But now, I’m dying inside it.
Two hours into my shift, my smile feels like it’s glued on wrong. It makes my face hurt. Every time the door opens, my pulse spikes like I’m expecting Evan to walk in wearing a cut and carrying a gun, ready to execute the next phase of his plan to rip my life to shreds. Every time someone laughs, my brain spits that text back at me like poison.
Good work getting the intel from the clubhouse, Gator. I knew sending you in to fuck that bartender would pay off.
I have to tell someone. I have to tell Claire and Rabid and probably everyone, and though I know I need to, that thought terrifies me, because it means that, once it comes out how Ibetrayed the MC and vouched for a spy — not just vouched,fell in love with— I’ll end up looking back fondly on how shitty I feel right now, because the MC will punish me and, if I’m lucky, just kick me out.
If I’m lucky; they’ve done worse for less.
I’m so wrapped up in imagining my life turned to ashes that, mid turn, I almost drop a glass.
Riley catches it, eyes narrowing. I never drop a glass. My hands never shake, not when I’m behind the bar. There could be a gunfight taking place ten feet away and I wouldn’t spill a drop.
“What’s up?” she says. “You almost dropped this.”
“Nothing’s up. Everything’s fine. I’m great.”
Her gaze flicks over my face, slow, and I hate that she knows me so well. “You look… not great.”
“No, really, I’m fine. Just tired from classes and homework and…” My voice cracks. I stop, inhale through my nose, force it down. “Cover for me. Ten minutes.”
Riley’s eyebrows lift. “Molls, we’re busy as hell.”
“Ten,” I repeat. Not asking. Telling. “And tell Diesel to stop asking Samantha for sexts and to give you a hand. He’s a big boy, he can earn his keep.”
She studies me for one beat, then nods. “Go. I got it.”
I move before I can lose my nerve; I’m tired of feeling like everything’s about to collapse and cost me my family — if my world’s going to fall apart, I’d rather just rip the Band-Aid off and let it happen. Besides, as much as it’ll hurt to be kicked out of the MC and lose them as a family, it’s better than having them dead. Around the end of the bar, past the kitchen door, down the hall that always smells like old paper and cigarette smoke and club business. Past the door to church, where I know my fate will be decided later. My boots feel too loud on the worn floorboards.
Claire is by the back door, talking low into her cellphone. Her head turns the second she sees me, eyes sharpening like shesenses the storm. For a moment, she looks me up and down and then says into her phone, “I’ll call you back later. Something’s come up.”
“Claire,” I say. My throat is tight, my voice comes out hesitant, weak, so un-me I want to punch the wall. I hate what my heart is doing in my chest; I hate that I’m hurting, and that I’m about to hurt the people I love, too. “I need you.”
Her expression changes instantly; no jokes, no warmth, just the president’s ol’ lady turning into the club’s spine. “Now?”
“Yes.” I swallow. “And I need Rabid. And Goldie and Alessia, too.”
Claire’s gaze holds mine. Steady, not judging me, but I know she’s sizing up every potential outcome of what I’m asking. “That’s a closed-door list.”
“I know.” I force the words out like I’m dragging them up from my gut. “It’s about security. About the clubhouse.”
“Okay. Give me five minutes. We’ll go to Rabid’s office.”
Then she’s moving, fast and purposeful. I follow her down the hall toward the office, and with every step my shame tries to grab my ankle like a chain. Every step, it cries out:You’re going to ruin everything; you’re going to get yourself thrown out; you’re going to die alone.
Claire pushes the office door open.
Rabid is already inside, seated behind the desk, a ledger open in front of him. He raises an eyebrow as we enter. “What is it, my love?” He says.
“Molly’s got something she needs to tell us. Goldie and Alessia, too,” Claire says. “Take a seat, Molly. I’ll be back in a minute with the others.”
I sit. I wait. Rabid doesn’t say a word; his attention just returns to his ledger, and he works while I squirm in an office chair.
Claire returns, and she takes a seat beside Rabid. Goldie and Alessia enter; Goldie leans against the wall with his arms crossed. Alessia sits in a chair with one ankle crossed over her knee, lipstick perfect, eyes lethal. They all look at me.
The room feels still, heavy, like a weight hangs above me by a thread, and all it takes to cut that thread and crush me is one look from the MC president, Rabid.
His steely gaze pins me, slow and assessing. “What is it, Molly?”
