I blink, my heart finding its way into my throat with a mix of compassion and surprise. “You’ve been staying in your car? You don’t have a home?”
She slumps, shrinking in on herself. “It’s what I can afford.”
"That's changing tonight." I keep my voice level, but inside, something's cracking. She's been sleeping in this beat-up sedan, alone, vulnerable, while some bastard's been hunting her. The thought makes my blood run hot.
"I can't pay for…"
"Didn't ask what you could pay for." I scan the parking lot, the tree line, the shadows pooling between the streetlights. Whoever did this could still be watching. "You're coming to the clubhouse."
At that, she lifts her chin, defiant even now. "I don't need charity."
"It's not charity. It's survival." I crouch back down so I'm eye level with her, close enough to see the way her pupils are blown wide with fear, close enough to smell the rain in her hair and something softer underneath that pulls me toward her. "Whoever did this, this wasn't random. They knew which car was yours. They waited until you were inside working. This was targeted, Riley."
She flinches as if I've struck her. The color drains from her already pale face.
"You know who did this," I say. It's not a question.
She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to. The terror written across her features tells me everything I need to know. Then she shakes her head, but we both know it’s a lie. Still, she’s so fragile right now that I don’t push her; I can’t — it might break her, and I can’t bear the thought of that happening.
"The clubhouse has spare rooms," I continue, keeping my voice steady, the way I used to talk to civilians in combat zoneswhen everything around us was chaos and fire. "We’ll get you set up with one. You’ll be safe there."
"Why?" Her voice cracks. "Why would you do that for me?"
Why? Because you look at me like I'm not a monster. Because when our fingers touched, I felt something I haven't felt since before the war. Because if I find your name on a tombstone, it'll break whatever's left of me.
"Because you need it," I say. “And it’s the right thing to do.”
She stares at me for a long moment, rain streaming down her face, mixing with what might be tears. Then, slowly, she nods. “Okay.”
We grab her things in silence. I carry the bags — everything she owns fits in two duffel bags.
Back inside the clubhouse, I ask her to wait by the door and then head right for Goldie, the MC’s VP, who is the closest ranking officer I can find.
“I need a favor,” I say the second he looks up at me. “And I know it’s a lot to ask, but it’s important.”
“Is it related to the bags you’re holding and the new girl you’ve got waiting by the door?” he says. “No need to look so apprehensive, prospect. If the vibes are right on your question, you’ll be good.”
I nod. I’m still not used to his Zen vibe, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be. For a second, I keep quiet, thinking about how to ask, then decide that any suspicions I have — about whoever might be terrorizing Riley — aren’t my business to share without her permission. “I found out she’s sleeping in her car.”
“For real?” he says.
I nod. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Me neither,” he says. “We’ve got some spare rooms. Put her in the one next to yours.”
“The… one next to mine?” I say.
Without even thinking about it, my eyes drift back to Riley asshe stands by the door and I suddenly realize the cost of doing the right thing: the woman I swore I’d stay away from is going to be sleeping just on the other side of a wall from me. There will be nothing between me and her but some drywall. She's going to be sleeping on the other side of my wall. I'll hear her moving around, hear the shower running, and know she's right there. The woman I swore to stay away from, close enough to touch.
I'm so fucked.
“You suddenly have a problem with getting what you want, prospect? This wasn’t some joke, was it? I didn’t take this to be your kind of humor. Mayhem’s maybe, but not yours.”
“No, no, that room will work. Thanks, Goldie.”
He nods and turns his attention back to the drink in front of him, some green thing that might be matcha, might be celery juice, might be poison — or maybe all three.
In a daze, I walk back to Riley, wondering just what the hell I’ve got myself into. Turns out, no good deed goes unpunished.
