“This is our thing, Mugs. I act like an ass, you put me in my place, we fight, and then we fuck and do it all over again.”
“Well, maybe that doesn’t work for me anymore. Maybe I see this for how toxic it really is.” And I rush off toward my SUV to get away. It won’t work. I already know that well before he catches up to me.
“Open the gate!” I try not to sound panicked as I shout my order to the prospect who stands guard, but I think I fail miserably. He doesn’t even look to Wyatt before moving to the lock at the center of the gate and pulling one side open halfway. I turn to give him a quick nod, but something past him, outside the gate, catches my attention.
My feet still as I try to figure out what I’m looking at. Something looks off, feels wrong, but I can’t make out just what. Outside the clubhouse gates is the parking lot for Forsaken Custom Cycle. It’s a front for the club’s illegal businesses and doesn’t get much action. Every now and then the boys will have a big order to fill, but that’s usually around the time of the annual parade Fort Bragg puts on to show off its love of Americana. It’s basically a big party for bikers and the only time I think FCC actually earns out. So, this time of year, the lot should be mostly empty.
But it’s not.
“Fuck, Amber,” Wyatt says from behind me. He wraps his arms around my midsection and pulls me to him. I try to shush him, but he just holds me tighter, so focused on this fracture between us that he’s ignoring his instincts. He feels it, I know he does. He wasn’t raised in the club, but he’s had the same training I have—even more, actually.
“Something’s wrong,” I whisper. I keep my lips as still as possible while I mentally check every car in the lot. There’s an old Impala hanging out by the door to the office. I think that’s been here for a while now, so I ignore it. It’s the black van sitting off to the side with a dude in the driver’s seat that bothers me. He’s got a paper map open in front of him, and he’s trying to figure something out with it. But it feels off. He’s parked in a weird spot, not in any space I’d choose if I had to suddenly pull off the road to figure out where I was.
Wyatt’s senses kick in. I can feel it in his arms. They tense around me. His breathing slows even as his heart rate spikes. This is my man kicking into warrior mode. One of the first things that made me fall for him was his sense of stillness in the midst of war. I can’t even remember what started it, but back in the day, a fight broke out inside of Detroit’s clubhouse. Even though my man was just a prospect back then, he took out two threats before they even got a shot off at my dad. Wyatt didn’t earn his rank by fucking Forsaken’s princess. He earned it through hard work, bloodshed, and loyalty. I had absolutely nothing to do with what he’s accomplished.
Just a few seconds pass, though it feels like it’s been several minutes. Wyatt’s mouth is at my ear. He speaks so quietly that I have to strain to make sense of his mumbling. “Black van, far right. It’s blocking the light post.”
It’s only now that I remember the 160-degree security mirror the club had installed on the light post for the guard on duty to see what’s on the other side of the fence as he opens it. Except that right now the van is blocking the mirror, and the prospect is way too focused on what we’re doing to pay attention to what’s on the other side.
Wyatt walks around me to the prospect. He’s got a hand up, ordering me to stay put. They exchange a few words with the prospect confirming that he’s been keeping an eye on the van and has inspected the other side of the fence and that nobody’s there. Wyatt claps him on the back, pulls out the piece he keeps tucked into the back waistband of his jeans, unlocks the safety, and then puts it back in place, covering it with his cut. Then he walks past the open gate toward the van.
I don’t like it. It feels like a trap.
“Hey, Rink,” I say and head over to him. He’s still got the AR-15 in hand and is shielding himself from the street. If I’d been in doubt about the kind of fucked Forsaken is, the clubhouse gates being locked at all times and 24/7 prospect duty with heavy artillery sure as hell suffused my doubt. The threat from Mancuso is definitely greater than that of local law enforcement, I guess.
“I need your piece,” I say and point to the waistband of his black jeans. He wrinkles a brow and shakes his head.
“No, ma’am,” he says nervously.
“Either give me your personal gun, or I’ll be taking this beauty right here,” I say and place my hand on the barrel of the AR-15. “You play sniper or backup. Your choice.”
“I’m not giving you my choppa,” Rink says and hands over his .22.