Chapter 13 Melissa #2
About ten miles down, the road opened up into the kind of nothing you only get in the high desert—flat scrub, distant blue mountains, sky big enough to swallow you whole.
I loosened my grip a little, letting the wind slap my hair back, and tried to imagine a world where I wasn’t a target, or a bargaining chip, or whatever else the next wave of violence would make of me.
Maybe there was no such world. Maybe the only thing that made sense was this: Augustine’s shoulders, the hum of the engine, and the feeling of being part of something instead of always apart.
His phone rang.
Not the one he’d tossed at the gas station—this was a burner, probably. He let it go for three rings, then swerved onto the shoulder and killed the engine. The silence was brutal.
He slid off the bike, fished the phone out of his pocket, and stepped away, all while keeping his eyes on the horizon.
“Yeah,” he said, voice clipped.
I could hear it, just faintly, through the wind—Damron’s voice, as harsh and unmistakable as gravel under boot.
“Mobilize. Leatherbacks on the move. Rex is dead. They’re blaming us. You’ve got half a day, tops. Get her safe. Then call in.”
Augustine listened, didn’t interrupt, just let Damron’s words fill the space between us. I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare make a sound.
“Copy,” he said, and hung up. He stared at the phone for a second, then dropped it to the gravel and crushed it under his boot.
He turned back to me. The change was instant. The man who’d held me through the night, who’d watched me eat pancakes like a normal person, was gone. In his place was Augustine the enforcer—eyes hard, mouth a straight line, every move a calculation.
“Problem?” I said, pretending not to have heard every word.
He shook his head. “Just a change in plan. Hold on tight.”
I did.
The next leg of the ride was faster, reckless.
Every time we slowed for a curve or a patch of bad road, he reached back with one hand and squeezed my knee—firm, almost punishing, like he was checking to make sure I was still there.
I squeezed back once, and he gunned the throttle, the bike surging forward.
We flew past an overturned semi, past two patrol cars guarding a broken guardrail, past a battered sign that said WELCOME TO LOS ALAMOS COUNTY. I felt the world shrink down to just the bike and the road and the freight train of fate coming for us.
At a red light on the edge of a strip mall, Augustine finally stopped. He killed the engine and let the moment breathe.
“You need anything before we get there?” he asked, not turning around.
I thought about telling him. About the bathroom, the mirror, the secret I wasn’t sure I could even say out loud. But the look on his face—hard, scared, already grieving for the next fight—made me hold back.
“Just you,” I said, and hated myself for how much I meant it.
He nodded, started the bike, and took us the last few miles into the heart of Scythes territory.
***
The Bloody Scythes clubhouse looked less like a home and more like a prison designed by bikers who’d watched too much Mad Max.
A two-story rectangle poured from concrete, every window barred, the perimeter ringed by six-foot chain link topped with razor wire and a bonus cluster of aluminum bats near the gate for emphasis.
In the parking lot, twenty-some motorcycles stood in gleaming, symmetrical rows, polished to a mirror shine even though most of their owners looked like they’d bathed last in motor oil.
Augustine rolled us in slow, the gravel crunching loud under the tires, and for a second every head turned as one.
A pack of patched men and women clustered near the loading dock, cigarettes frozen midair, every eye locked on me.
Some wore leathers, some just jeans and cut-off vests, but all had the same scars-and-tattoos vibe—like if you tried to mug this group, you’d wake up in a landfill minus your teeth and wallet.
He killed the engine, then just sat there with his hands on the grips for a beat, reading the crowd.
He might have looked casual to anyone else, but I could see the way his shoulders squared up, the way he positioned his body between me and the rest of them.
Not hiding me. Showing them I was his problem, and anyone who disagreed could get bent.
I slid off the pillion and nearly twisted my ankle; the ground was uneven and my knees were still jelly from the ride.
Augustine caught my elbow, steadying me, then left his hand at the small of my back as we walked toward the door.
I wanted to shrug him off, but the truth was, I needed that anchor.
