Chapter Thirteen
SAIGE
The night seems to swallow me whole as I push Camden’s bike to its limit, and I let it.
Endless darkness stretches in front of me, the purr of the engine under me.
I barely made it out among the chaos. As the attacking club members took off with their tails between their legs, I knew it was now or never.
My hands grip the throttle like it’s the only thing tethering me to this world. They tremble and shake, not from the cold or adrenaline from the fight, but from the war inside me that I just can’t seem to figure out.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until the wind smears the tears across my wind-chapped cheeks.
Pathetic. I should be laughing, celebrating.
I didn’t complete what I set out to do, but at least I’m no longer trapped in Camden’s room at the clubhouse.
I couldn’t find my bike, but the moment my eyes fell on his sleek black bike with a bit of burnt orange on the fuel tank, I knew it was my escape.
Even if it’s just going to piss Camden off.
A small laugh escapes my lips as I imagine his reaction to finding out not only did I bolt, but I did so on the back of the president’s bike, no less.
His bike. A part of me, and I’m not sure how much, wonders what will piss him off more. The fact that I’m gone, or his bike.
There’s no doubt he’s going to lose his mind, rage, and come after me. But Camden wouldn’t hurt me. For some asinine, sick reason, I believe him when he said he’d never physically hurt me.
The truth of that lodges itself deep in my chest, like a splinter I can’t quite dig out.
It’s the only thing that doesn’t make sense in the narrative I’ve convinced myself of, that all clubs, especially Hell’s Heathens, are evil, sick bastards who live above the law and by their own twisted, fucked-up rules of the road and brotherhood.
That Camden Young is just another monster with a patch, that we’re all just minuscule pawns in whatever sick game they’re playing that day.
But then why did he go out of his way to make sure I was comfortable, to make sure I had the things I needed, and to reassure me that I was safe, despite being in a cougar’s den?
Why did he only ever look at me like I was the strongest person he’d ever met in his life?
That my strength was something admirable rather than a weakness, or something that would somehow emasculate him.
In fact, it was a turn-on for him. A big one.
And Jesus, the way he fucked? The way I came harder than I ever imagined possible?
Why the fuck did he let me see all the good in him?
The human side beneath the Chaos. For a decade, I’ve pictured a cold-blooded killer.
A ruthless, bloodthirsty monster with no regard for life, a psychopath lacking any amount of emotion.
But that’s not who I met, goddammit, and I’m struggling to reconcile what I thought with what I know.
It’s why the entire time I ran out the back door to find my bike, I repeatedly told myself not to look back, not to hesitate.
But I did hesitate. I stood at his bike longer than I should have, an image of Camden sleeping next to me flashing behind my eyes, his arm flung over his face, hiding from the world even in his sleep.
He looks so soft when he sleeps, like the boy I imagine he was before the club, before the patch, before whatever twisted, fucked-up path led him to where he is now. Led him to me.
I hate him. I have to hate him.
He wears the colors of the club that took my family from me.
And every time he looked at me like I was the most important thing in the entire world, every time his voice or his touch made my heart flutter and beat wildly in my chest, I felt a deep, gnawing betrayal of the people who were the most important things in the entire world to me.
So why the hell does it feel like I just left a piece of me behind in that clubhouse?
Because I did.
I shake my head wildly, the wind whipping around me, my eyes flooded with tears, my throat choking with emotion I haven’t let myself feel in years.
My eyes scan the darkness for headlights, tails, anything that looks like vengeance coming to drag me back, but there’s nothing but the open road and the sound of my escape.
I scream into the night, a pointless, desperate cry that no one will hear. I push the bike harder, trying to outrun the man that I hate and the girl I don’t recognize anymore. Fuck everything.
No one’s coming to save me.
No one is coming to protect me.
All I have is myself. I need to remember that.
I pull the bike to a stop in front of Seb’s house, jumping off it and walking it quickly to the back.
I find a spot, concealing it as best I can behind the bushes that line his backyard, before racing back to the steps.
My footfalls are heavy as I jog up the stairs, the floodlight coming on above my head and illuminating me like a dancer on Broadway.
Exactly what I don’t fucking need right now.
I’m positive I wasn’t followed, and doubled back ten times before giving in and racing into his neighborhood. Do I think Camden will come after me?
Yes.
Not to punish me, not to drag me back kicking and screaming. No, Camden will come in like a storm, silent and inevitable, wrecking everything in his path just to look me in the eye and ask why. And the worst part of it all? I don’t have an answer.
But I’m not his.
I’m mine.
“Sebastian?” I say as I lock the door behind me and creep into his living room.
“Oh fuck me sideways, Saige! I thought you were someone with nefarious intentions!”
“So you thought you’d what? Pummel them to death in fuzzy slippers, a silk bathrobe, and a, what are you even holding? Oh god, please tell me that’s not . . .”
“Tommy.”
“Put Tommy away. I don’t need to see your toys. Wait, how the fuck does that thing fit?”
“Thought you didn’t want the details, ladybug?”
“You’re right, I don’t, I’m delirious right now.”
“It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, but you look like shit. Too many drinks with your new friends?”
“Something like that . . .”
“Well, thank fuck Wally already left, he was into some freaky shit. You do not want to know where he wanted to stick it.”
“Seb . . .” I say, exasperated as I collapse onto his couch.
“My fucking dimples, Saige. My dimples.” I pop back up, my eyes squinting at him. “Oh, you heard me correctly, he wanted to fuck my dimples.”
“I’m assuming you kicked him out?”
“Oh, no, honey, we tried it. I do not get what all the fuss is about, but I’m not about to yuck someone’s yum. Don’t knock it till you try it! Anyway, you look like you’ve been hit by a freight train and then left to rot in the sun.”
“You’re so nice to me. I literally just escaped the Heathen’s hell house, and I get here and you’re talking about how Dennis fucked your dimples, with a gigantic dildo in your hand.”
“Wally.”
“What?”
“Wally fucked my dimples.”
“Jesus Christ, Sebastian! Let me sleep, I’m feeling a bit crazy right now.” Seb takes a seat at my feet, pulling them onto his lap.
“Well, lucky for you, your underpaid therapist is sitting directly across from you. Spill the beans. Is it Camden?”
“It’s everything.”
“Well that sounds miserable. You fucked him, and it got you all twisted up inside, huh? Goddamn cocks, always rearranging our heads when all we want is for them to rearrange our guts. But for real, start talking or I won’t let you sleep.”
I spend the next hour laying it all out for Sebastian, going over most of the details before falling asleep. I should feel better, I should feel free, but there’s this piece of me that is yearning, missing, calling me back somewhere I know I don’t belong.