Page 4 of Victorious, Part 2 (The LA Defiance MC #6)

PHOENIX

The weight of Clover’s silence is similar to the feeling of a crushing force throughout my body.

She’s been staring out the passenger window for the past half an hour, watching the desert blur by, and I can practically feel the guilt radiating off her in waves. Every mile we put between us, and LA seems to make it worse.

Dracula is perched behind us on my leather jacket, occasionally letting out a soft moan when we hit a bump, but even he seems to sense the tension in the truck. The little furball keeps looking between us as if he’s waiting for one of us to crack.

But it might be me who is the first to damn well break.

“You okay over there?” I ask, though it’s a stupid question. Neither of us has been okay since we lost contact with the club.

Clover turns to me, and the tears tracking down her cheeks hit me like a sucker punch to the chest.

“I can’t stop thinking about them,” she whispers. “About what they might be going through right now while we’re out here playing tourist.”

I want to comfort her.

I want to tell her everything is going to be fine.

But the words stick in my throat.

Because the truth is, I don’t know if everything is going to be fine.

I don’t know if Sadie is safe, if the club is safe, if we’re driving toward Vegas or driving away from a massacre. All I know is that Maverick’s orders were clear. “ If we can’t reach them, continue to Vegas, and under all circumstances…

Keep.

Clover.

Safe.”

But fuck if it doesn’t feel like we’re abandoning everyone who matters.

“Phoenix,” she mumbles, her voice smaller now. “What if the worst has already happened? What if they’re all gone?”

The GPS chirps, announcing our turn for the Mojave National Preserve, and I take it automatically, muscle memory guiding me while my brain wrestles with her question. “Then we deal with it when we know for sure,” I say finally. “But until then, we stick to the plan.”

She nods, but I see the war playing out across her face. The same war that’s been raging in my soul since yesterday morning.

Duty versus a desperate need to know.

Orders versus instinct.

Protecting her versus protecting everyone else.

The Mojave National Preserve spreads out before us as if from another planet. Joshua trees dot the landscape with their alien arms reaching toward the sky, and the late afternoon sun turns everything golden and otherworldly.

Bono from the band U2 stated that the tree was named by Mormon settlers after the prophet, Joshua, as it reminded them of Joshua raising his arms in prayer.

I’m not a man of faith, never claimed to be, but maybe that’s what we need right now.

To raise our arms in prayer that the club is safe.

Seeing these trees in their glory, as the symbols of faith that they are, under normal circumstances, I might actually appreciate the stark beauty of it all.

But these aren’t normal circumstances.

And faith in the past has gone unanswered.

So maybe I will rely on silent prayers to a God I don’t believe in.

Fuck, maybe I’ll pray to Bono instead.

Parking at one of the designated overlooks, I rack my jaw from side to side with my racing thoughts as Clover mechanically gathers her camera equipment.

She’s going through the motions, but her heart isn’t in it.

I see it in the way she handles her gear, careful but distant, like she’s performing a duty rather than pursuing a passion.

“Take your time,” I tell her as we both hop out of the truck, and she sets up her first shot.

She glances at me, and for a second, I see a flicker of the girl who got excited about weird roadside attractions and perfect lighting.

“Thanks,” she whispers softly.

I watch her work, noting how she frames the Joshua trees against the vast sky, how she captures the display of light and shadow on the desert floor. Even distracted by grief and fear, she’s got an eye for this stuff. The people who hired her were right to trust her with this campaign.

My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps into my throat.

But it’s just a damn low battery warning.

Still no signal.

Still no word from home.

Clover finishes her shots, and we move to the next outlook area, then the next. She’s getting some good content, but I see the effort it’s costing her. Every smile for the camera is forced. Every posed shot feels like a betrayal of everyone we left behind.

By the time we reach Kelso Dunes, the sun is starting its descent toward the western horizon, painting the massive sand dunes in shades of copper and gold.

“This is beautiful,” she says, but there’s zero enthusiasm in her voice.

“Yeah… it is,” I reply, my eyes drifting over her tiny frame.

Clover doesn’t see me watching her as she sets up her equipment with the same mechanical precision, but when she starts filming, something changes. Maybe it’s the grandeur of the landscape, or maybe it’s just that she can’t fake it anymore, but her commentary becomes raw, more real.

