Page 11

Demi

The ride to wherever Klutch is taking me passes in a blur. I cling to his back with my bag wedged awkwardly between us, and my mind racing with images of my destroyed apartment. Who would do that? I mean, I know who; Frankie’s men—but why trash the place? What were they looking for?

My stomach twists as the obvious answer hits me. They were looking for my dad. Or maybe for me. The thought sends a chill down my spine.

When Klutch finally slows the bike, I lift my head to see a large brick building surrounded by a tall fence topped with what looks like razor wire. Several motorcycles are parked in a row near the entrance.

“Where are we?” I ask as he cuts the engine.

“Clubhouse,” he says simply, waiting for me to climb off before dismounting himself.

My heart rate picks up. “Your clubhouse? I can’t stay here.”

Klutch’s eyebrows shoot up. “And why’s that?”

“Because...” I wave my hand vaguely at the building. “It’s a biker clubhouse. I don’t belong here.”

He snorts. “Baby, you’re place was fucking trashed. The goddamn door hanging off the hinges. You think you were safer there?”

Put like that, I don’t have much of an argument. Still, the thought of walking into a building full of bikers makes my palms sweat.

“It’ll be fine,” Klutch says, his voice gentle. “Nobody’s gonna mess with you.”

“How can you be sure?”

His lips quirk into that almost-smile that does funny things to my insides. “Because you’re mine.”

Before I can process what that means, he takes my bag from my shoulder and motions for me to follow him.

The weight of his words settles over me as I trail behind him toward the entrance.

Because you’re mine. Like I belong to him or something.

Warmth spreads through my belly. It’s scary how not-scary that thought is.

As soon as Klutch pushes open the heavy steel door, my senses are assaulted by pounding music, raucous laughter, and the smell of cigarettes.

The place is packed with men in leather vests like Klutch’s, women in various states of undress, and others who look like regular Joe’s who are just here for the party.

I freeze in the doorway, overwhelmed by the chaos. Klutch seems to sense my hesitation because his hand falls to the small of my back, and smoothes around the side of my waist.

“Stay close,” he says into my ear, his breath sending shivers down my neck.

I nod, allowing him to usher me through the crowd.

As we make our way deeper into the room, I catch sight of a woman walking around completely topless, her breasts on full display as she serves drinks to a group of bikers.

Another woman in nothing but a thong and pasties is dancing on a pool table while men throw bills at her.

My cheeks burn hot, and I drop my gaze to the floor.

Sweet baby Jesus. What the heck have I gotten myself into?

Klutch’s grip on my waist tightens as he steers me toward the bar where a man with dark hair is nursing a beer. The man looks up as we approach, his intense blue eyes sliding over me with mild curiosity before returning to Klutch.

“Denali,” Klutch nods in greeting. “This is Demi. She works at The Underground.”

I recognize the name immediately. Denali—the President of the Bastard Saints MC.

I can tell just by looking at him that he’s not someone to be messed with. There’s a hardness in his eyes that speaks of someone who’s seen and done things I can’t even imagine.

“Sir,” I manage, not sure of the proper protocol for addressing the president of a motorcycle club.

His lips twitch as a flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Just Denali is fine, darlin’.”

Klutch shifts beside me. “Her place got broken into tonight. She needs somewhere to crash for the night.”

Denali’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t ask questions. Instead, he just waves a hand dismissively. “That’s fine.”

And that’s it. No further explanation needed. I’m struck by the implicit trust between them—Klutch vouching for me, and Denali accepting it without question.

“Thanks,” Klutch says, already turning to lead me away.

We weave through the crowd toward a staircase. As we climb the steps, the noise from the party begins to fade, and by the time we reach the second floor, it’s muffled enough that I don’t feel like I have to yell for him to hear me.

Klutch leads me down a hallway lined with doors on either side. He stops at the last door and pulls a key from his pocket.

“Home sweet home,” he says, pushing the door open and ushering me inside.

I step into what looks like a small apartment. There’s a living area with a couch and TV, a tiny kitchenette in the corner, and two doors that I assume lead to a bedroom and bathroom. Everything is surprisingly neat and organized—not at all what I expected in a biker’s bachelor pad.

“This is your room?” I ask, setting my bag down on the floor.

