It seems that a bar must have been the cause of my problems. I decide to start there. It’s probably where Emmanuel and I ended up before coming to his place. I vaguely recall having an interview with him, but we were at my studio in the morning. After we finished the interview, we left together for iced coffee. I can’t recall anything beyond sitting at a table while Emmanuel placed our orders in that damn coffee shop. That was shortly before noon when we did that. According to the time that I saw on Emmanuel’s phone, it’s well after seven now.
A blue car is creeping toward me, and chills run down my spine. I glance in the windshield to see a male driver wearing a ballcap pulled low. His features are hidden, but I can tell that he’s watching me. I rush across the street and into the bar, praying that I find some answers and some help. If someone has a charger for me to power my phone on, I can call an Uber.
The atmosphere is thick with cloying smoke. It isn’t just cigarette smoke, but the sweet, pungent aroma of weed dances in the air. I realize that I don’t belong here. I would have been better off down the street at the restaurant, if I could have made it, considering the blue car.
Looking over my shoulder, I see the car idling outside. I look back at the occupants of the bar again, and I decide to take my chances on the bar’s patrons.
If the cymbals of the rock band playing in my head aren’t bad enough, the hardcore thump of the rap music is even worse and ten times as loud. The bar is crowded with bikers and women in scantily clad clothing. I do a visual scan to see if I can find a worker, but it’s hard with people staring at me and whispering.
A group of three women, hanging on one man I can barely see, slowly shift out of their booth, and I realize two things.
First, the place that I have stumbled into is clearly the den of the Immortal Descendents, a one-percenter biker gang.
Second, when my eyes lock with dark, murderous ones that I will never forget, I realize that I’ve been placed in the middle of a nightmare. I’m trapped in hell.
There were no bikes out front to warn me this was Immortal Descendents territory. There was a sign that read “Parking at the Rear,” but I ignored it since I was walking.
It’s much harder to ignore six feet and one inch of pure mahogany fineness poured into jeans that hug bowed legs that I have always loved. The almond-shaped, nut-brown eyes slowly assess me, as if he is feeling some of the same things that I am: desire, surprise, and so many questions.
As the man I once knew as Chrishon Donovan takes long strides toward me, he raises thick, long eyebrows in a question. He sniffs as if he smells something afoul, and that broad nose that appears broken at the bridge twitches faintly.
His full lips are downturned as if in disgust, but I personally know that his lips always look that way, unless you’re blessed with one of his rare smiles. The facial hairs of his low-cut beard and trimmed mustache have grown somewhat thicker than I recall.
New tattoos have been added since the last time that I saw him. He didn’t always have tattoos on his neck and face, only on his arms. I recall the two sleeves on his arms, but now a raging bull symbolizing his zodiac sign decorates his neck, and the barrel of a gun with bullets lying underneath colors the other side of his neck. “Chaos” is tattooed in Japanese on the left side of his face, and “Assassin” is tatted in Japanese on the left side of his forehead. The reason that I know what those words say is because he always wanted those tattoos.
I recall vividly the night that he first showed them to me and told me that he was going to get them. I had never heard him express interest in having them on his face, though, and I was never sure why he wanted the word “assassin” tattooed on him.
He jokingly used to say, “Because I murder that pussy when I’m in it.” I couldn’t deny it; he always made me cry during sex, and I often felt like I was losing my breath or my heart would beat out of my chest. Sex with him was more than amazing; it was outstanding.
Chaos is his motorcycle club, or MC name. The Immortal Descendents was always what he was most faithful to. He always chose them over me, and I hate that I have stumbled into this place.
Big diamond studs are in both of his ears, and whereas he was always slim, he’s bulked up some, but he’s even more toned than before. When he finally stops in front of me, I want to disappear through the floor.
My chaotic emotions are all over the place. Torn between disbelief that he’s actually standing here in front of me and hurtand betrayal that he walked out on me when I needed him the most, I’m speechless.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is raspy and gravelly, but God, how I missed hearing it.
My jaw aches from grinding my teeth together so tightly. “I . . . I didn’t know this was your place. I wouldn’t have come.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he repeats as if I hadn’t just spoken.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come,” I reply, backing up as the crowd thickens around us.
He steps closer and grips my jaw in a tight squeeze. It hurts, but I refuse to shed another tear for this man. Instead, I attempt to snatch free from his grip, but he only tightens it more, and I am reminded that my strength is no match for his. If anything, trying to pull free only hurts me more, and I hate the sting of tears that prick the backs of my eyes.
I glance sideways outside to see if the car is still there, but Chrishon grips my jaw tighter and forces me to look at him.
I force my gaze back in the direction of the window again. This time, Chrishon turns his head in that direction before he asks, “What’s going on? What the fuck are you afraid of?”
“N-n-nothing,” I stammer.
His gaze narrows on mine, and he replies, “I hate liars. Don’t ever fucking lie to me, Charisma. What’s going on?”
There once was a time when I trusted this man with my life, and I knew he would do nothing to hurt me. Although I hate him now, a part of me knows that he won’t physically hurt me, and I decide to tell him everything.
When I’m finished, he stares into my eyes. The crowd has not backed down. “You’re coming with me.”
“No. I need to go home.”
