Chapter 4 Melissa #2
Damron stopped in the doorway and planted himself there, arms crossed like he could barricade the exit with attitude alone.
He took a long, silent inventory of me: the ripped blouse, the bandages, the club jacket swallowing my frame.
I pretended not to notice, but my pulse thumped so loud it was a miracle neither of them called me out.
Augustine dropped next to me on the couch, elbows on knees. He gave me a nod—more warning than comfort.
Damron spoke first, voice a few shades above lethal. “So, princess. Want to tell us why the daughter of the Leatherback president is running scared in our territory?” He spit the word “princess” like it tasted foul.
My hands trembled as I set the water glass down. For a split second, I considered lying. The urge passed; if there was one thing these men hated more than a Leatherback, it was a liar.
I wet my lips. “I didn’t ask to be here.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Damron’s stare pinned me to the couch. “Start from the top. And don’t think about bullshitting me. Augustine might like to play the white knight, but I don’t.”
I swallowed hard. Augustine didn’t look at me, but I could feel the heat of him next to me. He was there if I needed it.
“Yes, I’m Cutler D’Agossa’s daughter. Yes, I’m aware that makes me club royalty or whatever you want to call it.”
Damron didn’t blink. “So why are you hiding out in a rival patch’s clubhouse, instead of getting bottle service in Durango?”
I flexed my hands to stop the shaking. “I’m not hiding out. I’m running. Or trying to.”
He grunted. “From who?”
I hesitated. “You ever heard of Saint Etienne?”
Damron and Augustine exchanged a look, so fast you’d miss it if you blinked. Augustine’s jaw went tight, but Damron’s lip curled.
“Saint is a fucking maniac,” Damron said, then leveled his gaze at me. “What did you do, steal his bike?”
“No,” I whispered. “I was supposed to marry him.”
That got their attention. Augustine shifted on the couch, just enough that our knees almost touched. Damron finally pushed off the doorframe, took a couple of steps in, then stopped.
“Arranged marriage. Thought that was just a biker fairy tale.” His voice was pure acid.
“It’s real enough if you’re a woman in the Leatherbacks,” I said. “Especially if you’re the president’s daughter and Saint is your dad’s best enforcer.”
“He’s not just an enforcer,” Augustine said, voice tight. “Guy makes me look like a babysitter.”
Damron ignored him. “And you’d rather be a corpse in the New Mexico dirt than a Leatherback’s old lady?”
I nodded, then corrected: “I’d rather die than be Saint’s old lady.”
Nobody spoke for a second. Outside, a motorcycle backfired. The sound snapped us all out of the freeze.
Damron’s voice was softer, but only in the way a saw blade sounds softer after it’s dulled. “You think running to the Scythes is going to make it better?”
“I didn’t plan on ending up here.” I felt the tears coming and forced them back with a swallow of rage.
“I was supposed to make a drop, lay low until my dad cooled off. Then Saint found out, and he… he sent people. I took the car and ran. That’s when the Leatherbacks caught up with me. You know the rest.”
Augustine looked at Damron, then at me. “What does he do to his women?” His voice was so flat I almost didn’t recognize it.
I laughed, the sound all bitter pulp. “He kills them. Three that I know of. Daddy calls them accidents, but I saw the last one before they ‘cleaned it up.’” I looked down at the cut on my arm, at the purple blooming under the gauze. “He’s not subtle.”
Damron gave a humorless chuckle. “And your dad? He’s just okay with this?”
“He’s the one who arranged it. Said it was for the good of the club. For ‘unity.’” I rolled the word off my tongue like it was arsenic.
Damron walked to the mini fridge, fished out a beer, and cracked it. “You got a plan, Melissa?”
“Plans are for people with options.” I wanted to sound tough, but my voice wobbled at the end. “I thought maybe if I got far enough, maybe if I made myself a problem for someone else, he’d leave me alone.”
“You ever think about the collateral?” Damron jerked his head at Augustine. “People die for less than this, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “I didn’t mean to drag anyone in. I just—” My voice gave out. I shut my eyes, sucked in a breath, and tried again. “Saint finds me, it’s not going to be pretty. You can throw me out or lock me up, I don’t care, just—don’t let him take me alive.”
Augustine’s hand drifted to my knee, not quite touching, but close enough to remind me he was in my corner.
Damron’s gaze flicked between us, measuring, weighing, judging. “You realize you’re not worth dying for, right? Not to this club. Not to anyone but maybe him.” He jerked his chin at Augustine.
“I’m aware,” I said, and straightened my spine. “I never was.”
Damron looked at Augustine. “This is your mess. You clean it up.”
Augustine’s reply was so quiet I almost missed it. “She stays.”
Damron nodded. He downed half the beer in one go, then dropped the can on the coffee table so hard it dented the aluminum. “She gets out of hand, I don’t want to hear about it. Handle your shit, Sadist. Or I will.”
He left, the door bouncing off the frame behind him.
For a second, neither of us moved. Augustine finally ran a hand through his hair, then looked at me with something like pity.
“Sorry,” he said, “he’s an asshole.”
“Better an asshole than a corpse.”
He grinned, but it faded quick. “He’ll come around. If you want to stay, we’ll make it work.”
I looked down at my hands. I wanted to believe him, but the thing about growing up with a man like Cutler D’Agossa is that you never stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Usually, it comes with a foot attached.
“Do you think he’ll really come?” I asked.
Augustine didn’t answer right away. He was already staring at the door, at the hallway beyond, at the universe of enemies waiting just outside. “If it was me, I’d already be here.”
I laughed, sharp and ugly. “My dad’s not you.”
“That’s why you’re still alive.”
He stood, holstered the Glock, and offered me his hand. “You want to see the rest of the place?”
I looked up at him. The bruises on my arms throbbed, but I couldn’t tell if it was pain or hope. Maybe both.
I took his hand. His palm was warm, steady.
“Lead the way, Auggie,” I said with a smile.