Chapter 7
Rowan
Each turn has me pressing closer to Chaos, my cheek flattened against the leather of his cut, my thighs squeezing his hips.
Tonight gave new meaning to the term “shit show.” But right now, I feel safe. How is that possible? Why is it I feel safe with this outlaw biker?
He sent me away earlier, practically dismissed me from that warehouse back room like I was nothing more than an afterthought. But then he showed up at my apartment, killed two bad guys without hesitation.
And he’s all you’ve got.
No wonder I'm clinging to him like he's my lifeline.
The motorcycle slows as we approach a massive chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A guard shack stands beside an imposing gate, and a beefy guy with a full beard nods at Chaos before hitting a button. The gate slides open, and we roll through it into what looks like a compound. Or a prison.
Several buildings of various sizes sprawl across the fenced property. Motorcycles line one side, while pickup trucks occupy another area.
Chaos parks near what looks like a converted motel.
"Home sweet home," he says as I slide off the bike and he guides me inside with an arm around my shoulders.
The interior is nothing like I expect. Instead of some grimy bachelor pad, it's clean and organized.
We pass through a common area where a few guys in cuts play pool and others sprawl on leather couches watching a massive TV.
They all nod respectfully at Chaos while eyeing me with undisguised curiosity.
He leads me up a staircase to the second floor, down a hallway, through a door, and into a room that’s larger than my entire apartment. There’s a king-sized bed, a sitting area, and a private bathroom.
“Is this your room?" I ask, voice small.
Chaos nods, watching my reaction carefully. "It's also the safest place in the compound." He gestures to the bathroom. "Shower's in there. You should probably..." He trails off, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Scrub the dumpster sludge off me?” Heat floods my cheeks.
"Something like that.” He cracks a smile. “I’ll rustle you up some clothes," he says, already backing toward the door. "Take your time."
The bathroom is surprisingly nice—clean tiles, a massive shower with multiple heads, and thick towels hanging on a warming rack.
I strip off my disgusting clothes and step under the scalding spray.
It takes three full shampoos before my hair feels clean, and I scrub my skin twice before I stop smelling like putrid refuse.
When I finally emerge wrapped in a towel, there’s a woman standing near the bed.
She’s all legs, boobs, and platinum blonde hair.
She's gorgeous in that Instagram model way—perfect makeup, perfect tan, perfect everything.
Her crop top reveals a toned midriff, and her leather mini skirt barely covers her ass.
Her eyes sweep over me with cool assessment.
"So you're the current stray.” Her voice drips with disdain. "Chaos asked me to bring you clothes."
She gestures to the bed where I see some folded garments. "I'm Kandi. With a k and an i.”
Of course she is.
"I'm Rowan." I clutch my towel tighter. "Thank you for—"
"Don't get too comfortable." She cuts me off, eyes narrowing. "Chaos brings home his little playthings from time to time, but they never hold his attention for long. He always comes back to me when he gets bored with his strays."
The petty cruelty in her voice makes me flinch.
"Anyway, enjoy the clothes." She smirks, turning to leave. "Hope they fit."
When the door closes, I unfold and hold up the garments she brought. My heart sinks. There's a hot pink crop top that wouldn't cover my breasts even if I were flat-chested (which I definitely am not) and a pair of denim shorts so tiny they could pass for underwear.
Great. I have literally no other options.
I wiggle into the clothes, wincing as the fabric strains across my curves. Sure enough, the top doesn’t quite contain my breasts, and the shorts cut into my thighs while leaving half my butt exposed. I look like a sausage stuffed into a casing two sizes too small.
Standing in front of the mirror, I contemplate my options. I’m not putting my filthy clothes back on. I could wrap myself in a bedsheet toga-style. I could—
The door opens, and Chaos steps in, freezing mid-stride as his eyes land on me. His jaw drops and eyes widen before darkening with a mixture of anger and something else that makes my skin tingle.
"Fucking Kandi," he growls, running a hand through his hair.
He crosses to a dresser, yanks open a drawer, and pulls out clothes. "Here." He thrusts a black t-shirt and basketball shorts at me. “Put these on.”
I practically sprint to the bathroom to change. The shirt hangs to my knees, and I have to roll the shorts' waistband several times to keep them from falling off, but at least I'm decent and comfortable.
When I emerge, a gray-haired man with a leather medical bag waits beside Chaos.
"This is Doc," Chaos explains. "He's going to check you over."
Doc has kind eyes and gentle hands as he examines the scrape on my cheek and asks me questions about the evening’s ordeal.
"Just a small laceration,” the older man murmurs, applying an ointment and bandaid to the cut on my cheek. “Won't even leave a scar." His touch is clinical but kind, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
My gaze drifts from Doc's concentrated face to where Chaos leans against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. The harsh overhead light catches something on his neck—thin, angry red lines. Scratches.
"Oh my god," I gasp. "Your neck. I did that.”
Chaos's hand reflexively moves to the marks, his expression puzzled. “It’s nothin’.”
“It’s not nothing.” Horror rises in my throat. "I clawed at you like some feral cat."
Doc turns to look, then chuckles. "Those little scratches? He can handle them. I've stitched the man up more times than I can count."
But my guilt won’t allow me to let it go. "They need to be cleaned. They need antiseptic. You could get an infection.”
Doc's eyebrows shoot up, and Chaos's mouth twitches.
“I was in a dumpster. I don’t have any idea what was under my fingernails.” My voice rises with each word. “God only knows what I could have infected you with.”
Now both men are grinning openly.
"Are you two laughing at me?" I demand, pushing off the bed. "This is serious. He needs preventative antibiotics. And maybe a tetanus booster or something. When was your last tetanus shot?"
Chaos pushes off the wall, crossing to where I stand in three long strides.
"Sweetheart." He captures my flailing hands in his much larger ones. "I appreciate your concern, but I promise, I've had much worse."
“I can attest to that. He once rode back from Kalamazoo with a bullet in his shoulder," Doc adds unhelpfully. "Wouldn't let me take it out until after church."
My mouth drops open.
Chaos squeezes my hands. "Doc's right. I don’t need him for this.”
I hear Doc mumble, “The man can clean his own little boo-boos.”
"They're not little," I snap. My indignation fades as his thumbs stroke my palms, sending tingles up my arms. My mind flashes to the kiss in my bathroom, the feel of his hard body against my naked skin, and I can’t help but wonder what that was.
Is he attracted to me? Or was he simply acting the way any biker would act with a naked woman smooshed up against him? I really don’t know. I don’t know why he’s helping me like this or what kind of payment he’s expecting in return.
Doc clears his throat. "Well, you'll be fine. Just exhaustion and mild shock. I recommend rest." He nods to Chaos. "Call if you need anything else."
When the door closes behind him, we're suddenly alone. The massive room seems to suddenly shrink.
"What time is it?" I ask.
Chaos checks his watch. "Almost six AM.”
"Shit.” I search for my shoes. "I have to go. I’ll be late."
"Late for what?" His voice drops an octave, low and dangerous.
"Dog walking." I find one sneaker under the bed. "It's my second job. I'm supposed to start at six thirty.”
"No." The single word fills the room.
I pause, sneaker in hand. "Excuse me?"
"You're not going anywhere." He doesn't raise his voice, but something in his tone makes me shiver. "Cartel hitmen are looking for you."
He grabs the sneaker out of my hand and scowls when he notices the cardboard and duct tape patching the sole.
"I understand that, but I can't just—"
"You can and you will." His jaw tightens. "This isn't negotiable, Rowan."