“It’s a suite,” he corrects, closing the door behind us. “All the officers have one.”

I walk further into the space, taking it all in. The furniture looks new and the walls are freshly painted. “It’s really nice.”

“Clubhouse is new. Well, new to us anyway,” he explains as he watches me explore. “We just moved in a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh?” I prompt, curious about the story there.

“Long story. Maybe another time.”

I nod, not wanting to push. My eye catches on a framed photo sitting on the entertainment center. I walk over and pick it up, studying the image. It shows a younger Klutch standing between a handsome older man with the same dark features and a beautiful woman with kind eyes.

“My parents,” Klutch says, coming to stand behind me.

“You look happy,” I observe, smiling at the genuine joy on all three faces. They look like a real family—something I haven’t had in a long time.

“We are,” he says simply, taking the frame from my hands and setting it back down. “Most of the time, anyway.”

When I turn around, Klutch is kicking off his boots. He straightens up and pulls his t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing washboard abs and a happy trail I’d admired during his fight.

Realizing I’m staring, I quickly avert my gaze, my cheeks warming. “Um...”

“Bathroom’s through there if you want to shower or whatever,” he says, nodding toward one of the doors, completely oblivious to my discomfort. “Towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, grabbing my bag and practically running to the bathroom.

Once inside, I lean against the door and take a deep breath.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. I’m just staying the night in a strange biker’s room after watching him beat a man unconscious. “Oh God” I cover my face with my hands. What the hell am I doing?

Groaning, I drop my hands and look around the bathroom. Like the rest of the suite, it’s surprisingly nice. Clean white tiles, a large walk-in shower, and a vanity with a sink. It’s nicer than any bathroom I’ve ever had.

I set my bag on the counter and unzip it, pulling out my sleep shorts and tank top. After a moment’s hesitation, I decide a shower would be nice. Maybe it will help clear my head.

Stripping off the dress I now regret wearing, I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up. Steam begins to fill the room, and I step under the spray, sighing as the hot water hits my skin.

As I stand there letting the water cascade over me, the events of the day come crashing down. My dad vanishing. The apartment destroyed. The fear that Frankie’s men might have done something. And now I’m in a biker clubhouse with a man I barely know.

What am I going to do? I need to find my dad, but where do I even start looking? And how am I supposed to come up with ten thousand dollars in less than two weeks? Even with the tips from The Underground, I don’t know if it’s going to be enough.

The pressure that’s been building in my chest since finding my dad bloodied on our floor suddenly becomes too much.

A sob escapes my lips. I slap a hand over my mouth trying to hold it in, but the dam has broken and it all comes pouring out.

Leaning against the tile, I slide down the shower wall until I’m sitting on the floor and pull my knees up to my chest. I silently cry for my father, for the mother I lost, for the little girl I never got to be.

I don’t know how long I sit there with the water pouring over me as I sob into my hands, but suddenly I’m aware of the shower door sliding open. Before I can react, a strong arm slips around my back and another under my knees and I’m lifted from the floor.

“It’s going to be okay, Blue. I’ve got you,” Klutch whispers into my wet hair as he carries me out of the shower, not seeming to care that he’s getting soaked or that I’m completely naked.

I shake my head against his chest, crying harder. “No, it’s not. Nothing’s okay.” The words are muffled against his chest, but I think he understands because his arms tighten around me.

“Shh,” he soothes, carrying me through to what must be his bedroom. “I got you, baby.”

Something about the gentleness in his voice, the solid strength of his arms around me, breaks the last of my control.

I clutch at his wet shirt, burying my face against his chest and just let go.

All the fear, all the worry, all the exhaustion of being the responsible one for so long—it all comes pouring out in heaving sobs.

It’s been so long since I felt safe in someone’s arms. Since I let myself fall apart and someone else be strong for me.

Eventually, the storm subsides, and I become very aware of my surroundings again.

I’m sitting in Klutch’s lap on his bed, naked and wrapped in his arms. His shirt is soaked through, clinging to his chest, and when I lift my head, I realize he’s just been holding me, letting me cry, without saying a word.

“You put on a shirt,” I whisper dumbly.

Klutch’s caramel-colored eyes drop to my lips and my body goes still.