CHAPTER EIGHT
Brick
The storm drain system stretches for miles, a concrete maze that I know will lead directly under the city toward the clubhouse.
Every step away from that tunnel where we fucked feels like I'm leaving a piece of myself behind.
Everything has changed between us, and I can't stop thinking about it.
The way Imani felt in my arms, the way she looked at me when we came together, the trust she’s shown me since we’ve been on this adventure.
If I can even call it an adventure, that is.
Things should be simple—protect her, complete my assignment, deliver her safely to the club, then get back to looking for Lashes, for my best friend in the entire fucking world.
But nothing about this feels simple anymore.
What happened in that tunnel wasn't just sex, wasn't just two people finding comfort in each other.
It was primal as fuck, like I was claiming her.
I’ve never felt this way toward a woman, and something about Imani makes me desire her.
Not in the typical way like a clubwhore or random piece of ass on the street. It’s more intense, deeper.
Fuck, I can’t even be thinking about this shit.
My duty is to the club, to finding Lashes.
For months, finding Lashes has been my obsession, the thing pushing me to get through the day.
But now there's Imani to consider.
Every instinct I have has shifted, becoming personal in ways that terrify me.
This isn't just about getting her back to the club safe and sound anymore.
The thought of losing Imani, of failing to keep her safe, triggers something—the same fear of abandonment that's haunted me since my father went to prison.
"You're thinking too hard," Imani says softly, her voice echoing off the concrete walls.
There's something different in her tone now, an undertone that wasn't there before.
She knows my body now, has seen me at my most vulnerable, and that adds to the connection.
"Just processing," I reply, though that's an understatement.
I'm trying to figure out how protecting her has become more important to me than finding my best friend.
The guilt of that sits heavy in my chest.
We emerge from a maintenance tunnel into a wider section of the drain system.
Natural light filters down from storm grates above, creating patterns on the wet concrete.
I can smell the industrial district—motor oil, welding fumes, the god-awful odor of the meat processing plant that sits three blocks from the clubhouse.
Home is close.
"We're close," I tell her, checking my mental map of the underground system. "Maybe another ten minutes."
Amara makes sure we know everything, how to get out of numerous situations whenever the situation arises.
She trains us to think on our feet, and do whatever is necessary.
She nods, adjusting the strap of her bag.
Even after everything we've been through—the gunfights, escaping through the city, hours in these damp tunnels—she still looks beautiful.
Messy and dirty, but beautiful.
Her tight curls have come loose, framing her face in soft spirals.
There's a smudge of dirt on her cheek that I have the sudden urge to wipe away.
"What happens when we get there?" she asks, and I can hear the uncertainty beneath her composed exterior.
"You meet the club, my family," I say, the words carrying more weight than they should. "And we figure out our next move."
But even as I say it, I'm not sure what our next move should be.
Amara will want some sort of report, an explanation of what happened during the run.
How do I explain how it became so personal?
How do I tell them that I'm falling for the woman I was supposed to protect?
As we continue through the tunnels, my phone buzzes with an incoming message.
I almost ignore it—we've been maintaining communication silence to avoid tracking.
But something makes me check it, and what I see makes my blood run cold.
The message is from Amara:
You’ve been radio silent. At least check in and let me know you’re safe.
"Fuck," I breathe, reading it again.
I should check in, but there’s a reason I’ve been so fucking quiet.
We know we’re being tracked, and I thought it could’ve been through any calls or texts I was making, maybe even Imani’s burner phone, but is it something else?
If my Prez is asking me to contact her, then I need to do it.
I text her back:
En route. Will be there soon. Make sure you have the gates ready for us.
"What is it?" Imani asks, moving closer to read over my shoulder.
Her body presses against mine, her perfume hitting my nostrils.
She reads the message, her face going pale. "Amara wanted you to contact her? Okay, that’s fine, right?"
"Yeah, it's fine," I reply, though something in my gut says otherwise. "She's probably just worried since we've been dark for so long."
But the timing feels off.
Amara doesn't usually check in like this unless something's wrong.
The woman has ice in her veins and trusts her people to handle their business without constant contact.
We continue through the drainage system, the familiar scents of home growing stronger with each step.
The tunnel system opens into a larger chamber, and I recognize the landmarks.
We're directly in front of the clubhouse now, obviously underneath it.
"There," I point to a heavy iron gate marked with the Reapers Rejects MC emblem. "That leads directly into the compound."
I get out of the drain first, squeezing through.
I offer a hand to Imani and as I pull her up, pain radiates through my side.
God damn bullet wounds.
Once we’re both out, she slings the bag over her shoulder.
"Ready to meet everyone?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," she says, and I don’t miss the nervousness in her voice.
We walk in through the gate, Rooster and Doom standing guard.
As soon as we’re in, they shut it behind us and my brothers come up, patting me on the back and telling me how good it is to see me.
We head right toward the clubhouse because I’m tired as fuck.
This simple escort run has sucked the life out of me.
We walk in the garage area and see brothers working on bikes.
"Brick!" Compass voice cuts through the noise.
He's bent over his bike, grease covering his hands, but his face breaks into a relieved grin when he sees me. "Fuck, man, Prez has been asking about you."
Other heads turn our way, and I can see the curious glances as the brothers take in Imani.
She doesn't flinch at the rough language or the casual display of weapons hanging on the walls.
If anything, she looks right at home, which surprises me more than it should.
"This is Imani Torres," I say, making the introduction clear. "Alejandro's goddaughter."
The mention of Alejandro's name gets immediate respect.
Boulder emerges from the other side of the garage, his ol’ lady, Kelsey, right behind him.
