Chapter One
Riley
Rain slicks the pavement outside a darkened, looming building that bears the incongruous name of ‘The Noble Fir’; the neon sign flickers as if it’s daring me to walk inside. The place screams trouble, with motorcycles lined up like sentries, rough laughter spilling out in rolling bursts, heavy music pounding through the walls. This is the kind of bar where girls like me shouldn’t wander.
I pace back and forth in front of the door and hope no one comes out to see me looking like a weirdo. I shouldn't be within a mile of this place. Every instinct screams at me to run. My muscles coil, ready to spring, ready to bolt.
But I won't. I can't.
I'm out of money, out of time, and running out of places to hide.
This is my only option: step into this den of predators and hope that maybe they’re enough to keep me safe.
I shiver again, then I tighten my jacket, suck in a deep breath that I hope stills my quivering stomach, and enter the bar. The air hits me with a punch of smoke, whiskey, leather, sweat, and motor oil. A dozen heads turn; I want to turn around and run, but I keep my chin high, pretending I belong here. Pretending as if I don’t feel like a lamb that’s just stepped into a pack of wolves. But all the false confidence in the world doesn’t do a damn thing; my heart hammers anyway.
A woman behind the bar looks up from drying a glass. She’s a tornado of fire — red curls, freckles, flashing eyes, and a grin that’s equal parts wicked and welcoming.
“You lost, sweetheart, or looking for work?” She says in a drawl that’s part invitation, part warning.
“Work,” I say. “If you’re hiring. My name’s Riley. I can wait tables, wash dishes, cook…”
“Slow down. Don’t go getting into your resume before we’ve even finished introductions. It’s not polite.” Her smirk deepens. “Name’s Molly. You can call me that — or Molotov.”
“Molotov?”
“Yeah. Once threw one at a guy’s truck when he didn’t take no for an answer.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry. I’ve mellowed. Mostly. A little.” She pauses again, then smiles. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“You don’t look like the type who thinks with their dick, so you don’t really need to worry about that, Riley.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. It feels foreign, rusty. Like the little bit of joy breaking my lips shouldn’t be happening, and as if by reflex, I throw a wary look behind me at the door. It’s only a second, but when I turn my eyes back to her, there’s a knowing look on Molly’s face that’s gone so quick I’m left wondering if it was even there in the first place.
It wouldn’t surprise me if I’m seeing things.
Hell, I know I have been seeing things. One face, in particular, that’s in the shadows at night and lurking in every corner and in the liminal space behind my eyelids.
But Molly can’t have seen anything. She can’t know. She serves beer and whiskey in a biker bar in the woods outside some small town in the middle of nowhere.
“Grab an apron,” Molly says, reaching beneath the bar counter and then tossing one over. “You’ve got the job.”
“The job? What is my job, uh, exactly?”
“You work here. I’m your boss. You handle the tasks I give you in exchange for money,” she says, and then her expression softens for just a moment. “And if you want, we can even pay you in cash.”
Just like that. No questions. No forms. Something in her voice tells me she knows more than she’s letting on, but I don’t ask. I’m too grateful. Too desperate. Any questions or suspicions I have are drowned beneath the relief of having something — a tangible something — that is mine: a job. And that job could lead to money, and that money could lead to freedom, and hope, and safety, and other things that have seemed so foreign in my life they might as well be in Mandarin for all I understand them.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Now, we’re busy and only going to get busier as more of the locals get off work and need a drink. Things are going to get even busier, too, as the days go on, as we’re getting close to the Ironwood Falls Anniversary Parade, which is a damn big celebration of the town’s founding and draws in people from all over who love to drink and get rowdy. Which means you have damn lucky timing, because not only do I not really give a shit about your qualifications as long as you work hard, but it means you can make a damn fine bit of cash in the coming days. Now, go check in with that table over there by the corner. They’re members of the MC that owns this bar, the Twisted Devils MC, and, as much as you can, try to give them a little bit of extra attention. Not so that they get big heads, since they don’t need any help in that area, but just enough that they don’t start pitching a fit.”
“Wait tables. Got it.”
I tie the apron around my waist, take the notepad she hands me and slide it into my pocket, and turn toward my first table.
That’s when I see him.
Oh, yes, that’s ahim.
