Morbid (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #9)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Gunnar

The first post comes through at nine-thirty.

I'm in the clubhouse common room, nursing a beer and half-listening to Ulf and Hakon argue about carburetor settings, when my phone buzzes against my thigh.

Instagram notification.

Ingrid posted to her story.

I shouldn't check it.

I know I shouldn't.

But my thumb's already swiping before my brain catches up, and there she is—red hair catching the dim bar lighting like fire, green eyes bright with alcohol and reckless energy, surrounded by Trisha, Lizzie, and Angela.

The caption reads: "Causing trouble tonight! "

Location tag: Riverside Tavern, downtown Tallahassee.

Civilian bar.

No club protection.

No prospects keeping watch.

Just Ingrid and three girls who don't know danger when it's buying them drinks, posting their location like an invitation to every predator with a smartphone.

Fuck.

"You good?" Hakon asks.

I lock my phone. "Yeah. Fine."

"You look like someone kicked your dog."

"Just tired."

He doesn't believe me, but he drops it.

I try to focus on the conversation, on Ulf's insistence that the newer Mikuni carbs are superior to the old Keihin setup, but my mind's already downtown.

Ingrid in a civilian bar.

Ingrid with those friends who enable every self-destructive impulse she has.

Ingrid looking for trouble because trouble's easier than feeling.

I've watched her do this for years now.

Ever since Bjorn.

No—longer than that.

Since Njal.

Bjorn cast her aside after the explosion, feeling like she was only staying with him just because, or because she felt sorry for him.

Little did he know the gem he was releasing back out into the world. I see it though, I always have.

Ingrid didn’t open up for a long time, but when she did, she went for Njal, his twin brother.

Then Njal happened.

Four months of him treating her like Rev’s replacement, but she never was, and she never would be.

But, in those four months, she was content, seemed happy enough.

Then he threw her away like trash.

And Ingrid stopped fighting.

Stopped pretending she deserved better.

Started living down to every low expectation those bastards set for her.

My phone buzzes again.

Eleven-fifteen.

I pull it out even though I know I shouldn't.

Another story post.

The photo's blurry this time, Ingrid's face flushed and laughing, another drink in her hand that she definitely doesn't need.

Caption: "Who needs tomorrow anyway? "

My jaw tightens.

"All right, what is it?" Ulf asks.

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. You've been staring at your phone like it personally offended you."

"Just someone being stupid."

"Someone or a specific someone?"

I don't answer.

Hakon whistles low. "It's Ingrid, isn't it?"

"Drop it."

"She posting her spiral again?"

"I said drop it."

He raises his hands. "Just saying, man. She does this every few weeks now. Gets wasted, posts about it, someone has to go collect her before she gets herself hurt."

"I know what she does."

"So why do you look like you want to put your fist through a wall?"

Because I'm tired of watching her destroy herself.

Because every time she posts these things, I see the girl she used to be—confident, fierce, full of life—and I want to hunt down Njal and Bjorn and make them pay for breaking her.

Because somewhere in the last year, watching her fall apart stopped being painful and started being personal.

Because I'm in love with Fenrir's daughter, and she doesn't see me as anything but her parents' friend's kid.

Safe.

Harmless.

Gunnar, who grew up in the clubhouse, same as her.

Gunnar, who's always around but never really there.

"I'm fine," I lie.

My phone buzzes a third time.

Twelve-thirty.

I shouldn't look.

I look.

It’s a video this time.

Ingrid dancing, some civilian's hand on her waist, pulling her close.

She's laughing, but it's wrong, too high, too sharp.

The kind of laugh that means she's past drunk and heading toward blackout.

Caption: "Living my best life "

I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving.

"Where you going?" Ulf calls.

"Out."

"It's past midnight."

"Thanks for the time update."

"Gunnar—"

But I'm already gone, grabbing my cut from the back of my chair, my keys from my pocket.

The night air hits me like a wall when I step outside—humid, thick, the kind of Florida heat that doesn't quit even after sunset.

My Street Bob sits where I left it, matte black and patient.

I throw my leg over, feel the familiar weight settle, and kick it to life.

The engine rumbles, deep and steady.

Twenty minutes to downtown Tallahassee.

Twenty minutes to get to her before something bad happens.

Because something always happens when Ingrid gets like this.

Some guy who thinks she's easy because she acts like she doesn't care.

Some situation that spirals because she's too drunk to see danger coming.

I've pulled her out of three bad situations in the last six months alone.

Each time she thanked me, then went right back to the same self-destructive bullshit.

