Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Kelsey
The cat café is exactly what I hoped it would be—bright, airy, and filled with the soft sound of purring.
CatsAndJava takes up the corner of a refurbished building in downtown Chihuahua, its large windows letting in enough sunlight that creates perfect napping spots for the resident felines.
It's my third day on the job, and I'm starting to feel like I might actually belong here. Maybe.
"Perfect timing," Astra says as I tie my apron around my waist. "The morning rush is about to start."
I study her as she prepares the espresso machine.
With her fire-engine red hair and deathly pale skin, Astra stands out in Mexico.
She's not what I expected for an old lady—no leather, just simple jeans and a flowy top with the café's logo embroidered on the pocket.
But there's something about the way she carries herself that speaks of confidence, of knowing exactly who she is and where she belongs.
"You're getting good with the register," she comments as I count out my drawer. "Faster than the last girl I hired."
"Thanks," I say, genuinely pleased at the compliment. "I've worked in cafés before. The routine's pretty similar."
Astra laughs as a tabby weaves between her ankles, nearly tripping her. "But I bet your last place didn't have these little monsters to contend with."
I smile, watching as the cat—Jasper, according to his collar tag—stretches up along the counter. "I don't mind them. They're... calming."
Astra's eyebrow raises slightly. "You strike me as a cat person."
"What gave it away?" I ask, reaching out to scratch Jasper behind the ears.
"The way you don't try to control them. You let them come to you on their terms." She gives me an appraising look. "Not everyone gets that."
Her words remind me of my conversation with Boulder the other morning—cats on their terms versus needy dogs.
I push the thought away, not wanting to dwell on the night we shared.
The morning passes in a blur of customers, coffee orders, and occasional cat interventions.
I fall into the rhythm easily—measuring beans, steaming milk, making small talk with regulars who are curious about the "new girl."
I give them the sanitized version of my story: just moved from the States, looking for a change of scenery, loving Mexico so far.
Each lie comes easier than the last.
I've been Kelsey long enough now that sometimes I almost forget that's not my real name.
During a dead spot in the day, Astra shows me around the cat play area—a separate room where customers can pay extra to spend time with the adoptable rescues.
It's designed with floor-to-ceiling cat trees, tunnels hanging from the ceiling, and colorful bean bags for human seating.
"I make all the furniture myself," Astra explains, showing me a scratching post wrapped in sisal rope. "It lasts longer that way. Those cheap store-bought ones fall apart in no time."
I run my hand over the craftsmanship, impressed. "This is amazing work."
"Thanks," she says, genuine pride in her voice. "Python—my husband—thinks I spend too much time online shopping, but it’s well worth it."
"I can see that," I say, understanding the need for activities that quiet the mind.
"I've seen some of your doodles on the order pad," Astra mentions casually. "You're pretty talented."
I feel heat rise to my cheeks. I didn't realize anyone had noticed my mindless sketching during breaks. "Just passing time."
"We feature local artists on our walls," she continues, gesturing to the paintings hanging throughout the café. "If you ever want to show some of your work..."
The offer catches me off guard. "Oh, I don't... I mean, I haven't actually created anything real in a long time."
"Well, the offer stands. Sometimes putting your art out there is the best way to reclaim it for yourself."
I nod, touched by the gesture but knowing I can't risk that kind of visibility.
Anything that could connect Kelsey to Cady Warlow is too dangerous.
As the afternoon passes, I find myself drawn to one particular cat—a skittish tabby who stays hidden in a corner, watching the world with wary green eyes.
None of the café visitors seem interested in her, preferring the more social, playful cats.
During my break, I sit near her corner, not making eye contact, just existing in the same space.
After a few minutes, she inches closer, curiosity overcoming her cautious nature.
"That's impressive," Astra says, appearing beside me with two mugs of tea. "Luna hasn't approached anyone since she came to us last month."
I accept the offered tea, watching as Luna settles a cautious three feet away from me. "She just needs time. And space."
"Like someone else I know?" Astra's tone is light, but her eyes are too perceptive for comfort.
I shrug, not taking the bait. "What's her story?"
"Found in a dumpster behind a restaurant. Someone had thrown her away like trash." Astra's voice hardens. "People can be monsters."
"Some more than others," I murmur, images of those DVDs flashing in my mind—the ones I found after Mom died, filled with content so vile I threw up when I realized what I was seeing.
Children .
So many children.
Including ones I recognized from around our hometown.
My own father.
My own blood.
Creating that fucking filth.
The memory makes bile rise in my throat, and I take a hasty sip of tea to wash it down.
"You okay?" Astra asks, too observant for my comfort. "You went pale there for a second."
"Fine," I say quickly. "Just tired. Still adjusting to the altitude here."
