Breathing deeply, I grip the tray in my hands to keep it from shaking. Breaker said I was safe. The club promised I was safe, and I want so badly to believe them, but every new customer feels like a threat. Every laugh sounds like a warning. Every glance feels like a blade pressed against the nape of my neck.
I keep smiling. I keep working.
And every time the bell over the door rings, my body whispers: run.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Breaker
Rabid waits until we're clear of the cabin — until the horror of Pike's place is behind us and we're deep in the woods — before he stops. He jerks his chin, jaw tight, eyes locked. All business. He leads me away from Viper, away from the site of the horror show we just witnessed and deeper into the dark, as if he needs the full isolation of the Oregon wilds to say what’s coming.
I do as I’m told.
I follow, because I know my place and because my adrenaline is still burning holes in my veins, and I know if I open my mouth right now it’ll be nothing but violence and bile. My hands are fists and I can't unclench them. Not to rub my face, not to dig in my pockets for a stick of gum. Nothing. Pike's photo is burning a hole in my pocket, one corner already creased from how many times I've gripped it, like it’s a trigger I can pull or a map I can follow back to a time before this all went to hell. I want to go back into those woods and keep going until I find him. I want to rip apart every leaf and stone and root to find the bastard and tear him apart, atom by atom, to rid the world of whatever disease he’s carrying.
But Rabid stops beside his truck, crosses his arms, and looks at me with the expression every man in this club fears: you’re about to get your soul turned inside out, and there’s nothing you can do but take it. The pine needles crunch under his feet, and heleans back against the tailgate, his arms so tense the tattoos on his forearms look like they’re about to rip through his skin.
“You good?” Rabid asks.
“No,” I answer honestly. I don’t sugarcoat it. He’d see through any lie, anyway.
He nods once, like that’s the expected response. “Breaker. We’re putting a shit ton of resources into this Pike situation. And we will keep doing it. But…”
There’s something in his voice that tightens my spine.
“But?” I press.
“We need to alert Officer Alvarado,” he says. “And if we’re gonna dump something this big on her — a serial predator hunting in her town — we owe her the courtesy of showing this club gives a damn about Ironwood Falls.”
I blink. “Okay. So what do you want me to do?”
Rabid's lips twitch, as if he’s suppressing a laugh, but it’s not a friendly one. He inhales, exhaling through his nose in that way that means he’s about to hand down a sentence, and the only question is whether I’ll take it like a man or a child.
“I’m assigning you as errand boy.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s not joking. I stare at him, dumb. “You want me to do what?”
Rabid’s eyes sharpen, dangerous as black ice. His voice goes as cold as a graveyard in winter. “You understand you’re still a prospect, right?”
“Yeah, but…”
“No.” He holds up a hand. “There is nobut.You’re new here. New to the Devils. New to this town. And we are going out on a fucking limb for you and your girl. A big one.”
Guilt punches me square in the chest.
He’s right. They didn’t have to take Sparrow in, don’t have to go hunting for Pike. They don’t have to put themselves on the line for either of us.
Rabid steps closer, crowding my space, pointing a thick finger into my sternum. It’s the kind of move a father pulls when he’s trying to drive the lesson home, and for a split second I’m twelve years old again, staring up at my old man, wondering if this is the day he finally breaks my nose.
“If you have an ounce of gratitude in your soul,” he growls, “you’ll shut your damn mouth, ride your bike down to the Ironwood Falls PD, and ask them how you can make yourself useful.”
I grit my teeth. “Yes, sir.”
“You don’t call me sir.”
“Yes, Rabid."
He nods, satisfied, and gives a dismissive wave toward Viper before I can argue further.
