Page 47 of Tear Me Down (Descent to Darkness Trilogy #2)
Chapter twenty
Ashia
Four Days Later
The rumble of the bike quakes beneath me, but I’ve become so used to the notion since my first time riding on it that it doesn’t faze me much anymore.
The afternoon sun beats down on us, and if it wasn’t for the air whipping past us, I’m sure it would be far too hot out for my liking.
Being late June now, the summer heat is way too much for me, but when Damien said he was taking me on a relaxing drive through the mountains, I couldn’t resist. Since the city is settled in a bowl of mountains, there were plenty of routes to choose from, and of course he somehow picked the best one.
There weren’t many other cars or heavy traffic to get in the way, and the shade provided by the surrounding trees was very calming.
This little reprieve from the recent stress was much needed, and it was nice to feel our troubles fade away with the wind.
Every turn we tucked around and each dip that made my stomach woosh made the past few weeks a little more bearable, and some room to breathe with just the two of us was peaceful.
I’m sad that it has to end, but I know that Damien might have to go back out later tonight.
Our little moments of tranquility never seem to last long, but they mean more to me than he knows.
Especially after the past couple of weeks.
Serena and I had a long talk that evening at The Attic.
It probably lasted about four hours before Damien finally insisted we go home, but it was a good four hours.
We both got a lot off our chests, and while it was much needed, it was draining.
She admitted that being around Damien, and what this organization brings was a lot for her to process.
That she’s been trying really hard to just go with the flow for my sake, since she was dragged into this atmosphere so abruptly, but didn’t really know how she felt about it, and I understand that completely.
I had weeks with Damien before I had to witness the violence that follows him, and her first real interaction with him ended in a car chase and practically left her under house arrest until I was poisoned.
She didn’t really understand my feelings about the poisoning either, and needed to know how I was just so okay with everything.
Which is when I admitted to her what I realized while she was gone.
That I’m not really okay with it, but that I was processing.
Serena and I have two very different outlooks on life, and I explained to her that while yes, it was horrible, and I’m having a hard time recovering from it, that I saw it in a different light than she did.
She didn’t understand that I woke up with the man I love next to me, and that for the first time in my life I didn’t feel alone.
That while something horrible did happen, something better came out of it, and I think her hearing that I wasn’t just sliding by completely unscathed helped her understand better .
While we’re not back to a hundred percent, we’re getting there.
I understand that she needs a little space from the chaos, and she recognizes that this world is more than just deranged psychopaths and murder.
We both swore to be more open with one another, and she promised not to just ghost me again when she’s feeling overwhelmed.
She seemed the most relieved when I promised her that no matter what happens, and no matter how much I love Damien, that her and I were a packaged deal and I’ve made that very clear in me and my fiancé’s relationship.
Her ‘give’ into our healing was that she swore to give Damien more of a chance, because even though she reluctantly admitted to it, she confessed that she does see how much he loves and cares for me.
That while his world may be the polar opposite of hers, their little spat actually helped her feel more comfortable around him, and those are words I never thought I would hear from her.
Now that it’s all said and progressing, I need to push it away. There’s only about another twenty minutes of our drive, and I don’t need to spend it recollecting. I’ve done that enough the past few days, and this moment is about us. What we need, not everyone and everything else around us.
We’re riding back to the house now, about to go through downtown so we can cut across to our mountain route, when I hear the roar of multiple other bikes approaching us.
It takes me a minute to register what the noise is, but I look back to confirm five road monsters barreling towards us, each with burly, tattooed, and leather-coated men riding on them.
Their bikes all have the same old school look as Damien’s, but some are clearly more worn, and might actually be aged appropriately.
The men don’t look at us, but they make it clear that we’re their targets as they box us in.
One man pulls in front of us, then one on each side, and the two remaining bikers follow in behind us.
“Don’t look at them baby, just keep your eyes forward,” Damien says through the mics in our helmets, and I tighten my grip around him—more wary now that I hear the concern in his voice.
