Chapter 13
Thirteen
Tommy Boy
There’s a rhythm to waiting for a storm. You don’t hear it at first — you feel it in your ribs, that tight vibration like a train coming down the tracks before it rounds the bend. That’s what it’s like right now, in the clubhouse, everyone moving but not saying much.
Pretty Boy sits at the bar, elbows on the counter, phone in hand, his voice smooth and careless like he’s setting up a bachelor party instead of what we all know this really is, a hunt for the woman who owns my damn soul.
Crunch leans against the wall near the door, eyes fixed but far away.
Karma’s at the end of the table with a laptop, scanning intel feeds, maps, the motel’s layout, the routes in and out of the county.
Every single one of us is here under the guise of business, but the truth hangs thick in the air — this is family. This is for her.
And family means we don’t leave anyone behind.
“She’s with a handler who runs girls out of a string of motels,” Crunch shares. “No permanent address. He moves around depending on where the demand is.”
“Fayetteville to Wilmington, then back through New Bern and Pamlico,” Karma adds. “He uses a chain franchise. Same owner, different names. If Pretty Boy’s call works, we’ll have one shot to grab her and go.”
I can’t sit still. My foot taps against the floor.
My thumb keeps rubbing the small band of leather I keep looped around my wrist — the one Jami tied there before our first anniversary.
It’s frayed now, the edges worn smooth from the years.
She used to tease me about never taking it off.
Said it was my second cut. I told her it was a piece of her I could carry when we weren’t together.
Now it feels like a noose.
“Tommy,” Tripp says from across the room, his voice low, steady. “You ready for what this means?”
“I’ve been ready since the day she walked out that door,” I growl.
He nods. He doesn’t argue. Tripp never does when it comes to family.
Pretty Boy hangs up his phone, turning toward us with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He bought it,” he explains. “Hook, line, and sinker. Said he could ‘set me up nice’ with a few of his girls, quote unquote, high quality, clean, discreet.”
I want to punch something, the word clean echoing in my ears like an insult.
Clean? That son of a bitch doesn’t know what clean is.
He doesn’t know what it means to wash away pain that’s tattooed into your bones.
She will never truly feel clean no matter how much I try to love her through it.
The devil marked her soul many years ago.
“How many?” Red asks.
“Four,” Pretty Boy says. “I told him I wanted them separate, one per room, my guys don’t mind taking turns but we don’t share and cross dicks.
Told him the club’s riding through, that I wanted options for my brothers and didn’t want them stepping on each other’s toes.
He said he’ll send me the door codes and room numbers an hour before we show. ”
Crunch crosses his arms, eyes flicking between us. “This could go south fast. If he catches wind of who we’re really there for.”
“He won’t,” I cut in. “You’ve done your job. Now let me do mine.”
The room quiets. Everyone’s watching me like they’re waiting for me to break, but I’ve already broken. That happened the moment I found out she was gone, the moment I realized the world was going to keep turning without her in it.
“She’s alive,” I state, forcing my voice steady. “She’s alive, and I’m bringing her home. Whatever it takes.”
Pretty Boy’s eyes soften just a little, enough to remind me we’re more than brothers in this club, we’re blood. “I know, man. That’s why we’re doing it this way. You’d have gone in there with guns blazing, and she’d be caught in the crossfire. We do it clean. We get her out.”
“Then let’s move,” I say, already reaching for my cut. “The longer we wait, the more she slips away.”
We’re parked in a line just off the main drag, three black vans idling behind a row of sedans and bikes. It’s after dark, the kind of night that swallows you whole. Clouds sit heavy over the moon, and the motel sign buzzes red and blue like a warning.
I can see the place from where I sit in the passenger seat — faded paint, cracked asphalt, a half-lit “VACANCY” sign flickering like a heartbeat.
Pretty Boy’s on his phone again, nodding to the rhythm of a conversation only he can hear. When he hangs up, he turns to me, his face unreadable. “We’re on. He sent the info. Rooms 102, 106, 110, and 114. Door codes are each room number typed twice.”
“So 102102, 106106, and so on?” Crunch clarifies.
“Yeah,” Pretty Boy states. “He thinks I’ll pay cash once I pick my girl. Says the others are already inside, waiting.”
I grip the door handle until my knuckles ache. My chest feels like it’s full of glass.
“Tommy,” Crunch says from behind me. “You don’t go in first. You go with me. We take the middle rooms. Karma and Red take the ends. We sweep fast, stay quiet. If she’s in one of those rooms, we move. No guns drawn unless someone gets in the way.”
“And if she’s not?” I ask, voice tight.
“Then we call the handler again,” Pretty Boy says. “I’ll tell him I want more. He’s greedy enough to take the bait. He’ll deliver.”
I nod. My throat’s too dry to speak.
Tripp steps up from the van behind us. “Van’s ready for extraction,” he says. “We’ll load her in the back and head straight to the place Head Case has Doc Kelly set up at. No detours, no stops.”
“Let’s ride,” I mutter, swinging the door open.
The night air hits like a slap. I pull my cut tight around me and start walking, each step heavier than the last. Crunch falls in beside me, silent. The parking lot smells like old trash rot. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks once and goes quiet.
When we reach the first door, Karma and Red move off to either end. Crunch glances at me once, then nods toward room 106. “You ready?”
“Born ready,” I whisper.
The keypad blinks green after the code, and the door clicks open. The room inside is dimly lit, curtains drawn. The air smells like cheap perfume and old smoke. A woman sits on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, staring at the TV.
She looks up when we enter, eyes glassy but alert. She’s young. Too young. Not Jami.
