“How much have you told her?”
“Nothing really. Been focused on trying to figure out her identity.”
“She could be a FED for all we know.”
“Don’t you think they’d come up with a better way to get an in with us? A prospect. A stripper. Applying at my shop. Leaving a bugged car at the garage or some shit. This was random, and she needs our help. You know, if we call Buford, he’ll just stick her in the women’s shelter with batshit crazy Wanda.”
“I don’t like this. We can’t trust her.”
“Then trust me.”
Chapter Two
Lacey
My thoughts are a jumbled mess. I’m confused. Groggy. I don’t even know my name or where I am.
What I do know is I am surrounded by big, scary men covered in tattoos who look like professional killers, but from the moment I woke up in their biker clubhouse, they’ve been nothing but kind to me.
The older guy named Combat gave me some antibiotics and painkillers. It’s strange. I can’t remember anything, but I know certain things. Like I don’t like grapefruit or any melons. Strawberries are good.
Water has a taste depending on the brand. I prefer something carbonated or flavored. I especially like regular Coke. And I really love French fries smothered in cheese, bacon, and white gravy.
I remember small things like that. The lyrics to Highway to Hell by ACDC but not my own name.
It doesn’t make sense. When I try to remember, I get a headache.
Kevlar, the guy who found me, says I should get some sleep, but when I close my eyes, I have all these racing thoughts.
Why was I wearing a wedding dress when he found me? Am I married? Why was I on the beach? Who was I with, or was I running from someone? Did someone hurt me, or did I trip and hit my head on a rock?
Where’s home? Do I have kids? Surely, I would recall something that important. And yet when I try to focus on my memories, all I get is fuzz and white noise. Like there’s something in my brain that’s blocking out the people I care about.
I don’t know if Lacey is my name or if it belongs to someone I know. I toss from one side to the other. I’m too restless to just sit in this room.
I tried to eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that Combat dude brought me, but I can’t eat. Not when there may be people worried about me. At least I hope they are.
“You trying to see how a rotisserie chicken feels turning on a spit?”
“What?”
Kevlar grins at me from where he still sits. “Want to get out of this room?”
“Please.” I look down at my bare feet as they hit the cool tile floor.
“Hold that thought.” He disappears and returns a few minutes later with a pair of brown leather flip-flops that are a little tight, but they’ll do.
I follow him down the stairs, noticing the stairwell is lined with mugshots. I spot Kevlar and wonder what he did to get arrested.
Downstairs opens into a bar that looks like maybe it was once the lobby of a motel. The bar sits where I imagine the check-in counter once was. Rock music filters in the background, playingthrough speakers. There're some men seated at the bar while others are shooting a game of pool or throwing darts. Besides being tattooed and muscled, they all have one thing in common. All of them are wearing black leather vests with the same club logo on the back. A skull and two shamrocks. Saint’s Outlaws MC: Deadman’s Beach, Alabama. At least there’s another question answered. I’m in Gulf Shores.
“Want something to drink? Water? A pop?”
“Got Coke?”
“Prospect,” he calls out. “A Coke for the lady. And get me a beer.”
“What’s prospect mean?”