“Sometimes you find yourself in places you never expected,” she talks into the camera, her voice thick with emotion. “Sometimes the journey takes you so far from home that you start to wonder if you’ll ever find your way back.” She’s not talking about the desert, and we both know it.

When she finishes, she sits heavily on the truck’s tailgate, and I join her. Dracula hops down from his perch and winds around our legs, purring.

“I can’t do this for much longer,” she admits, her voice barely audible over the desert wind.

“Do what?” I question, furrowing my brows.

“Pretend like everything’s normal. Pretend like I’m not dying inside, not knowing if Maverick’s okay. If Haven’s okay. If any of them are okay.”

I want to reach for her, want to pull her close like I did this morning, but something holds me back. Maybe it’s the knowledge that if I touch her right now, if I let myself be that vulnerable again, I might not be able to do what needs to be done.

“We’ll know soon,” I say instead. “Once we get closer to Vegas, we’ll have cell service again.”

She nods, but the doubt is clear in her eyes.

We pack up as the sun continues its descent, and her movements become sharper, more agitated. And by the time we’re back on the road, heading for our next planned stop, she’s practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“Where to next?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“There’s a truck stop about twenty miles ahead,” she says, checking her phone for the hundredth time. Still no signal. “We can get gas, grab some food, maybe check if they have a working phone.”

The hope in her voice when she mentions the phone squeezes my chest.

Not even the playlist is lifting her spirits anymore.

When we arrive, the truck stop is exactly what you’d expect—a sprawling complex of gas pumps, convenience stores, and fast-food joints catering to long-haul truckers and desert travelers.

The parking lot is crowded with eighteen-wheelers and RVs, people stretching their legs and restocking supplies. Normal people living normal lives.

I pull up to a pump and kill the engine. “I’m going to fill up and grab us some drinks. You want anything specific?”

“Just water, and maybe something for Dracula to eat,” she states, already pulling out her phone to check for signal.

I watch her face fall when she sees the recurring ‘No Service’ message, and something twists in my gut. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her, but she doesn’t acknowledge me at all, just glances back at the damn cat for comfort.

Huffing, I take off for the convenience store.

It’s a typical truck stop fare with overpriced snacks, energy drinks, and souvenirs nobody fucking wants.

I grab water for Clover, a soda for myself, and some jerky for the road and the fucking cat.

The cashier is a middle-aged woman with kind eyes who looks like she’s seen every type of traveler the desert has to offer.

“You folks okay?” she asks as she rings up my purchases. “Your girl out there looks pretty upset.”

I glance through the window at Clover, who’s pacing next to the truck with her phone held high, trying to catch a signal. “Family emergency,” I reply, which isn’t exactly a lie. “We’re trying to get in touch with people back home. Cell service is a bitch.”

She nods sympathetically. “Yeah, it’s spotty at best out here. You might have better luck at the payphone around back, but I can’t guarantee it works.”

A payphone. Christ, when’s the last time I used one of those?

“Thanks, appreciate it,” I tell her, pocketing the change.

When I get back to the truck, Clover is sitting on the tailgate looking defeated. Dracula has climbed into her lap and is purring against her chest as if he’s trying to comfort her.

“Any luck?” I ask, though her expression already gives me the answer.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s like the entire world just… disappeared.”

I hand her the water and sit beside her. “The cashier mentioned there’s a payphone around back. Might be worth a try.”

Her eyes light up with desperate hope. “Really?”

“Can’t hurt to check.”

She takes off, and I smirk, following her as we find the payphone mounted on the back wall of the building, and miracle of miracles, it actually has a dial tone. Clover digs in her purse for quarters while I try to remember Maverick’s number.

She dials with shaking fingers, and we both lean in to listen, then…

“The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.”

“Shit,” she berates, hanging up. “Try Sadie’s number.”

Same result.

“Haven?”

Nothing.

“Alpha?”

The same automated message every time.

By the time we’ve tried every number we can think of, Clover’s silent tears stream down her face, making me feel as if I’m failing her, even though I feel it may be the phone that’s the problem.

“The phone must be crap, the cashier did say it might not work,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe it. “Or maybe the cell network at home’s interrupted, or—”