Chapter 6 #2
“Too bad. We’re very persistent.” Ginger stands, gathering plates. “Give her time. Whatever she’s running from, she’ll figure out eventually that having a safe space to land is better. And when she does, we’ll be here.”
The morning wears on.
I try to work. I pull out my laptop, and start reviewing files but the pain meds make it hard to focus, and my head is pounding within twenty minutes. Maggie confiscates the laptop with a look that dares me to argue.
I don’t, I’m too tired.
Instead, I find myself drifting from room to room, learning the layout of the clubhouse.
The main room with its battered leather couches and massive TV.
The kitchen, heart of the operation. The bar in the corner, well-stocked and frequently visited.
The hallway lined with doors—rooms for members who need a place to crash, offices, storage.
And everywhere, people. Club members coming and going, conducting business, shooting the shit. The women who’ve adopted me, constantly checking in, offering food or coffee or company.
It should feel overwhelming. Instead, it feels safe.
When is the last time I’ve felt safe?
I’m standing at the window in the main room, watching prospects do complicated things with motorcycles in the back lot. Ginger moves beside me, watching them work.
“Ridgeline crew’s coming in,” she says, her voice carefully casual.
“Stone mentioned that.”
“Mmhmm.” She’s trying—and failing—to suppress a smile. “My brother’s coming with them.”
“The famous Bradley?”
“Brick, they call him now. Though he’ll always be Bradley to me.” She practically glows. “I haven’t seen him in forever. Not since Christmas, when he came up for the week. He helped me reorganize the entire storage room.”
“He sounds like a good brother.”
“The best. A little rough around the edges—all these boys are—but underneath?” She presses a hand to her heart. “Biggest softie you ever met. Used to cry at dog food commercials, you know.”
Something about that image that makes my chest tight.
“He sounds like a good man.”
“He is. They all are, once you get past the leather and the scowls.” Ginger pats my arm. “You’ll see. This crew—they’re family. Loud, messy, overprotective family who’ll drive you crazy and love you fiercely. You just have to let them.”
I think about Stone.
“Maybe I will.”
Ginger smiles like she knows exactly who I’m thinking of. “Good. Now—have you seen Isabel? I want to try talking to her again. Maybe offer her a makeover. Girls love makeovers.”
“I don’t think Isabel’s a makeover kind of girl.”
“Everyone’s a makeover kind of girl with the right approach.”
She bustles off before I can argue, and I go back to watching the prospects.
I find Isabel in the back hallway an hour later, pacing like a caged animal.
She freezes when she sees me, her body going tense, her eyes darting to the exit at the end of the hall.
“Relax,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m not here to stop you from whatever you’re planning on doing.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To talk.” I lean against the wall, trying to look casual despite the fire in my ribs. “And to say thank you for saving my life.”
“You already thanked me.”
“Not properly. I was drugged and concussed, and probably not making a lot of sense.”
Isabel’s guard doesn’t lower, but she stops looking at the exit. Progress.
“You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t do it for gratitude.”
“I know. You did it because someone was in danger and you could help. That’s rare, Isabel. Most people freeze. Or run. You grabbed a bedpan and went to war.”
She frowns. “I’ve had practice.”
“I figured.” I let that sit for a moment.
Her jaw tightens. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m just saying—I recognize it. The look you have. I’ve seen it before, in a lot of people who came through my courtroom. People who’ve been fighting for so long they’ve forgotten what peace feels like.”
Isabel is very still. Watching me with those dark, wary eyes.
“You were a prosecutor,” she says. “Ginger mentioned it.”
“In Atlanta. I dealt with a lot of cases involving...” I choose my words carefully. “People who hurt other people. And the people who got hurt trying to survive them.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Because I got someone killed. Because I made promises I couldn’t keep. Because I broke myself and the lives of others in the process.
“It stopped being sustainable,” I say instead. “I burned out. Came here for a quieter life.”
“That seems to be working out well for you.”
I laugh despite myself. “Yeah. Not exactly the peaceful slide into retirement I was hoping for.”
Isabel almost smiles. Almost.
“Look,” I say, “I’m not going to pry. Whatever you’re dealing with, whatever you’re running from—or running toward—that’s your business. But I want you to know that these people aren’t your enemy. They’re not going to hurt you. And if you need help, they’ll give it. No strings attached.”
“There are always strings.”
“Not here. Not with them.” I push off the wall, wincing slightly. “I know it’s hard to believe. I didn’t believe it either, at first. But the Stoneheart MC takes care of their own. And like it or not, Isabel, you’re one of their own now.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“Neither did I. And yet here we are.”
She stares at me for a long moment. I watch the war playing out behind her eyes—the desperate need to trust someone fighting against years of evidence that trust only leads to pain.
“I can’t stay,” she finally says. “There’s something I have to do. I—” She cuts herself off. “I just can’t stay.”
She’s already moving toward the back door when it opens from the outside.
Tank fills the doorway, arms crossed, expression flat.
“Going somewhere?”
Isabel freezes. For a second, I think she might try to bolt past him—but even she has to know that’s suicide. Tank is built like a refrigerator with a bad attitude.
“I need air,” she says tightly.
“Get it from a window.” He steps aside just enough to let her back into the hallway, then positions himself in front of the door. “Stone’s orders. Nobody leaves without an escort.”
Isabel’s jaw tightens. She shoots me a look—not angry, exactly. More like resigned. Like she’s expected this.
“Fine,” she mutters, and stalks back toward the guest rooms.
I watch her go, a heaviness settling in my chest.
Tank catches my eye. “Third time today she’s tried to rabbit.”
I wince.
“Stone’s getting twitchy about her. Whole club is.” He shakes his head. “Ridgeline crew can’t get here fast enough. We need more bodies if we’re gonna keep running a daycare for flight risks.”
Something has to give, and soon.