I manage to get my feet back on the fence, and, once I’ve calmed my racing heart, I begin to climb down.
When I finally put my feet on the ground, the relief is huge, and I bend over, sucking in air and trying to get some strength back into my shaking limbs. A shouted curse from somewhere in the tree line behind the compound spurs me into action once more. I scoop up my shoes, but I don’t put them back on. I can move faster without them, and I’m away from the rough ground of the forest. My bare feet feel nice against the cool grass,but I hope there’s no broken glass, or worse, lying around.
I have no idea about the size of this compound, and no clue how to find the man I need, but still, I’ve got to try.
It’s fully night now, but the moon is bright, offering me a pale, silvery light in which to see. In front of me are scattered trees and some bushes, and in the distance, over the brow of the hill, I can make out the lights of a few buildings. There’s a soft breeze, and as it whips my hair, I realize it carries a sound. The unmistakable bass of distant music reaches my ears. The clubhouse? Do they even have one yet? I know this is a new venture, and I’m not sure what they do and don’t have set up.
I must be the only person in history who is stupid enough to breakintoa one-percenter compound, I think ruefully.
A snapping sounds at my back, like a heavy twig being stepped on. It sharpens my focus, and I run toward the trees, hoping they’ll shield me if Ledger bursts onto the road on the other side of the fence behind me as I fear. The chain link fencing might be enough to slow him down, but it won’t slow a bullet.
The moment I reach the trees, a deep voice speaks to me, so close it elicits a yelp of surprise from my lips.
“Don’t move one more step, little lady.”
My first thought isI’m dead. My second thought iswho says little lady these days?
Turning to the man, I take in his wrinkled face first and the gun second.
I can't believe this is happening. This is the second time this evening I've had a gun pointed at me. Surely, this must be the record for the worst date known to man.Or in my case, woman. Raising my arms, I turn to face the man fully and hope my forward-facing palms show that I’m not looking for any trouble.
“I’m here for someone,” I say.
He scowls, the lines in his face deepening. “Those are the kinds of words that get you killed around here.”
“Please, listen to me I just want to find Jack. Um, he’s the leader? Jack…” Oh, God, what is his club name? I’m so shaken right now, I can’t think straight. Then his name comes to me, bursting into my mind like a glorious sunrise. “Jack-the-blood McGrath,” I blurt. “I need to see him. Can you take me to him?”
“You ain’t one of the regular sweetbutts we get around here,” he observes.
What the hell is a sweetbutt?
“Please, Jack is my best friend’s dad, and I’m… I’m in trouble.” The tears that fill my eyes aren’t an act. I am on the edge of completely cracking up.
His face softens, and he lowers the gun. “Well, shit, you should have started with that. Come on, little thing. Let’s get you to the house.”
Being called a little thing feels a bit like a jab, as I have always felt slightly self-conscious of my height. I can hardly help it if I’m petite. I follow the man, who appears to be in his mid to late fifties, as he leads me over the brow of the hill. I can't help glancing back at the fence even as it disappears into the distance. My eyes keep searching for a figure bursting through the trees, waving a gun in the air.
What the hell am I going to do? There's no way I can go back to the college now, not while Ledger is there. The dean will have to be informed, but then what will happen? My life is well and truly messed up because myfamily will go crazy if they find out I went on a date. My father might make me leave the college immediately and lock me up at his compound until a husband is procured.
The man walking beside me looks down, and his eyes widen. I follow his gaze and see my skin is smeared in blood. The back of my top is torn, too, and I wrap my arms around myself.
“Looks like some real bad shit might have happened to you.” He says the words quietly, and when he looks at me again, there's genuine sympathy in his gaze.
“It hasn’t been the best night,” I reply with incredible understatement.
The nearer we get to the assortment of buildings, the louder the bass booms. Anxiety twists in my gut because the last thing I want right now is to be in a room full of people. Particularly men. I hate the thought of being gawked at by bikers with blood on my skin and my top ripped.
I fold my arms across my chest, my shoes dangling from one hand.
My family and my way of life might be dangerous, but there's a wildness to motorcycle clubs that maybe I've only read about or seen on TV, but which still scares me. Within my world, there's a lot of hierarchy and rules, and often the house and the compound my family lives in tends to be very quiet. Raucous parties were not the kind of thing that was ever brought there. Which is not to say that my father didn't indulge, because he very much did, except he took it away from home, and away from his wife.
I might be young, but I'm not completely naive, and I have ears. I couldn’t possibly count the number of times I would hear my mother screeching at him, as he onceagain came home with lipstick on his collar and another woman's perfume warming the skin of his neck. Then there would be the days of quiet sobbing, and her retreating into herself, until a gift would arrive at the house. Perhaps a full-length mink coat, or a diamond choker. Like clockwork, she would forgive him, and things would quiet down for a while, until the whole cycle started again. I love Mom dearly, but sometimes it's hard to respect her when she lets Father walk all over her like a doormat.
My fear is that one day very soon my life will mirror hers. Even if I'm married into a different kind of crime organization than the cartel, I can’t imagine the way of life will be very different. I don’t think the Bratva or the Cosa Nostra are known for their progressive thinking.
The idea of having to sit at home night after night, while my husband is out, enjoying himself between the legs of another woman, only for him to come back days later and have sex with me, makes me sick to my stomach.
I've always wanted the kind of love that my friends have. I'd give anything to have a man look at me the way Roman, one of a gang at the college known as the Preachers, looks at my friend Ophelia. Or even to be loved in the way Saint adores my other bestie, Vani, even if it is completely unhinged. At least he feels something big for her. Some days, I want that more than I do my next breath.
