Page 28

Samantha

It feels like every time I make some progress with Diesel — progress in getting him to leave his pain behind, progress in making myself feel like more of an equal and less like a hostage, progress in making him even a little less of an asshole — something sets everything back. But I will not let that discourage me. I will not let him think that I’m by any means giving up. Even though I could’ve phrased things a little nicer, I have to be honest with him, because honesty is vital in relationships, and I am sure as hell not giving up on my brother. Or on having some level of independence. I’m a person — not a thing , not a hostage — a god damn person.

But I keep quiet on the drive back to the hideout, and stay quiet, too, as we drop the makeover supplies at the apartment and then get on Diesel’s motorcycle to head to the clubhouse for the MC meeting. There’s a time and a place for the conversation we need to have, and right before a big club meeting that might signal the outbreak of an all-out war is not it. I might be furious at Diesel for how hardheaded he can be, but I know what word he was going to use to describe how he felt about me, because it’s the same word I think of when I think of him and how he could be when he lets go of his pain, and the last thing I want is to distract him when he might be heading into combat.

I want him to live. I want to figure out a way to make a life with him when this is all over. But I also want my brother to live, too.

And that means, whether he likes it or not, I have to get a phone. I have to warn him.

As Diesel parks his motorcycle in front of The Noble Fir, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. The clubhouse looms before us, a fortress of weathered wood and rough-hewn logs. The rumble of engines and the clamor of raised voices spills out into the night air.

We step inside and I'm immediately struck by the tense atmosphere. It's controlled, but there's an undercurrent of barely restrained aggression simmering just beneath the surface. Bikers clad in worn leather vests emblazoned with the club's insignia mill about, their faces grim and determined.

A sinewy-muscled and weathered-looking man with a thick beard and tattoos covering his arms intercepts Diesel. "They're waiting for you in the back," he grunts, jerking his head towards a door at the far end of the large open space.

“Thanks, Ranger,” Diesel nods curtly. Then he turns to me and squeezes my hand. “We’ll work it out later. Just trust me. I just want you to be safe,” he murmurs, before leaving me alone in this unfamiliar place.

I make my way to the bar, feeling the eyes of the bikers and their families on me as I take a seat on a worn leather stool. The bartender, a hard-faced woman with short hair and a no-nonsense demeanor, slides a glass of whiskey in front of me without a word.

"I didn't order this," I say, looking up at her in surprise.

"I know you didn't, honey. But you're going to need it." Her voice is gruff but not unkind. She turns to walk away.

"Wait, why am I going to need it?" I ask, a nervous edge creeping into my voice. But before she can answer, someone calls for her from the other end of the bar.

I watch as the bartender pours a glass of expensive-looking wine for an elegantly dressed woman who gives off a deadly and commanding aura. The woman takes the glass with a nod of thanks, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk. Her presence only serves to heighten my sense of fear and unease.

From my left, I hear a woman's voice asking, "Are you Samantha?"

I turn and see a petite young woman with long, wavy blond hair holding a baby. She smiles at me, but there's a hint of nervousness in her eyes.

"Yes, I'm Samantha," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "And who's this little one?" I ask, gesturing to the baby.

"This is Charlie, Hunter's son," the woman says, bouncing the baby gently. "I'm Emily, Hunter's ol' lady. I’m glad it’s you. I wanted to say thank you for what you did for Hunter and Diesel. After Hunter got taken, I can’t tell you how scared I was. For him, and for Charlie. I don’t want to think of a world where Charlie loses his dad again."

“Again?” I say, feeling confused.

“Hunter is actually Charlie’s uncle. Charlie’s mom and dad were…” She stops, sighs, and shakes her head. “Moretti got to them.”

I look at the little boy; he’s so young, and to have already lived through such trauma, it puts my heart in a vise and turns the crank until I feel ready to weep. “That’s horrible.”

“It is. But Charlie’s been doing great ever since Hunter brought him here to Ironwood Falls. I think, deep down, he understands what happened to his parents, but most days, you’d never really know it. He’s happy.”

My eyes look from Charlie toward the back of the room, to the door leading to wherever Diesel and the other bikers were called for their meeting. Having Charlie and Emily in front of me, two people who would not have Hunter in their lives if not for Diesel — assholish, overly-protective behavior and all — sends me searching the room for even a glance of him.

But all I see are frowning, glowering, unknown faces.

"What's happening, Emily?" I say. "Why is everyone being called into the clubhouse?"

Before Emily can answer, another woman speaks up from nearby. She's well-dressed, like a high-powered professional, with brown hair pulled back in a tight bun and piercing blue eyes. "It's because my husband called them here. There will be a lockdown.”

I have no idea what that word means, but I don’t like the way she says it.

“What’s a lockdown?”

“A pain in the ass, that’s what it is,” the bartender says, arriving to slide another whiskey in front of me.

“You’re right, Molly,” the well-dressed woman says. “An imminent pain in the ass.”

“Claire, will we have time to get some things from our homes?” Emily says. “There’s some stuff for Charlie we’ll need, and I’d like to make a run to Meds & More if possible.”

Claire shakes her head. “Rabid’s told me it’s going to be implemented as soon as they finish church. But if you give me a list, I’ll have him dispatch someone from the club to get what you need, Emily.”

“Church?” I say. “Is he a priest, too?”

Molly laughs. “Rabid? No way. The closest thing to a priest back there is Bishop, and Bishop isn’t a priest. Bishop’s just an asshole.”

I am so confused. Confused, and feeling close to hyperventilating like a trapped animal. “He’s the doctor, right?”

“He is. Drink your whiskey, Samantha,” Molly says. “You’ll want to have some form of a buzz on when the men come out and tell us how we’re going to be kept under armed guard for a while. It helps with the sense of impending doom.”

I take a gulp of the whiskey, feeling it burn all the way down my throat, but it does nothing to quell the rising panic inside me. My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding so hard I swear everyone in the room can hear it. I've never felt so unprepared, so utterly out of my depth. Even the idea of a peaceful moment — even if it’s something as mundane as redecorating that studio apartment with Diesel — seems like a pipe dream. When will this violent nightmare end?

"I don't even have any clothes with me," I admit, my voice trembling. "Just these ugly golf clothes and some Boise Buffaloes stuff we stole when we were escaping. And a few bruises from the bar fight." I laugh humorlessly, running a hand through my hair.

Molly's tough exterior seems to soften at my words. She reaches under the bar and pulls out a small duffel bag, setting it in front of me.

"Here. I always keep a few bags of essentials around, just in case. It's not much, but it'll tide you over for now. Later, we'll see about getting you set up with some real clothes and supplies."

I unzip the bag and peer inside. There's a toothbrush, floss, moisturizing lotion, a pair of soft gray sweatpants, and a t-shirt emblazoned with The Noble Fir's logo. It's a men's size large, way too big for my slight frame, but the gesture brings tears to my eyes. These women, virtual strangers, are looking out for me.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Despite Molly's kindness, I can't shake the growing sense of dread that's building in the pit of my stomach. That she keeps these emergency bags on hand, that they're so nonchalant about the idea of being kept under armed guard — it only serves to highlight just how serious, how dangerous this situation really is.

I think of Jake, alone in Boise, unaware of the storm that's brewing. He has no idea about Diesel, about the MC, about any of this.

What if Moretti sends someone after him? What if he already has?

The thought makes my blood run cold. I can't let that happen. I won't. Jake is the only family I have left. I've already lost so much — my job, my home — I can’t lose him, too.

"What is it?” Molly says. “I can see in your face that you’re troubled by more than just the general bullshit of it all.”

“Molly, I need a favor, and I need you to keep it between us.”