“Who are they?”
“CMMC. Chaos and Mayhem’s local charter,” he says blankly, but I can hear the worry in his tone. Even though his head isn’t moving, I can feel him looking around as we cruise forward.
“I haven’t heard of them.”
“Good. That means you aren't on their bad side.”
“Does that mean you are?”
“Not necessarily. We’ve been on good terms, but they obviously want to talk. We’re going to have to follow them, most likely to their clubhouse. When we get there, you stay right with me, and don’t say anything. Don’t look at them. You keep your eyes on me or on the walls.”
His demands are nothing new to me, but the concern behind them is. I know this isn’t a normal visit, and most definitely isn’t a normal occurrence. These men want something, and I’m assuming Damien doesn’t know what that something is .
“Okay.”
“I'm serious, Ashia. They’re dangerous, and they’re going to want to push back—see if they can rattle me,” he says, seemingly getting more worried as the seconds pass.
“Okay, baby.” I faintly run my hand over his chest as we turn, telling him that I understand, and I’m thankful when his muscles relax under my touch.
We follow every turn and straight line they make, complying without question, and while I find it odd, they don’t use any type of hand signal, gesture, or even chuckle in amusement as we ride.
Whatever this is must be very serious, and I can’t help it as my heart rate kicks up.
Of course, our peaceful ride has come to a close too soon, and now it may have gotten us into a bad situation.
About ten minutes later, we’re pulling into a shared parking lot between a large commercial garage and what looks like a bar.
Neither is worn down to look unsafe, but they’re not in pristine condition either.
The buildings are a little rough around the edges and clearly carry a heavy presence with worn paint and dusty windows.
Bikes are lined up next to each other in rows, and a few men in patched vests stand by the door looking relaxed, until they moment they notice we drive in, and then they stand at attention.
We all park, and the men that followed us are sure to get off their bikes after Damien and I—surrounding us as we make our way to the door.
They escort us inside, two in front and three in the back, and the men playing guard duty look at us like we have no right to be there.
Their lips are snarled, and they look away in annoyance, like our presence is a bug that won’t stop buzzing in their ears.
I notice their leather vests have large name patches, and I think a skull on the back, but I listen to Damien and don’t stare.
I look straight forward, taking in every detail on anything but the people here—even through all of the whistles and cat calls directed at me.
Surprisingly, Damien doesn’t fly off the handle into a fit of rage, but he does tighten his grip on my hand in anger.
The inside looks much more maintained than the outside.
The dark wooden floors are surprisingly clean, the tables and chairs don’t look worn or wobbly, and it’s actually well decorated with chains, posters, neon signs, brand decals, and bike tires hanging on the walls.
Even the people surrounding us, who I’m assuming are also a part of the club, seem to be respectful about how they’re handling themselves.
There are coasters under their drinks, and they’re not flailing about or slushing alcohol everywhere.
I’m guessing they’re either like this all of the time, or they knew that they were going to bring us in and are putting on their best behavior.
We’re escorted into a large office, where we’re greeted by a man who radiates the same authoritative aura as Damien.
He’s obviously tall and has a large build, a bald fade with just enough hair to tussle on top, and the sides of his head are tattooed.
This man has a warmer and darker complexion, and his dark brown eyes stare with an intensity that screams impatience.
He’s sitting behind a large desk, and another man with the same vest as everyone else stands beside him.
This man is much bigger somehow, probably about six-foot-six and has the build of a pro wrestler, and I can feel the anger radiate from him the moment we step through the door.
He’s bald and has his arms crossed against his chest like he’s ready to beat someone for answers, with an enraged essence rolling off of him in waves.
Both men look exhausted, the big one more than the sitting one, and the dark circles under their eyes are apparent. Even as they stand confident, I see the desperate type of fatigue buried beneath the surface, and that only makes me worry more.