I scoff, “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
Opal nods sagely as if she’s already learned that lesson. If she says something, it’s lost in the fog because the last piece of mail is an envelope that looks exactly like the one that held the first note.
The address is printed.
This time the postmark says it was mailed from Chattanooga.
Not Nashville.
Closer.
But maybe like he’s a fucking tourist?
Bile rises in my throat and the blood drains from my face. A dizzy feeling sweeps over me and I’m grateful as fuck that I’m already sitting down.
“Graycie?” I hear Opal’s voice, but it’s muffled. Like I’m under water.
Am I drowning?
Is this what that feels like?
The buzzing in my head is getting louder and before I can stop myself, which would have been ideal, and before I can think twice, I rip open the envelope.
This time there’s no card.
The only thing that falls out is a lock of hair.
A lock of my hair.
I think I scream?
Is it me screaming or is it Opal screaming?
“What the fuck is going on?” Ryker’s bark, filled with authority and a hint of anger, snaps me out of it.
I clamp my mouth shut and look at him, then down at the hair, banded and then tied with a fucking purple ribbon. Purple is my favorite color.
Please don’t ruin purple for me.
I shake my head because that is not a thought I need to be having right now. It takes some effort, but I force myself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m okay,” my voice shakes, but I’m able to say words which feels like a really big win at the moment.
“You are not okay,” Ryker’s voice is hard as he crosses his arms, looking every bit the motorcycle club president that he is.
“You’re not okay,” Opal’s voice is far more incredulous. She’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted a tit in the middle of my forehead. I almost giggle; almost. She turns toward Ryker and points at the hair and the envelope in my hand. “Snake asked me to get her mail. I did. When I handed it to her, it was mostly junk,” she presses her lips together for a moment before continuing, “except for that.”
Ryder takes a step closer and then his eyebrows are up to his hairline as he rushes forward and crouches down in front of me. He looks at the hair and then the envelope which he takes from my hands and looks at the postmark the same way I did.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath before pulling his phone out his pocket. He scrolls and selects a name. It only rings twice before someone answers and he growls, “Get your ass to the common room. Graycie got another delivery.”
I think I hear a curse on the other end of the line, but Ryker has already hung up. His eyes are fierce as he picks up my hair and puts it back in the envelope and then stands.
Whiskey practically skids into the room, takes one look at the scene and heads right toward us with his hand out. When he opens the flap, his face morphs into cold fucking fury.
“That’s my hair, isn’t it?” My voice is shaky as I ask the question. Then something like resolve hits me. But not resignation. I straighten up in my seat a little more and nod toward the offending item in the room. “I’m sure it is. But what I can’t know is when he got it. It could really be a smoke screen of some sort. To send me running or scrambling or something.”
Ryker nods once and respect blooms on Whiskey’s face. “I don’t want to freak out over this,” I mutter more to myself than anyone else.
