Chapter Five
"I'm not leaving my store."
Bedrock had expected the argument. Had seen it building in the set of her jaw and the fire in her eyes from the moment he'd said the word safe. Opal Whitaker wasn't the kind of woman who ran from trouble.
Which was exactly why trouble was going to get her killed if he didn't move her tonight.
"Grit's on his way." He kept his voice level, watching her pace behind the counter like a caged animal. "He'll secure the building, keep eyes on it until we figure out next steps."
"Next steps?" She spun to face him, and damn if that fury didn't make something in his chest tighten. "My next step is opening tomorrow morning at seven, same as always. My customers depend on me."
"Your customers will survive a few days."
"Mrs. Patterson won't." Her voice cracked on the name, just slightly, before she armored it back up.
"She's eighty-three years old and I'm the only person who listens to her talk about her dead husband.
Mr. Tackett comes in every Tuesday for tobacco, and if I'm not here, nobody checks on him. The Greer family—"
"Will still be here when you get back."
"You don't know that!"
"I know that dead women don't run stores."
The words landed like a slap. Opal went still, her chest heaving with emotion she was fighting to contain. For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the ancient refrigerator case and the distant rumble of Grit's bike approaching.
"That's not fair," she said quietly.
"None of this is fair." Bedrock moved closer, drawn by something he didn't want to examine too closely. "You didn't ask for this. Didn't deserve it. But it's happening, and you can either let me help you survive it or you can die proving a point nobody will remember."
Her eyes glistened. She blinked it away before it could become tears.
"I hate you a little bit right now."
"That's fine." He stopped an arm's length from her, close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat. "You can hate me all you want from somewhere safe."
Grit's bike cut off outside, and a moment later the door swung open. Dylan Carter filled the frame—six feet of Marine-hardened muscle with eyes that swept the store like he was clearing a hostile building.
"Situation?"
"Three hostiles, one incapacitated. They'll be back with friends." Bedrock didn't look away from Opal. "I'm moving her to the Coleman safehouse. You've got the store until I call it clear."
"Copy." Grit's gaze flicked to Opal, assessing. "Ma'am."
"I have a name," she said, and there was that backbone again, steel wrapped in honey. "It's Opal. And I haven't agreed to go anywhere."
Grit's mouth twitched. "She always this stubborn?"
"Getting that impression."
"I'm standing right here."
Bedrock turned back to her, and something in his expression must have shifted because her defiance flickered for just a moment.
"Opal." He let her name roll off his tongue, tasting it. "These men kill fighting birds for intimidation. They won't hesitate to do worse to you. I'm not asking permission—I'm telling you how this goes. You come with me now, or I carry you out."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
The challenge hung between them, electric and dangerous. He watched her weigh her options, saw the moment she realized he meant every word.
"Fine." She grabbed her bag from behind the counter, movements sharp with barely contained anger. "But if anything happens to my store—"
"Nothing will happen to your store."
"If anything happens to Mrs. Patterson—"
"Grit." Bedrock didn't break eye contact with her. "The Patterson widow. Anyone asks about the store being closed, let them know it's temporary maintenance."
"Got it."
Opal's expression shifted, surprise softening the edges of her fury. She hadn't expected him to listen. Hadn't expected him to care about an elderly woman's feelings.
Good. Let her keep underestimating him. Easier that way.
"Let's go."
He led her out the back, away from the front windows and any eyes that might be watching from the darkness. His truck was parked behind the dumpster, positioned for a quick exit on roads that didn't appear on any map worth the paper it was printed on.
She climbed in without help, because of course she did. Independent to the bone, even when accepting help was the smarter play.
Bedrock fired the engine and pulled out, headlights cutting through darkness that swallowed everything more than twenty feet ahead.
"Where are we going?"
"Safehouse. Twenty minutes on back roads."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
She made a sound of frustration but didn't push. Smart woman. The less she knew about locations, the less she could give up if things went sideways.
Not that he planned on letting things go sideways.
The roads narrowed as they climbed, pavement giving way to gravel giving way to dirt that most people would call impassable. Bedrock navigated by memory, taking turns that didn't exist unless you knew they were there.
"You know these roads," Opal said. Not a question.
"Know them better than I know most people."
"That's... actually kind of sad."
He glanced at her, surprised. Most people didn't push back when he offered pieces of himself, small as they were.
"Roads don't disappoint you," he said. "They go where they go. No surprises."
"People surprise you?"
"People leave."
The words came out before he could stop them, raw in a way he hadn't intended. He felt her gaze on the side of his face, assessing, curious.
"Tell me about the cockfighting," he said, steering the conversation back to solid ground. "Everything from the beginning."
She was quiet for a moment, and he thought she might refuse. But then she started talking, her voice steadier than the pulse he could see jumping in her throat.
"Started about three weeks ago. A man came into the store—older, weathered, looked like a farmer. Said he was scouting locations for private events and my back lot had good access."
"You told him no."
"I told him I wasn't interested in renting my property to strangers." She shifted in her seat, angling toward him. "He offered money. Good money. I still said no."
"And that's when the trouble started."
"The fence came down a week later. Then the birds. Then tonight."
Bedrock filed the timeline away. Three weeks of escalating pressure, which meant the cockfighting operation was serious about her location. Not just convenient—essential somehow.
"Your lot's isolated," he said, working it through. "Good access but no neighbors to notice traffic. They've probably been eyeing it for a while."
"Lucky me."
"They won't stop." He took another turn, the truck's suspension groaning over a washout that would strand most vehicles. "Men like this—they see obstacles, not people. You're an obstacle."
"So what do I do?"
"Right now? You survive. Let the club figure out who's behind it and how to make them stop."
"And if the club can't?"
He looked at her then, holding her gaze for a long moment before turning back to the road.
"The club always can."
The safehouse emerged from the trees like it had grown there, a cabin built from logs and stubbornness and a desire to disappear. Bedrock had used it three times in six years, always for situations that required distance from compound and patience for resolution.
He killed the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the night sounds. Crickets. An owl somewhere in the distance. The creek that ran behind the property, murmuring secrets to anyone patient enough to hear.
No engines. No voices. Nothing that didn't belong.
"This is it?" Opal peered through the windshield at the dark cabin. "It looks like the setting for a horror movie."
"Safest place in fifty miles."
"That's not reassuring."
"Wasn't trying to reassure you." He climbed out and circled to her door, opening it before she could do it herself. "Trying to keep you alive."
She slid out, close enough that he caught her scent—something floral beneath the sharp edge of fear and adrenaline. For a moment they stood there in the darkness, the silence pressing in around them.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For coming when you did. For... all of this."
"Don't thank me yet. This is just the beginning."
"I know." She looked up at him, and in the faint moonlight her eyes were luminous, unguarded in a way she probably didn't intend. "But you didn't have to help me. I'm just a customer."
Just a customer.
The words scraped against something in his chest, something that had shifted the moment he'd seen those three men surrounding her in her store.
"You're not just anything," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "Now get inside. We've got work to do."
He guided her toward the cabin with a hand on her lower back—a touch that burned through her jacket and into his palm like a brand. She didn't pull away.
When he looked back at the truck, the darkness had swallowed everything behind them. No headlights. No pursuers.
For now.
Opal had stopped looking over her shoulder by the time they reached the door. He wasn't sure if that was trust or exhaustion, but either way, it felt like progress.
He'd take it.