Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
camryn
Morning light streams through unfamiliar curtains, jolting me awake with momentary confusion. The room comes into focus slowly: neutral walls, sturdy furniture, a dresser that isn't mine. Then I remember: we're at the clubhouse. The Fury Vipers MC. Under Storm's protection.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, memories of last night flooding back.
The thunderstorm. Emily falling asleep. Holding Storm's hand during the worst of the thunder.
And later, that midnight visit to his room when sleep refused to come, when the walls of my borrowed room seemed to close in around me.
What had I been thinking? I barely know the man. Yet something about him draws me in, makes me feel safe despite everything I know about men like him. Men who live outside the law, who embrace violence as a way of life.
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm terrified of actual storms but find myself seeking comfort from a man who embodies one.
A soft knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. I slip out of bed, pulling on a robe over my sleep clothes before answering.
Effie stands in the hallway, her bright smile at odds with the early hour. "Good morning! Sorry to wake you, but I thought you might like some coffee. Real coffee."
She holds out a steaming mug that smells heavenly. I accept it gratefully.
"You're my new favorite person," I tell her, taking a sip. It's perfect, strong but not bitter, with just the right amount of cream.
She laughs. "I figured you could use it after yesterday. Is Emily still sleeping?"
I glance toward the second bedroom. "Probably. She's usually up by seven, though."
"Well, when she wakes up, I was thinking she might like to meet the other kids. Sera and Ruby are having breakfast downstairs. They're very excited about a new playmate."
The thought of Emily making friends here and getting comfortable in this environment fills me with mixed emotions. On one hand, I want her to feel safe and happy. On the other, I don't want her getting too attached to a world we'll eventually have to leave.
"That sounds nice," I say despite my reservations. "Let me get her up and dressed, and we'll come down."
"Great! The kitchen's at the back of the main room. You can't miss it. Just follow the smell of pancakes."
After Effie leaves, I check on Emily, finding her still fast asleep, her stuffed rabbit clutched tightly against her chest. I hate to wake her, but a normal routine will be good for both of us.
"Emily, sweetheart," I say softly, sitting on the edge of her bed. "Time to wake up."
She stirs, blinking up at me with sleepy eyes. "Morning, Mommy."
"Morning, baby. How did you sleep?"
"Good." She sits up, looking around the room as if reorienting herself. "Is Storm still here?"
The question catches me off guard. "I'm not sure, honey. Why do you ask?"
She shrugs, climbing out of bed. "I like him. He's nice to you, and he doesn't talk to me like I'm a baby."
I smooth her tangled hair, wondering when my daughter became so perceptive. "Well, there are some other children downstairs having breakfast. Would you like to meet them?"
Her eyes light up. "Yes! Are they my age?"
"I think one is a little younger than you, and one is a bit older. Their names are Sera and Ruby."
This seems to satisfy her, and she scampers off to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
I take the opportunity to change into jeans and a simple t-shirt and pull my hair back into its usual ponytail.
Looking in the mirror, I'm relieved to see I look relatively normal; tired, maybe, but not as shaken as I feel.
When Emily emerges from the bathroom, dressed in a purple shirt with butterflies and her favorite jeans, we head toward the communal kitchen.
The clubhouse is surprisingly quiet, with only a few members lounging in the main room.
They nod respectfully as we pass, a stark contrast to the intimidating figures they cut with their leather and tattoos.
The kitchen is warm and inviting and smells of coffee and syrup. Octavia, who I met briefly last night, is at the stove flipping pancakes while two girls sit at a large wooden table, chatting animatedly. A tall, heavily tattooed man I recognize as Digger stands nearby, nursing a cup of coffee.
"Good morning," I say as we enter.
The girls look up, curiosity bright in their eyes. The younger one; she must be Sera, bounces in her seat.
"You're Emily!" she exclaims. "I'm Sera! I'm five! Do you like princesses?"
Emily smiles, immediately drawn to the enthusiastic child. "I do. I'm seven. Do you like butterflies?"
And just like that, they're chatting like old friends. The older girl, Ruby, I assume,watches them with the tolerant amusement of a pre-teen forced to endure younger children's enthusiasm.