Relief floods his scarred face when he sees us. "About damn time, brother."
"Good to see you too," I reply, accepting the bone-crushing handshake he offers.
Kelsey steps forward, her smile warm as she looks at Imani. "You must be Amara's friend. She's mentioned you."
"All good things, I hope," Imani replies with a slight smile.
I can see her assessing the room, searching faces and I swear she’s looking for potential threats.
She won’t find any here—she’s safe.
"Where's Amara?" I ask, looking around the garage for our president.
"Office," Boulder replies, but there's something in his tone that makes the hair on my arm stick up. "She's been waiting for you. Both of you."
As we make our way through the clubhouse, I can feel the weight of curious stares following us.
"They're all looking at us," Imani murmurs quietly.
"They're curious," I correct. "It's not often someone brings a woman into the clubhouse who isn't a clubwhore, piece of ass, or an ol’ lady."
"And which am I?"
The question stops me cold.
What exactly is Imani to me? To the club?
The assignment was simple—transport and protect, but that's not what this is anymore.
"You're mine," I say simply, and the possessiveness in my voice surprises even me. "That makes you family."
Her smile in response transforms her entire face. "Good answer, prospect."
We reach Amara's office, and I can hear voices inside—multiple people, which is unusual for a standard debrief.
I knock once and wait for permission.
"Come in," Amara's voice calls out.
I open the door to find not just Amara behind her desk, but Ruby organizing medical supplies in the corner.
"Brick," Amara says, rising from her chair.
Relief flashes across her face before being replaced by her usual stoic expression. "Imani."
"Amara," Imani replies, and I'm surprised by the warmth in her voice. "It's been too long."
"Too long and under shitty circumstances," Amara agrees, moving around her desk to embrace Imani briefly.
The gesture tells me their friendship goes deeper than just some political shit between their families.
"Ruby." I nod to the club's unofficial medic. "Thanks for having supplies ready."
"Always do," she replies, her eyes taking in my visible injuries. "You need looking at?"
"I'm fine," I say automatically, though the bullet graze on my shoulder is throbbing and my ribs ache where the previous wound reopened.
"Bullshit," Imani says firmly. "He's been shot three times and is too damn stubborn to admit he needs medical attention."
Ruby's eyebrows rise. "Three times? Sit your ass down, prospect. I don't care how tough you think you are."
"Later," I say, though I can see from Ruby's expression that 'later' isn't going to fly. "Right now we need to talk about the trip."
Amara gestures for us to sit as she gets up and closes the door, then returns to her chair.
"Report," she says simply.
I tell her everything I can.
How Diego betrayed Imani, how there were professionals hunting us the entire fucking time.
There isn’t one detail I leave out.
As I speak, I watch Amara's expression grow increasingly grim.
"Professional military contractors," she repeats when I finish. "Not local sicarios ."
"Definitely not," Imani confirms. "These were trained operatives. Coordinated, well-equipped, disciplined."
"Which means this goes beyond Diego," Amara says, leaning back in her chair. "Someone with serious money is orchestrating this."
"The trafficking angle makes the most sense," I say. "Imani's investigation threatens their operation, so they're trying to eliminate the threat."
"Or acquire it," Amara points out darkly. "A cartel princess with business training would be valuable merchandise to the right buyers."
The casual way she says it makes my blood boil, even though I know she's just thinking about everything.
The thought of anyone viewing Imani as 'merchandise' triggers something inside me.
"Over my dead body," I growl.
"That might be exactly what they're planning," Amara replies. "If they can't take her alive, eliminating her removes the threat to their operation."
"So what's the plan?" Imani asks.
Amara is quiet for a few moments, "Short term, you stay here under club protection. Long term..." She shrugs. "We need more intel. Who's behind this, what their capabilities are, what their end game looks like."
"I might be able to help with that," Imani says carefully. "My investigation turned up financial connections, shell companies, money trails. If I can access my research..."
"Where is it?" Amara asks.
"Encrypted files on a secure server. I can access it remotely, but I'll need a clean computer and secure internet connection. Mine… well, it’s in the bag but there might be a bullet caught in it, so I think it’s a goner."
"Ruby can set that up," Amara says, nodding to her. "But first, she's going to look at those bullet wounds before you bleed all over my furniture."
I start to object, but the look on both women's faces tells me bitching about this won’t make a difference. "Fine. But make it quick."
"Take your time," Amara says with a slight smile. "I want to catch up with Imani anyway. It's been too long since we've talked."
As Ruby leads me to the adjoining medical room, I catch Imani's eye.
"Strip," Ruby orders the moment we're in the medical room. "Let's see what we're working with."
I peel off my shirt, wincing as the fabric pulls at the reopened wound on my ribs.
Ruby whistles low when she sees the damage.
"Jesus, Brick. What happened to those stitches?"
"Gunfire happened," I reply. "Imani patched me up as best she could under the circumstances."
"She did a good job," Ruby admits, examining the wound. "Clean sutures, but you've torn several of them open again."
"So," Ruby says as she cleans the wound, "you going to tell me what's really going on here?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the way you look at her, the way she looks at you. I’ve been in the club life for a long time, prospect. I know something’s going on with you and Miss Cartel Princess."
I'm quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how to explain something I don't understand myself. "It's complicated."
"It always is," Ruby replies with a smile. "But complicated doesn't mean wrong. Just means you better be sure about what you're getting into."
"I'm sure," I say, and realize I mean it. Whatever this thing is between Imani and me, I'm all in.
"Good," Ruby says, applying fresh bandages. "Because that woman in there? She's not going anywhere anytime soon. And neither are you, if you're smart."
She's right.