somebody holds their hand the whole way. They’re boys who never grew up.”
“Are you going to stay in the clubhouse?” I ask.
She shrugs, looking out the window at Main Street like the answer might be written on the pavement. “That place has been my home for…what? Eight years? More?” She huffs. “I wouldn’t know where else to go. I keep thinking I’ll pack a bag and just drive. But every time I get as far as the door, I end up behind the bar again, pouring beers for idiots.”
I believe her. I also don’t. Babydoll has always been more capable than she gives herself credit for. But the clubhouse is a gravity well.
“It’s so quiet right now,” she says. “It’s weird. No parties, practically nobody there. Just a bunch of lost idiots waiting for someone to tell them what happens next.”
We finish our drinks talking about nothing for a few minutes—old gossip, who hooked up with who, some story about a fight between two charters that sounds like it belongs in a soap opera. It feels almost normal if I squint. Two women in a small-town coffee shop, catching up and gossiping about people they know.
But underneath it, my brain is humming.
After we leave the coffee shop, I watch Babydoll walk to her car and light a cigarette before she gets in, cupping her hand around the flame. She looks smaller. Not physically, she’s still all legs and attitude, but the edges of her seem worn. Like somebody took sandpaper to all that shine.
She catches me watching and flips me off half-heartedly, then softens it with a little salute. I lift my hand in answer. For a second I want to run after her, grab her shoulders, shake her, tell her to leave, to get out while the club is still stunned and stupid.
Instead I let her drive away, taillights disappearing at the end of the street.
On the drive back, two things sit solid in my mind.
One: the evidence is definitely gone. The “suits” have to be Billy’s cleaners.
But two: it doesn’t sound like much was pillaged outside of Billy’s office and Silas’s tech room. There could be another location where Silas was keeping stuff—like the barracks.
I drive back thinking about everything Babydoll said—the suits and the leftover bikers at the club and their loyalty to Ryan, to the idea of what the O.D. was supposed to be. I’m going back armed with valuable information.
No longer a girl on a leash. Now I’m the one holding it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE GRAVEL IN the driveway pops under the tires as I turn in, and my stomach sinks the second I see the Civic.
They’re already home.
I kill the engine and square my shoulders before getting out and lifting the grocery bags off the passenger seat.
I went to get groceries. It’s not like I ran off to the clubhouse. But still, guilt eats at me. Ryder told me to stay put, and it’s bringing back uncomfortable memories of the last time I did something exactly like this—took off when he told me not to, and ended up getting grabbed by two bikers from the O.D.’s feeder club.
The men are in the kitchen when I walk in. Ryder leans against the counter with his arms folded over his chest as I drop the bags on the counter.
“Ah, awesome,” says Jake. “Groceries.” He gets up from the table and roots through the bag, pulling out an apple. Ryder cuts him a look.
“Where were you?” he asks me, low and tight.
“I went to the grocery store.” I point at the bags with a touch of facetiousness.
“We agreed you stay put,” he continues. “Do you remember that conversation?”