The crowd parted, but not by much. I caught snatches of conversation—some respectful, some not.
“…the girl? That’s her? Looks like she’d snap in half…”
“…Saint’s gotta be losing his goddamn mind…”
“…Augie’s gonna get us all killed over some Leatherback tail…”
I ignored them, focusing on the door. Carl Dalton stood guard, his arm wrapped in a makeshift sling, the fabric already stained through.
He was the one who’d taken a bullet for me at the last club skirmish, and I expected him to spit on the ground or call me a jinx.
Instead, he nodded. Just a single, solemn dip of the head, but it nearly undid me.
“Don’t listen to that shit,” Augustine said. “Every man here has gone down the same rabbit hole, and we’ve protected every one of these motherfuckers.”
“So I’m not special?” I asked.
“Shit. You’re more than special.” He laughed and squeezed his arm around the small of my back.
Augustine pushed the door open, and I followed him through.
Inside, the clubhouse was equal parts rec room, war room, and post-apocalyptic dive bar.
Pool table stacked with ammo boxes. Walls lined with yellowing Polaroids of club royalty and dearly departed.
A table covered in gun parts and ragged maps of the county.
The air reeked of bourbon, cigarettes, and something burned that I hoped was just toast. It had not changed much since the last time I was here.
The chatter died as we entered. All eyes again on me, like I was the first girl to ever cross this threshold, or the last person on earth. I lifted my chin and pretended I couldn’t feel my heart punching holes in my ribcage.
A hand found mine—Augustine’s. He didn’t look at me, just squeezed once, hard, then let go as we crossed to the center of the room.
At the far end, Damron St. James sat in a battered office chair, boots up on the table.
His beard was shot through with grey, and the lines on his face looked carved with a knife.
He watched us approach, eyes sharp as broken glass.
Next to him, two other officers of the club, neither of whom bothered to hide the fact that they were packing.
Augustine stood at parade rest, just inside striking distance. “Boss.”
“Thought you’d never get here,” Damron said, voice dry as kindling. “Is the girl in one piece?”
Augustine nodded.
Damron turned his attention to me, gaze flat and appraising. “You cause this much trouble everywhere you go, or is this a special occasion?”
“I could ask you the same,” I said, matching his stare. My mouth was dry, but my voice held. “You ever think maybe it’s not the girls who make the trouble, but the men chasing them?”
A smirk flashed, brief but real. “You got sand, I’ll give you that.”
A pause. He looked at Augustine, then back at me. “You both need rest. After that, we plan.”
Augustine inclined his head, took my elbow, and started toward the back of the clubhouse. As we passed through the gauntlet of Scythes, more than a few nodded at us—not friendly, but not hostile either. Just the way wolves acknowledge a new pack member.
I didn’t realize I was holding my stomach until we reached the private quarters. My hand was pressed flat against it, a useless little shield over what might, or might not, be growing inside me.
Augustine noticed, but said nothing. He just unlocked the door to a small room—bare cot, old TV, tiny window barred shut. It felt safe. Or safer than anywhere else I’d ever slept.
He closed the door behind us, then leaned back against it, running a hand through his hair.
“You did good,” he said. Not a compliment, more an observation.
I sat on the cot and let my breath out slow. For the first time in days, I didn’t want to run.
“What now?” I asked.
He shrugged, that sad, old-soul gesture. “Now we wait for the next shoe to drop.”
I looked at the door, then back at him. “You’ll keep me safe?”
He didn’t answer right away. He crossed the room, knelt in front of me, and rested his hands on my knees. The scars on his knuckles stood out, white and angry. “I’ll try,” he said. “Even if it kills me.”
I believed him. Even with the world stacked against us, I fucking believed him.
I lay back on the cot, hands folded over my stomach, and waited for sleep to take me. The sound of bikes revving in the parking lot was a lullaby, the burn in my throat a reminder of what I was fighting for.
If this was war, so be it. I had survived worse.