"Ruby, why don't you show Emily where the juice is?" Octavia suggests. The girl nods, sliding off her chair to lead Emily to the refrigerator.
Digger moves toward me, offering a nod in greeting. "Sleep okay?" he asks.
"Well enough," I reply, accepting a mug of coffee from Octavia. "Thanks for everything you all are doing. I know this is an imposition."
He waves off my gratitude. "Not an imposition. You're family." At my raised eyebrow, he elaborates: "Blaze is a prospect, which makes you club adjacent. We protect our own."
There it is again, that sentiment that seems to be the club's unofficial motto. We protect our own. I'm not sure when Emily and I became "their own," but I can't deny the comfort it brings.
"Still," I say, "I appreciate it."
Octavia sets a plate of pancakes on the table just as the girls return from the refrigerator, Emily carrying a carton of orange juice like it's precious cargo.
"Breakfast is served," Octavia announces. "Eat up before the rest of the brothers smell food and descend upon us."
The girls giggle, and I find myself smiling despite everything. There's something undeniably domestic about this scene; kids at the breakfast table, adults chatting over coffee. It's so normal it almost makes me forget where we are and why.
"Storm was looking for you earlier," Digger says casually as we watch the children eat. "Said he had some information to share when you're ready."
My heart does a little skip at his name, which is ridiculous. I'm not some teenager with a crush. "Did he say what kind of information?"
"Something about your ex. They've been gathering intel."
The reminder of why we're here dampens my brief moment of normalcy. "Where is he now?"
"Garage, probably. He usually tinkers with the bikes when he's thinking hard about something."
After making sure Emily is content with her new friends, I leave the kitchen in search of Storm. The clubhouse seems larger in daylight, with hallways branching off the main room in several directions. I follow the sound of metal on metal until I reach what must be the garage.
It's a large space filled with motorcycles in various states of repair, tools hanging on the walls, and the pervasive smell of oil and gasoline. Storm is at a workbench, his back to me and shoulders hunched as he focuses on something in front of him.
I take a moment to study him unobserved.
He's wearing a white tank top that shows off muscular arms covered in tattoos.
His dark hair is pulled back in a messy bun at the nape of his neck.
His jeans hang low on his hips, worn in all the right places.
Even from behind, there's no denying he's an impressive specimen.
"Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to come in?" he asks without turning around.
Heat floods my cheeks. So much for unobserved. "How did you know I was here?"
Now he turns, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Mirror," he says, nodding toward a reflective surface above the workbench. "Plus, you smell like flowers and coffee. Dead giveaway in a place that usually reeks of oil and testosterone."
I step fully into the garage, feeling awkwardly out of place among the machinery. "Digger said you wanted to talk to me? Something about Eric?"
His expression darkens at the name, all trace of amusement vanishing. "Yeah. We've got some information you should know." He wipes his hands on a rag and gestures to a couple of chairs in the corner of the garage. "Might want to sit down."
I follow him to the chairs, trying not to show how nervous his tone makes me. "What is it? Did you find him?"
"We know where he lives and where he works," Storm confirms, sitting across from me. "But more importantly, we think we know why he's suddenly interested in playing daddy after all these years."
"Why?"
"Money," Storm says bluntly. "He's been telling people you owe him. The story changes depending on who he's talking to, but the bottom line is he's looking for cash and he's desperate enough to try to use Emily as leverage to get it."
I absorb this information, turning it over in my mind. "Money? But I don't have any money. I mean, I have a decent job but I'm hardly rolling in it. My savings wouldn't even cover a month's rent in Manhattan."
"Exactly," Storm says. "Which means he's either delusional or lying. Either way, it makes him unpredictable."
"Do you think he owes someone else?" I ask, the pieces falling into place. "And he's trying to use me to pay his debts?"
Storm nods, looking impressed with my deduction. "That's our working theory. Cruz has been watching him and has reported him meeting with some shady characters at the bar where he works. We're still trying to figure out who he owes and how much."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the garage. "So what do we do?"
"For now, you and Emily stay here where it's safe. We’ll keep digging, find out exactly what kind of mess he's in. Once we know that, we can figure out how to permanently remove the threat."
Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. "What do you mean by permanently remove?"