She doesn't look convinced, but thankfully doesn't push.
As we head back to work, I notice Astra casually mentioning her husband might stop by later.
The way she says it—offhand but with a pointed look—makes me think it's some kind of test.
To see how I'll react to having an actual club member in the café.
I keep my face neutral, but inside, my anxiety spikes.
The more club people I meet, the greater the chance someone might recognize me from Montana, might connect the dots to who I really am.
Part of me considers quitting on the spot—but where would I go?
What would I do?
Tara arranged this job as a favor through her club connections, and I promised I'd give it a real try.
Plus, I need the money.
My savings won't last forever.
Hell, and in all actuality, I need to be close to the club in case my brothers do actually track me down.
That was my agreement with Tara—stay close to the club.
I take a deep breath, grounding myself.
I'm being paranoid.
The odds of Python knowing my real identity is slim to none.
I force myself to focus on work, on the comforting routine of taking orders, making drinks, answering questions about the cats.
It's almost enough to make me forget the constant knot of fear in my stomach.
Almost.
During a bathroom break, I check my burner phone out of habit.
The screen shows one new message, and my blood runs cold.
Unknown Number:
We know you left the state.
It's them .
It has to be.
I know it's Benji or Craig.
The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies, and I grip the edge of the sink to steady myself.
They know I'm not in Montana anymore.
How?
Did they know someone at the phone store?
My breath comes in short gasps, the edges of my vision darkening.
I recognize the signs of an oncoming panic attack and force myself to breathe—in for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight.
A technique I learned after the first time I found out what my family really was.
After several minutes, I've calmed down enough to think rationally.
They know I've left the state, but that doesn't mean they know I've left the country.
I'm still safe, still ahead of them.
I have to be.
I splash water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me seems like a stranger sometimes—eyes too old for her face, shoulders permanently tensed for impact.
"You've got this," I whisper to myself. "You've survived worse. Much worse."
When I return to the café floor, I immediately notice a change in the atmosphere.
Astra's body language has shifted—more relaxed, more open.
She's talking with a tall, muscular man whose back is to me.
My stomach drops when I see the cut he's wearing—Reapers Rejects MC, with an "Enforcer" patch prominent on the back.
This must be Python.
I don’t even know why I’m nervous.
I knew the club was tied to this joint.
The club is here to help me if I need it, not hurt me.
I just… I don’t want Boulder knowing I’m staying here. At least, not yet.
"Kelsey! Come meet my husband," she calls, waving me over.
Plastering on my best customer service smile, I approach them, mentally cataloging escape routes out of pure habit.
Python turns, and I get my first good look at him—mid-thirties, olive-skinned, with dark eyes that seem to miss nothing.
A scar runs along his jawline, disappearing into his beard.
He's intimidating in the way all club men are, but there's a softness in how he looks at Astra that catches me off guard.
"So you're the new girl Astra's been talking about," he says, extending a hand. "Welcome to Mexico."
I shake his hand, relieved when I see no sign of recognition in his eyes. "Thanks. It's been great so far."
"Tara said you were a quick learner," he comments, and my heart stutters at the direct mention of my connection to the Montana charter.
"You know Tara?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
Python nods. "Been up to the national charter a few times. She spoke highly of you."
I force a smile, mind racing.
What did Tara tell him about me?
How much does he know?
"She's a good friend," I say carefully. "Helped me out when I needed it."
Python's eyes sharpen slightly at that, but his expression remains friendly. "That's what the club does. We take care of our own and those connected to us."
There's a weight to his words that feels significant, like he's telling me something important.
Before I can puzzle it out, the bell above the door chimes, signaling new customers.
"I should get back to work," I say, grateful for the interruption.
Python nods, turning back to Astra. "I'll pick you up at closing, yeah?"
She smiles, reaching up to kiss him. "See you then, babes."
As I help the new customers, I can't help but notice Python leaving, his gaze sweeping the street outside before he exits.
It's a practiced move, the kind of awareness I've developed myself since running from my family.
The rest of my shift passes in a blur of coffee orders and cat care, but my mind keeps returning to Python's words. "We take care of our own."
Was that meant to reassure me?
Or was it a subtle reminder that club protection comes with strings attached?
By closing time, my nerves are frayed.
Every time the door opens, I flinch, expecting to see Benji or Craig—or worse, my father somehow free from prison.
The rational part of my brain knows that's impossible.
Dad's serving multiple life sentences for what they found on those DVDs.
But fear isn't rational, is it?
I still remember the day I turned him in like it was yesterday.
The look of betrayal on his face when the police showed up.
The way he screamed that I was dead to him, that blood meant nothing now.
The relief I felt when they put him in handcuffs, mixed with the crushing guilt of destroying our family.
