8. Kylee #2
Peeling my hands away, a greeting forms on my tongue, but dies in my throat when I'm faced with three gruff-looking bikers.
Unlike my previous experiences with men in leather, I immediately get a bad feeling. One that makes my heart feel like it's stopped in my chest. There's something ominous about them that triggers my fight-or-flight response.
The heavy click of the door closing behind them sounds like a trap snapping shut. They don't look around the shop. They don't look at the displays. Their eyes lock directly onto me, tracking like wolves closing in on a target.
There's no question about it. This isn't good.
"Can I... help you find something?" I try to force the professional customer-service tone into my voice, but it cracks, betraying the sheer terror pounding in my veins. My hands slide back along the wood, instinctively seeking the counter edge to steady my wobbling knees.
I don't want to be the type to judge someone based on appearances, but I think I'm past that point.
The largest of the three, a man with a jagged scar cutting through a thick beard, doesn't answer. He just steps forward, his heavy boots scuffing ominously against the carpet. One other lingers by the front and shuts the blinds to the door. The other one fans out to search for another exit, but doesn’t find one, because it’s tucked in the back of the storage room.
Too far to book it without getting caught. I already dread thinking about what would happen if I made an attempt and had to deal with the consequences afterward.
Noticing all three of them have prospect patches, they're unnamed, leaving the mystery of who they are even more unsettling.
"Yeah," the scarred one rumbles, his voice like grinding stones. "Came to see why Steelwood’s VP was spending so much time here. To think that freak’s got a girl."
Freak? Anger flashes through my chest, hot and seething, but it's instantly swallowed by a cold wave of dread when he steps close enough that I can smell stale smoke and old leather on him. A slow, sinister smile splits his beard.
He reaches out, not grabbing me yet, but resting his massive palms flat on the counter, making me feel twice smaller.
"Here’s how this is going to go, sweetheart.
We're going to take a little ride. I don't like having to rough up pretty things, so if you come quietly, it stays nice and smooth.
If you scream..." He tilts his head, his heavy stare cutting toward the freshly drawn blinds.
"Well, then we have to do this the hard way, and nobody wants that.
" He shifts his jacket open to reveal the hard way in the form of a gun strapped to his hip.
Casper must be pretty good if he doesn't have to rely on such weapons. Makes me that much more impressed that he doesn't have to rely on intimidation tactics to get what he wants.
"He won't come," I warn him, my voice shaking. "We're not like that. You'll be wasting your time."
"We'll see about that." His grin remains fixed, cold and unyielding, as he reaches across the counter.
His thick fingers hook into the fabric of my dress, dragging me forward by my arm hard enough that I'm sure it'll bruise if I fight.
I stumble, my sandals scuffing against the carpet as he forces me out from behind my sanctuary.
"Leave the marker," the scarred one barks over his shoulder to the youngest looking of the trio.
I watch in absolute horror as the biker pulls a rattling spray can from his heavy leather vest. With a sharp, hissing streak of red paint, he begins to deface the clean front wall of my shop.
My chest tightens, tears stinging my eyes as he quickly blocks out a crude, jagged silhouette—a monstrous dog breathing stylized flames. The mark of their club.
Something I hold so precious to my heart, defaced as if it doesn't matter.
"Move out," their leader orders, his heavy grip clamping down onto my shoulder like a steel vise.
He steers me toward the door, shoving me out into the bright late afternoon sun. But there are no motorcycles waiting for us. Instead, a black cargo van with a faded moving company logo is idling at the curb, its side door already slid wide open, its hazards flashing.
"Hop in," he growls, pushing me toward the dark interior.
I'm forced into the back with two of the other members, the door slamming shut behind us, plunging us into shadow.
Someone else is already in the driver's seat, the engine roaring to life before I can even steady myself.
They peel out, the tires shrieking against the asphalt as I'm thrown back against the metal wall.
Oh, God. What are they going to do to me? Where are they taking me?
Panic threatens to swallow me whole, but I force my eyes shut, desperately trying to focus. Left turn. A long stretch of straight road. Right turn. I try to memorize the pattern, mapping out the turns in my head, praying it will be enough to help Casper find me.
For anyone to find me.
When the realization hits that I don't have my phone on me, it feels like my heart goes still in my chest. Somehow, I manage to keep a whimper from slipping out.
Pinching my eyes shut, I feel the vehicle jerk on the road. It gives me a few seconds of worrying about what that was, then thinking about the situation I'm in.
Suddenly, the driver breathes out a harsh, terrified "Fuck" before the van jerks again.
Before I can process the shift in his voice, the distant, thundering roar of motorcycles cuts through the walls of the van. A split second later, a deafening shot rings out.
The van violently swerves. The tire blows with a horrific screech, and I'm rocked hard to the side, my shoulder slamming against the metal frame as I barely manage to catch myself. The vehicle skids, fishtailing wildly before coming to a grinding, shuddering stop.
"They're here! Get out!"
The men in the back desperately scramble, shoving the door open to fight before closing it on me, leaving me in the pure unknown.
What follows is a chaotic explosion of gunfire that leaves me curling into a ball on the floor, pressing my hands tightly over my ears to block out the deafening noise. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying a stray bullet doesn't pierce the thin metal.
Then, just as fast as it started, the gunfire suddenly stops.
The heavy silence that follows is thick and suffocating. Slowly, trembling, I lower my hands from my ears. I brace myself for the worst, but instead of shouting or heavy boots, I hear... howling?
It’s a wild, overly excited howling that echoes right outside the van.
I flinch when the side door is thrown open with a loud crash. The sudden, blinding rush of afternoon sunlight hits my eyes, forcing me to shield my face as a dark silhouette steps into the frame.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” As the light fades and my eyes adjust, the last familiar face to appear suddenly shows up. Orthrus grins at me, his eyes full of delight, unlike the frustrated side of him I met at the shop. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I nod my head, agreeing with him.
He takes a step back to look at the van before his eyes fall back on me. “Well, this isn’t good. I think you’re going to have to come with us.”
“I thought… I already was.” Dumbfounded, I stare at him as I try to figure out what is going on.
Am I getting kidnapped twice in one afternoon? There has to be a record for that.
Orthrus steps back, turning toward what I realize is definitely a dead body on the ground.
The same one with spray paint clinging to his skin.
He easily grabs the back of his jacket, clenching a patch that looks different from his and Casper’s.
Like the guy weighs nothing, he rips his hand up to tear the jacket off the corpse.
Flinching at the show of manpower, I slowly leave the van to see the aftermath.
The only survivors are the men making the celebratory noises on their bikes.
“Ready to go?” Orthrus tilts his head toward an empty bike, one I assume is his.
“Uh, where exactly?” Feeling dumb asking, my ears burn when he lets out a laugh.
“To clear up some misunderstandings before Hell breaks loose.”
Unsure of what he’s even talking about and feeling like I don’t have much choice, seeing that the previous group had taken us almost out of Meadow Falls altogether, I begrudgingly head toward his bike.
Wherever he takes me, I can only hope it'll be a place better than what was originally planned for me.