My heart sinks, but I keep my voice steady. “You alone?”
She nods slowly, then looks past me at Crunch, her expression tightening. “You’re not customers.”
“No,” I admit. “We’re not.”
She goes still, her body tensing like a cornered cat. “Then what do you want?”
I crouch down to her level, trying to soften my tone. “I’m looking for someone. Jameson Rivera. Jami. You know her?”
The name hits her like a slap. Her eyes dart toward the door, then back to me. She shakes her head too fast. “Never heard of her.”
She’s lying, but pushing won’t help. Not yet. I stand and move back toward the door. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
Outside, Crunch meets my gaze. He doesn’t have to say it — we move to the next room.
Room 110. Another woman. Not Jami. The same look of fear, the same refusal to answer when I ask where they stay, who moves them, where their handler keeps them when they’re not working.
By the time we clear all four rooms, the frustration feels like acid in my veins. I’m pacing the cracked concrete outside, jaw tight, hands shaking. Pretty Boy stands off to the side, phone in hand.
“She’s not here,” I snap. “You sure your contact didn’t play you?”
“He didn’t,” Pretty Boy says, calm as ever. “He just hasn’t sent her in yet. Give it a minute.”
“A minute?” I roar. “She’s out there somewhere—”
Crunch steps between us. “Tommy. Breathe. Losing it won’t help her.”
“I can’t—” I start, but stop myself. My chest feels too tight to get the words out. I press a hand to my ribs, sucking in a slow breath that burns all the way down.
Pretty Boy looks at his phone again, thumb flying across the screen. “He just replied,” he says. “Says he can send two more girls over if I’m serious about spending. Wants to know if I’ll pay up front.”
I look at him. “Do it.”
“Already on it,” he says, tapping a few more keys. “I told him double his rate, cash on delivery. He’s too greedy to say no.”
We wait. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. The night stretches out long and mean. Every sound feels like a countdown — the hum of the streetlight, the shuffle of a car turning into the lot, the dull pulse of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
Then headlights flash across the far side of the lot. A black sedan rolls to a stop outside room 112, and two women step out. The driver doesn’t even kill the engine. He just waves a hand toward the rooms and pulls away.
“Now or never,” Pretty Boy mutters.
I’m already moving.
We split again. Crunch hangs back to watch the lot while I take the room closest to me. The keypad blinks green. I push the door open, and the smell hits me first — sickly sweet, sharp, the mix of chemicals and mustiness that clings to every room like this.
She’s there.
My knees almost give out.
Jami.
She’s sprawled across the bed, skin pale under the flickering lamplight. There’s a faint tremor in her arm, a shallow rise and fall in her chest. Her hair’s tangled, her face thin — too thin — but it’s her. My girl. My whole damn heart.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, crossing the room in three long strides. I drop to my knees beside the bed, shaking so hard I can barely reach out.
Her eyelids flutter when I touch her. She opens her eyes just enough for a sliver of hazel to show, unfocused but searching. “Tommy?” she breathes, her voice a rasp.
“Yeah, Tiny,” I whisper, my throat tight. “It’s me. I got you. You’re safe now.”
She tries to smile, but it falters halfway. “Didn’t think you’d find me. Is this a dream?”
“Always,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Always going to find you.”
Her lips part like she wants to say something else, but the words die before they can leave her. Her body goes slack, the fight gone out of her.
I can’t tell if she’s passed out or worse, and the fear that hits me is like a knife under the ribs.
“Crunch!” I bellow. “Got her!”
He’s through the door in seconds, eyes wide. “She alive?”
“Yeah,” I choke out. “Barely.”
He moves to the door, signaling to the van outside. Within seconds, Tripp and Red are running across the lot. Pretty Boy follows, scanning the area. Everything feels like it’s happening underwater — slow and loud all at once.
I scoop her into my arms, cradling her head against my chest. She’s light. Too light. Her skin’s cold, and I can feel her heartbeat against my wrist — faint, fluttery, like a trapped bird.
“Hold on, baby,” I whisper against her hair. “Just hold on.”
The hallway blurs as I carry her out, every step echoing in my skull. I can hear Karma shouting orders in the lot, brothers spreading out to cover our exit. No sirens. No alarms. Just the roar of my pulse and the sound of my boots on asphalt.
The van door’s open when I reach it. Tripp helps me lift her inside, laying her on the narrow bench in the back. Someone covers her with a blanket. I climb in beside her, refusing to let go.
Her fingers twitch once against mine. I grip them tighter.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You’re okay. I got you.”
Her lips move — no sound, just a breath. But I know what she’s trying to say. She wants to apologize.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper fiercely. “You don’t ever apologize for surviving.”
Tripp slides into the driver’s seat, slamming the door. “Hang on,” he calls. The engine growls, the van lurches forward, and we’re gone with tires squealing out of that cursed parking lot and into the night.
I look down at her again. She’s so small against the gray of the bench, her face turned toward me, her chest rising and falling slow but steady now.
My thumb strokes over the back of her hand. “You’re safe,” I whisper. “You hear me? You’re safe.”
No answer. Just the faintest sigh, like the beginning of sleep.
I press my forehead to hers, closing my eyes.
“I got you, Tiny,” I murmur. “You just hold on.”
Outside, the road unspools into darkness, the club’s bikes flanking us on either side like guardians. Every mile we put between us and that motel feels like a breath pulled from drowning.
I don’t know what waits on the other side of this night — rehab, hell, redemption. But she’s breathing. She’s here. And I’ll burn every damn thing between us and tomorrow to make sure she gets to the light of a new day.