But I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Those children deserved justice.
They deserved someone to stand up for them, even if it meant turning against my own flesh and blood.
Benji will never forgive me.
Not for sending Dad to prison, not for exposing the family "business" to the authorities.
The "business" that had made us comfortably wealthy while destroying countless young lives.
I shake off the memories as I wipe down the last table.
Astra's counting the register, and through the window, I can see Python waiting outside on his bike.
"Good work today," Astra says, handing me my share of the tips. "You're fitting in well here."
"Thanks," I say, genuinely touched by her approval. "I like it more than I expected."
She smiles. "The cats have that effect on people. Healing in their own way."
As I prepare to leave, she adds casually, "Python mentioned there's been some trouble in the area. A local thug named Andrés causing problems for businesses under club protection." She pauses, watching me carefully. "Including this café."
I freeze, not sure how to respond.
Is she warning me?
Testing me?
What does it mean for us, really?
"Be careful walking home," she continues. "Or let me know if you want Python to have someone get you home safe."
The thought of having a club member know where I live sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
"I'll be fine," I say quickly. "I don't live far."
Astra nods, but her eyes are knowing. "Everyone needs protection sometimes, Kelsey. Even those who are used to handling things on their own."
Her words follow me as I leave the café, stepping into the cooling evening air.
I scan the street instinctively, looking for anything out of place, anyone watching.
That's when I notice it—the same car that passed by the café multiple times during my shift, now parked across the street.
The driver is obscured by shadows, but I can feel their gaze on me like a physical touch.
My heart races as I quicken my pace, taking an indirect route home.
I make four unnecessary turns, doubling back once to confirm my suspicion.
The car is following me.
Panic rises in my throat, choking me.
I duck into a busy shop, moving quickly through the aisles to the back exit.
Once outside, I break into a run, weaving through alleys and side streets until I'm certain I've lost them.
By the time I reach my apartment, I'm gasping for breath, legs shaking.
I lock the door behind me, then check the windows, drawing the curtains tight.
Only then do I check my phone.
A new message waits, and my stomach plummets when I read it:
Hope you liked your new life, you won't be living it for much longer. - B
Benji.
It's definitely Benji.
He never could resist signing his threats.
I sink to the floor, back against the door, as the reality of my situation crashes over me.
They're getting closer.
Somehow, they've tracked me to Mexico.
My phone buzzes again, but this time it's not a threat.
It's a name I don't expect to see: Boulder.
Wanna meet up again before you go back home?
Even though I’m a little shaken, a small smile tugs at my lips.
The simplicity of his message, the normalcy of it, feels like a lifeline in the chaos of my reality.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I text back:
Maybe. Depends.
I stare at the sent message, already regretting its honesty.
I shouldn't have responded.
I shouldn't be forming connections here.
I should be planning my next steps.
Yet when his response comes, butterflies soar in my stomach.
I want company tonight.
The smart move would be to say no.
To push him away, to stay isolated and as untraceable as I can.
But God, I'm tired of being alone.
Tired of running, tired of looking over my shoulder.
Tired of having no one to talk to, no one to trust, no one who sees me as anything other than a shadow passing through their life.
Against my better judgment, I type:
I guess I feel like donating some time to charity tonight.
As I wait for Boulder to text back, I can't shake the feeling that I'm making a terrible mistake.
Getting involved with anyone, especially someone connected to the club, is dangerous.
But maybe, just for tonight, I can pretend I'm just Kelsey—not Cady Warlow, not the daughter who sent her father to prison for producing child pornography, not the woman running for her life.
Just Kelsey, a woman who's afraid of being alone tonight.
Just Kelsey, who, even though she’s trying like hell, can't stop thinking about the way Boulder looked at her the other morning, like she was something precious and mysterious all at once.
Just Kelsey, who's tired of fighting her battles alone.
I end up texting Boulder the address to my apartment, which I will tell him is an AirBNB or something.
The knock on my door comes sooner than expected, and my heart leaps into my throat.
I check the peephole, relief flooding me when I see Boulder's face.
As I unlock the door, I know I'm crossing a line I can't uncross.
Letting him into my space, my sanctuary, is a risk I never thought I'd take.
But when he steps inside, his presence fills the tiny apartment with a sense of security I haven't felt in months, I can't bring myself to regret it.
"Rough day?" he asks, those deep green eyes seeing more than I want them to.
"You have no idea," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.
As I close the door behind him, locking out the world and its dangers, I know I'm living on borrowed time.
Sooner or later, my past will catch up to me.
Sooner or later, I'll have to run again.
But tonight, with Boulder here, I'll let myself believe in the possibility of something else.
Something like safety. Something like connection.
Even if it's just an illusion.
Even if, deep down, I know it can't last.