She fell asleep first, body gone limp, breath evening out. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the creak of boots in the hallway, the low hum of the radio down in the chapel. Every sound was a reminder that tomorrow, or the day after, someone was going to die for this.
I ran my thumb over the back of her hand, memorizing every line, every scar. I was terrified, but I was also alive.
We slept like that, wrapped up in each other, waiting for the world to start spinning again.
17
Melissa
The next morning started with coffee, paranoia, and the sight of Joey Malone watching me like I was a lottery ticket somebody forgot to cash. He was a prospect, the lowest rung of the Scythe food chain, a mutt who spent more time fetching coffee and scrubbing bikes than actually riding. But lately, Joey had been putting in extra hours watching me.
I caught him staring at my belly over his mug, his jaw working like he was grinding up a confession. I met his eyes and raised my middle finger. He looked away, but not before I saw the fear. Not of me. Of whatever was coming down the line.
Breakfast was leftover pizza and a bottle of Gatorade I found behind the bar. Nobody talked; the air in the clubhouse was static, so full of war that even the old-timers had stopped making dick jokes. Augustine was already out on the perimeter with Seneca Wallace, doing patrols in case the Leatherbacks wanted to roll up early. That left the main room to me and the prospect crew, most of whom kept their heads down and did their best to look invisible.
Except for Joey. He lingered near the exit, fidgeting with a rag that had more grease than cloth left in it. I pretended not to notice as he slipped out the door and into the side yard, eyes flicking over his shoulder as he went.
I waited a beat, then followed. If I was going to survive, I had to start thinking like my old man—paranoid, ruthless, always ready to run. The baby had already rewired my brain; the part that used to plan escapes was now running calculations on food, shelter, and who might try to cut my throat while I was taking a piss.
The morning was cold and dry, the sky the color of old concrete. I ducked through the loading bay and out to the side yard, keeping to the shadow line against the building. Joey was out by the bike shed, pacing in a tight loop, muttering into the collar of his jacket. I stayed low, using the row of junked Harleys as cover, and got close enough to hear him. At first, I thought he was just talkingto himself, but then he pulled a burner phone from inside his cut and jammed it to his ear.
I recognized the posture. It was the same way my dad used to take calls he didn't want anyone else hearing—shoulders hunched, voice low, foot tapping a Morse code of nerves into the dirt. Joey's whole body radiated guilt, like he expected the ground to open up and swallow him for what he was about to say.
I crept closer, holding my breath. There was enough wind to cover my steps. I crouched behind a pile of old rims and listened.
"—no, she's still here. The girl's in the compound, but they're locking it down tighter than a nun's—yeah. No, I didn't fuck up. Damron is prepping for a siege. I can get you inside, but it'll have to be after curfew. She's still with the boyfriend. Yeah, him."
He paused, chewing his thumbnail. My stomach turned to ice. This wasn't just rat business. He was talking to my father.
"Tonight, then," he said. "But I want out after. Promise me, Saint. You fuck me, I'm dead, and you know it."
There was a pause, then Joey nodded, tucked the phone away, and spit on the ground. He looked like he was about to puke. I almost felt sorry for him, but not enough to stop what came next.
When he turned to leave, I stood up and blocked his path. He jumped, hands going for his pockets before he recognized me. Then he tried to swagger, but the sweat on his forehead ruined the effect.
"Didn’t peg you for an early riser," I said, arms crossed over my chest. My heart was going a million miles a minute, but I kept my voice steady. "My dad paying you by the call or just straight commission?"
His mouth worked, then snapped shut. The color drained from his face.
"Melissa, hey—look, this isn’t—"
I stepped forward, close enough to smell last night’s beer and desperation on his breath. "You got a death wish, or are you just stupid?"
He glared, but there was no heat in it. "I got no beef with you. I just—"
"You just what? Thought you could sell out the club and get a parade? You're a prospect, Joey. They'd bleed you out and use your corpse for target practice."
He shifted, scanning the yard for anyone else. "You don't get it," he hissed. "The Scythes are toast. Even Damron knows it. Your dad's got a bounty on you and your boyfriend. Only question is who gets to you first. I'm just trying to survive."
I looked at him, really looked, and saw the fear underneath. I almost felt bad. Almost. But then I remembered the hand on my shoulder, the voice promising me I wasn’t alone, the tiny maybe-life inside me that didn't have a say in what happened next.
"You’re a coward," I said, ice in my voice.
He lunged, fast, grabbing my arm and twisting it behind my back. The move was sloppy, desperate, but it hurt like hell. He shoved me up against the wall of the bike shed, breath hot in my ear.
"You say a fucking word," he growled, "and I’ll make sure you lose that baby before it ever draws a breath."
His hand was a vice on my wrist. I twisted, stomped his foot, but he just pressed harder. My vision went white around the edges.
