Page 72 of Unhinged

Outside, my wariness spikes when I don’t see a single car. Only bikes, lined up and ready. My stomach knots.

“Come on, Gidge,” Arrow drawls, heading toward his bike like he has all the time in the world. “You can ride with me.”

I arch a brow. “I’ve never been on one.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” he says, grinning like he’s daring me to call him a liar.

“Can’t we just take a car?”

“No can do, babe.” Acid smirks. “We roll on two wheels. We’ve used too many cages already.”

I huff, crossing my arms. “You call cars cages?”

“You ain’t a bird, Brydgett,” Gears says.

Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve always been trapped, slamming against the walls of a life I never wanted.

I don’t have time for this. I shake my head and square my shoulders. “I can’t walk in with you three. The jig is up if I do. Drop me off a block away.”

I don’t wait for their response. I climb onto the back of Arrow’s bike before I can change my mind. He turns to me, securing the helmet over my head with careful hands. His fingers brush against my jaw, lingering just a second too long.

I hold his gaze for a moment. I want to lean into his wrist, breathe him in, but I stamp that instinct down quickly.

Then he swings onto the bike in front of me, his back solid and steady. The bike roars to life, the vibration going straight to my core. I wrap my arms around Arrow, feeling the warmth of his body through the leather. I hear him groan, the sound low and guttural. He hits the throttle, and we fly out of the compound and onto the open road toward downtown, the wind whipping past us. The city blurs as we make our way to the shadypart of town, where you can find drugs on every corner, where the streets are darker, and the air feels thick with secrets.

We come to a stop a block from The Rusty Nail. I hop off the bike, handing Arrow the helmet and quickly fixing my hair. I give him a wink before sashaying away toward the bar.

A few sketchy characters loiter around, watching me as I pass. One woman eyes me up and down before calling out with a sultry voice. “Honey, I don’t discriminate—men or women. You got the money, I got the time.” She licks her lips.

I shake my head. “Sorry, sweetie. You’re not my type.”

With that, I pull the door open and step inside.

The inside of The Rusty Nail reeks of stale beer and desperation. This is the kind of place where criminals, druggies, and prostitutes mingle, their eyes glinting with all the wrong kinds of intentions. The dim, flickering lights do little to hide the grime that coats the walls. A jukebox hums in the corner, a sad, old country song playing on a loop, the only sound over the low murmur of hushed conversations and the clinking of glasses. A few men sit at the bar, their faces hard as stone, their eyes darting around the room as if constantly looking for trouble.

In the corner, a woman in a torn leather jacket leans against a wall, her makeup smeared like she’s been here too long. A man in a hoodie glances at me as I walk past, eyes lingering on me for a second too long. I ignore him. The stench of sweat, cigarettes, and cheap whiskey hangs in the air, drowning out the hope of scenting any individual and it makes my skin crawl. I'm here for business. I’m not here to make friends.

I walk further into the bar, heading straight for the back where the real deals go down. This is where information is sold, and if I’m lucky, I’ll find out exactly who knows something about Kenny, or who can give me the answers I need.

The bartender barely looks up as I approach, too used to people sliding in and out of his establishment. I order a whiskeyand Diet Pepsi, nothing crazy—just enough to keep me sharp. He slides the drink across the counter, and I grab it without hesitation.

I lean against the bar, taking a sip as I scan the crowd. The room is a sea of lowlifes, some familiar, most not. Faces I’ve seen before in the dark corners of this town. But tonight, I’m here for something more than just the usual cheap thrills. I’m here for answers.

As I nurse my drink, a lanky man steps beside me, his presence immediately noticeable, not just for his height, but for the strong smell of pot that clings to him. He's either a beta or high as a kite. He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Hey, Sweet Thing. What are you doing here at a place like this alone?”

I turn to him with a soft, teasing smile. “I am.” I giggle. “I hear this is where to find information and a good time.”

He grins, clearly taking the bait. “Which one are you looking for, sexy?”

I take another sip of my drink and bite my bottom lip, holding his gaze. “Lucky for you, both.”

He shifts, clearly flustered, adjusting himself as if he’s trying to hide his excitement. I know I have him exactly where I want him.

“Sit with me and we’ll talk. Maybe I know something about what you’re searching for.”

I nod and follow him to a booth in the far corner, away from the prying eyes of the crowd. He sits down across from me, leaning forward, his body language eager. He reaches out, his hand brushing mine, and I feel the roughness of his calloused, bony thumb as he begins to speak. “So, what do you think you wanna know?”

I pull my hand back slightly, giving him just enough space to think he’s in control. “I’m looking for Kenny,” I say casually. “He used to give me my heroin.” I pause and dart my eyes around,making sure no one’s listening before I continue, “I’m not an addict, but I like to party, you know?”