Snake raises an eyebrow. “Stone?”
My mouth opens wide, a fresh wave of fear washes over me.
My father has his phone to his ear and rage on his face. Eyes wide, brimming with dark intent like thunderclouds on the horizon prophesying a storm.
I tighten my grip on Snake.
He does the same — his arms encircling me with a sheltering squeeze.
“What is it, Stone?” He says.
My father ignores the question.
Instead, he takes my mother by the arm and drags her toward his bike, grim determination all over his face.
“Dad,” I shout. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Stone, tell me what the fuck is going on,” Snake says.
He stops, then.
“Addie, you and Snake get on his bike. Stitch is on the way and he’ll help Razor and Ruby clean up this mess and take care of Trips. I need you and Snake to get home and get safe. I have to get the hell back to the clubhouse, now.”
“Why? Dad, what’s wrong?” She says.
“Axel just called. The shipment never showed. They found the truck and driver in a ditch outside of town. The guns are gone. That bastard Bowen Dale stole our fucking guns.”
Chapter Ten
Snake
The woman I care about most in the world shakes in my arms. Quakes in fear. Overcome with terror at witnessing her first murder in the kind of vivid, gut-wrenching closeness that burns itself forever into your heart and mind.
It rips me up seeing her innocence tainted like this.
And it stirs my blood to murder.
I want to get ahold of these men that forced her into this situation, that threatened her life, and make them suffer until the torture and agony I inflict on them ruins their sanity. I want to beat them until their teeth shatter and they drown in their own blood. I want to cut them open until they spill every last drop of their life upon the dirt. In their last moments, I want them to feel unspeakable suffering and remorse; I want them to beg me for the mercy that they know will never come.
Because they dared to hurt this woman in my arms.
This woman who, every time she looks at me, doesn’t see a monster scarred by war, but a man who makes her smile.
No one else looks at me that way.
No one.
It’s a gift I don’t deserve. And a gift that I will forever cherish.
Then, as I hold her, Stone speaks. Speaks in that tone that calls forth memories of drill sergeants, of commanding officers barking through the torrent of combat, and the part of me that will forever be a soldier, forever be in service to the Army Rangers, springs to life.
“We need to get moving,” I say to Adella. Say it though I want nothing more than to stay in this moment where I am holding her, comforting her. But I can’t fight that sense of loyalty to my club, to my commanding officers, that is burned into my soul. The best I can do is make my tone gentle, but firm. “It’s time to go, Addie.”
She stills her tears.
Brave girl.
She nods. “OK. Let’s go.”
I lead her toward my bike, my hands still on her arms, guiding her, steadying her. She shakes at my touch, and I have to fight like hell with my urges to keep from wrapping her in my arms again and holding her.
“I will get you home. You will be safe. Come on,” I say, as much to remind myself of my duty as anything else.
Stone is already on his bike, and we’re not far behind when she suddenly halts.
“Wait, I forgot something,” she says.
And she runs back to the gun-ruined wreckage of the SUV and pulls out from underneath the front passenger seat a manila envelope that’s surprisingly intact and covered with a half-dozen stamps.
It’s a simple action, but it’s not one without cost.
She casts a sad-eyed look at the dead man, and fresh tears shine in her eyes while fear and disgust twists her face. She will never forget this moment.
Without a word, she gets on the bike behind me, still clutching the envelope to her chest.
I drive deliberately, but still fast enough to catch up to Stone and Tricia, who are flying down the road to Lone Mesa as fast as his bike will take them.
We roar through the quieter areas of Lone Mesa on the way to Adella’s apartment, eventually losing sight of Stone and Tricia as our paths separate.
At an intersection close to her home, she taps me on the shoulder.
“Can we stop?” She shouts above the rumble of my bike.
I scan the surroundings, see that it’s safe, and pull to the side.
“What is it, Addie?”
“This,” she says, holding out the envelope so I can see it. “Can we please go to the post office?”
“I need to get you home, Addie. It’s not safe.”
Her lip quivers. The sight of her fear is poison to my ability to deny her. All I want is to comfort her, to take away her tears and her pain.
I kill the engine. Look at her long and slow. Even as she is — eyes full of tears, a total mess — she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. None of the club girls, none of the women I’ve spent time with in all my years riding, can hold a candle to Addie Stone even when she’s at her most disheveled.
“Please, Snake. These are my photos for the art show. I worked so hard on them and, if I don’t get these in the mail soon, I’ll miss out. I know it seems small and stupid, but I need something; I need some kind of win, some kind of