Each time I told myself to stop caring, stop watching, stop waiting for her to see me as anything but the friend who shows up when she's spiraling.

But here I am.

Again.

Always.

The ride downtown is a blur of highway lights and humid darkness.

I take the exit for Tallahassee, navigate the grid of streets until I find Riverside Tavern wedged between a pawn shop and a tattoo parlor.

Civilian bar, but not a dive.

Music thumps through the walls, bass rattling the windows.

Friday night crowds spilling onto the sidewalk, smoking and laughing and living their normal lives.

I park the bike and kill the engine.

Through the front window I can see her.

Red hair like a beacon in the crowd, impossible to miss.

She's at the bar with her friends, another drink in her hand, and she's leaning into some guy in a polo shirt who looks like he's never seen the inside of a gym but thinks his dad's money makes him tough.

His hand is on her lower back.

She's not pulling away.

Something dark and possessive twists in my chest.

Mine.

The thought comes unbidden and unwelcome.

She's not mine.

She's never been mine.

But watching another man touch her makes me want to break things.

I push through the door.

The bar is loud, crowded, reeking of cheap beer and cheaper cologne.

I cut through the crowd like a knife, ignoring the looks, the double-takes, the way people step aside when they see the cut.

Ingrid doesn't notice me until I'm right behind her.

"Having fun?" I ask.

She spins, eyes wide, and for a second, she looks terrified.

Then recognition hits and her face shifts—annoyance, embarrassment, defiance all at once.

"Gunnar." She says my name like an accusation. "What are you doing here?"

"Saw your posts."

"So?"

"So you're drunk in a civilian bar posting your location for anyone to see."

"I'm fine."

"You're anything but fine, girl."

Polo Shirt steps closer, puffing up like he's suddenly ten feet tall. "She said she's fine, man."

I don't even look at him. "Ingrid. Let's go."

"I don't want to go."

"I don't care what you want. You're drunk, you're being stupid, and I'm taking you home."

"Who the fuck are you?" Polo Shirt demands.

This time, I do look at him.

He's maybe twenty-five, clean-cut, probably got a trust fund and a degree from FSU that daddy paid for.

The kind of guy who thinks he's dangerous because he can buy bottle service.

"I'm the guy telling you to walk away," I say quietly.

"She's with me."

"No." Ingrid's voice cuts through. "I'm not with him. I'm not with anyone."

"Then come with me," I tell her.

"Why? So you can lecture me? Tell me I'm being reckless?" Her words slur slightly. "Tell me I should make better choices?"

"No. So I can make sure you don't get hurt."

"Maybe I want to get hurt. Maybe that's the point."

Fuck.

Trisha appears at Ingrid's elbow, all bleached hair and too-tight dress. "Ingrid, who is this?"

"Nobody," Ingrid says.

The word lands like a punch.

"Nobody," I repeat.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. I do."

Lizzie and Angela have materialized now, forming a protective circle around Ingrid like they could actually stop me if I wanted to take her.

"We're fine here," Angela says. "She doesn't need you to play the hero."

"I'm not playing anything."

"Then leave." Ingrid lifts her chin. "I didn't ask you to come. I don't need you to come. I'm an adult and I can make my own decisions."

"Your decisions lately have been shit."

"So what? They're my decisions. My life. My—"

"Your father would lose his mind if he knew you were here."

Her eyes flash. "Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare use my father to control me."

"I'm not trying to control you."

"Then what are you trying to do?"

Save you.

Keep you safe.

Make you see that you're destroying yourself, and I can't watch it anymore.

"I'm trying to be your friend," I say instead.

Something in her expression cracks.

Just for a second.

Then the walls slam back up, and she's laughing, sharp and bitter.

"Friends don't stalk each other's Instagram stories."

"Friends worry when the person they care about posts themselves getting blackout drunk in a bar where anything could happen."

"Nothing's going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"I know I'm tired of everyone treating me like I'm fragile." Her voice rises. "I'm not broken. I'm not some victim who needs protecting. I'm just—"

"What? What are you, Ingrid?"

She stares at me, eyes too bright, and for a heartbeat, I think she's going to tell me.

Going to admit that she's drowning.

That she's been drowning for years and nobody's noticed because she's gotten so good at smiling while she sinks.

Instead she says, "I'm done with this conversation."

She turns back to the bar, reaching for her drink.

I catch her wrist.

"Let go," she says.

"No."

"Gunnar—"

"You can hate me tomorrow. Right now, I'm getting you out of here."

"I said no."

"And I don't care."

Polo Shirt makes the mistake of grabbing my shoulder.