Page 10 of Psycho

“Nope,” Bruiser said flatly. “But I don’t really give a fuck about your feelings. You should have figured that out by now.”

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. My temples were still throbbing with exhaustion. I closed my eyes, willing myself to think clearly.

“Well?” Bruiser prompted. “Are we going or not?”

I opened my eyes, blinking at him with confusion.

“You just said—”

“Prez gave an order,” Bruiser said. “And I’m the Enforcer. It’s my job to make sure people do what he says.”

“But…?” I prompted.

He shrugged his massive shoulders.

“But I like the thought of holding this over your head. And Pretty Boy wants someone watching your tail morning, noon, and night. So, I can’t let you ride off alone.”

“Ah. I should have known there was a catch in the fine print somewhere.”

It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but beggars can’t be choosers. Meanwhile, I was wasting time standing here chit-chatting.

“Okay,” I relented. “Let’s go.”

Two minutes later, Bruiser and I were on the road, following the red glow of Pretty Boy’s taillight in the dark. At the outskirts of town, he turned onto a gravel road that disappeared into the mountains. I shut off my headlight, so I wouldn’t give away my position. Bruiser did the same.

In the distance, just above the treeline, I spotted the looming silhouette of the old water tower. Retired from use over fifty years ago, it was abandoned now, and nothing more than a rusty hunk of junk, overgrown with weeds, and smothered in grasping vines.

Isolated in the forest, it was the ideal place for a private meeting. There would be no one to interrupt. And it would be damn difficult to follow Pretty Boy up there without getting spotted.

Bruiser and I parked our bikes in the trees, hiding them from view of the road. We continued on foot, with only the half moon’s light to guide us.

Then Bruiser shouldered me into the underbrush and pointed in the distance.

The glare of Pretty’s Boy headlight cut a blinding swath through the trees, rendering the trunks pale and ghostly. He knocked three times on one of the water tower’s deteriorating legs with a hollow, metallic ringing that echoed in the woods.

After a few minutes passed, a woman emerged, with striking red hair the color of a wildfire, and familiar honey-brown eyes that I haven’t seen in years.

Recognition slammed into me.

“Bobbie,” I rasped.

My mind whirled with a thousand questions. What was she doing in Juniper Creek? Why was she mixed up in club business? Did Pretty Boy put her up to this?

Bobbie lingered at the forest’s edge, like a rabbit or a deer ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. She was practically drowning in layers of baggy clothes that hid her frame. Taking a few steps forward, she passed a white envelope to Pretty Boy.

“Huxley was spotted at a gas station in town,” she said. “And he’s using an alias. So he’s still lurking around.”

My heart lurched at the sound of her voice. I used to spend hours just listening to her talk about everything that crossed her mind while she distracted me from my nightmares and my insomnia. She would curl up beside me in bed, intertwining our fingers together, and the soft warmth of her presence never failed to soothe the noise in my mind.

“Has he contacted his club?” Pretty Boy asked.

Bobbie shrugged.

“I don’t know. But I can’t give you boys all the answers. If The Filthy Rebels find out that I’m helping you, it’s my neck on the chopping block.”

“We can protect you,” Pretty Boy offered.

Bobbie glanced away and fiddled with her jacket sleeves, tugging them down over her hands. Before she could respond, a wolf howled in the distance. She flinched, skittish.