Chapter 2 #2
"I noticed." He sits back on his heels, studying his work. "You're going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow."
"Worth it if I got what I needed."
His eyes snap to mine. "Did you? Get what you needed?"
I think about the USB drive in my bag, the one the Reapers didn't find because I'd hidden it in the lining. The recordings I'd made before they discovered the wire. The photos I'd managed to take of their supply records while pretending to use the bathroom.
"Maybe," I say carefully.
"Let me guess. You're not going to tell me what you found."
"Would you tell me club secrets?"
"Fair point." He stands, moving to the kitchenette. "You hungry?"
"Not really."
"You should eat anyway. You're going into shock."
He's right again. The shaking hasn't stopped, and I can feel the cold settling into my bones despite the warmth of the room. Ice Pick rummages through the cabinets and produces a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
"This'll help more than food," he says, pouring generous amounts into both glasses.
Somewhere, I’m pretty sure there’s a woman in his club who would roll her eyes at that; tell him water first, food second, whiskey later. But Ice Pick looks like the kind of man who only learned comfort in harsh doses.
I take the one he offers and knock it back in one go. The burn feels good, grounding, chasing away some of the cold. He refills it without being asked.
"So," I say after the second glass, warmth finally spreading through my chest. "Why did you really come after me?"
He leans against the counter, his own glass cradled in one large hand. "Told you. Your friend called."
"But why give me your number in the first place? You could've just let those guys in the parking garage rough me up and stayed out of it."
"Could have."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and I think he's not going to answer. Then he says, "Because I've seen what happens to people who dig into things they shouldn't. And most of them end up dead."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting tonight." He downs his whiskey and sets the glass aside. "Get some sleep. We'll figure out the rest in the morning."
"Where are you going to sleep?"
"I'm not." He heads for the door. "I'll be outside keeping watch."
"Ice Pick."
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and looks back at me.
"Thank you," I say again, meaning it. "For everything."
Something shifts in his expression, something I can't quite read. Then he nods once and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit on the bed, still shaking, still processing everything that happened. The beating. The escape. The motorcycle chase. Ice Pick's hands on my face, cleaning my wounds with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about him.
I should be scared. I probably am scared, somewhere under all the adrenaline and whiskey. But there's something else too. Curiosity. Interest. A pull toward this dangerous man who keeps saving me, even though I'm clearly a liability to him and his club.
I pull out my phone and check for messages. Three missed calls from my editor. Two texts from Sarah, my roommate, asking where I am. And one message from an unknown number.
Unknown:
You should've stayed away. Now you'll pay for your mistakes.
I think of the survivors I’ve interviewed; the ones who escaped trafficking and still jumped at every shadow. Whoever sent this wants me back in that same cage: scared, silent, manageable.
I should run. I should pack my things and leave town, start over somewhere the Reapers can't find me. But I think about the women who've disappeared, the ones whose faces I've memorized from missing persons reports. The ones who don't have anyone fighting for them.
I can't walk away.
Even if it kills me.
I forward the threatening text to Ice Pick's number, then lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep feels impossible, but exhaustion pulls at me anyway, dragging me down into darkness.
The last thing I think before I drift off is that I've just put my life in the hands of a man I don't know, whose club operates in the same gray areas as the people I'm investigating.
And somehow, I feel safer than I have in weeks.
I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of voices.
One voice is female; low and practical, the kind that doesn’t flirt or giggle.
She is someone who sounds like she’s managing a crisis the way other people manage groceries.
My body aches in places I didn't know could ache, and when I try to sit up, every muscle protests.
The events of last night come rushing back, and I groan, pressing my palm against my forehead where the bandage pulls at my skin.
"She's awake," someone says.
I force my eyes open and immediately regret it when bright morning sunlight stabs into my brain.
Two figures stand near the kitchenette. Ice Pick, looking like he hasn't slept at all, and another man I don't recognize.
This one's leaner, with sharp features and eyes that assess me with cold calculation.
"Who's that?" I ask, my voice rough with sleep.
“Falcon, he’s Vice President of the Saints Outlaws.”
Falcon’s stare doesn’t change, but the air does. It’s like I’ve just learned the real shape of the power in the room.
Ice Pick hands me a cup of coffee. "We need to talk."
I take the coffee gratefully and pull myself into a sitting position, ignoring the way my body screams in protest. Falcon crosses his arms.
"You've caused quite a bit of trouble," Falcon says without preamble.
"I tend to do that."
"The Reapers put a bounty on your head. Twenty grand to whoever brings you in alive. Thirty if you come with whatever evidence you've collected."
My stomach drops. "That's a lot of money."
"It is. Which means every lowlife and bounty hunter in the city is going to be looking for you.
" He moves closer, his presence commanding despite not being as physically imposing as Ice Pick.
"So here's the situation. You've got information about the Reapers' trafficking operation. We want that information." There’s something careful in the way he says it, like he’s not just thinking about money or territory.
Like this is personal for the Saints Outlaws.
Like someone in their world is already trying to stitch victims back together.
"Why?" I ask, suspicion flaring. "What's your angle?"
"Our angle is that we don't traffic humans. We run guns, we deal in other gray areas, but we draw the line at slavery." His voice is hard, unyielding. "The Reapers are moving product through our territory without permission. That's a problem."
"So you want to use me to take them down."
"We want to help each other." Falcon exchanges a glance with Ice Pick. "You need protection. We need intel. It seems like a fair trade."
I look between them, weighing my options. Do I trust a motorcycle club with questionable morals and a reputation for violence, or try to survive on my own with a bounty on my head and the Reapers hunting me?
It's not really a choice.
"What do you need from me?" I ask.
"Everything you've got. Files, recordings, contacts. Whatever you've collected on the Reapers and their operation." Vulture’s eyes bore into mine. "And you'll stay at our compound, where we can protect you while we work this."
"Your compound?"
"The clubhouse. It's secure, and you'll be under twenty-four-hour protection.
" He nods toward Ice Pick. "He'll be your primary guard.
You don't go anywhere without him." His tone doesn’t carry a threat. It carries a rule, like there are lines inside that compound even a criminal club won’t cross.
Like women are protected. Like kids are sacred.
I look at Ice Pick, who's watching me with an unreadable expression. The idea of being stuck with him constantly should annoy me. Instead, there's a flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with fear.
"And if I say no?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Then you're on your own. And you won't last a week." Vulture straightens, making it clear the conversation's over. "Think about it. But think fast. The longer you're exposed, the more danger you're in."
He leaves without another word, and I'm alone with Ice Pick again. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken questions. Ice Pick watches the door like he’s already thinking about perimeter checks and patrol rotations, like the part of him that keeps order doesn’t clock out just because I’m shaken.
"You don't have to do this," Ice Pick says finally. "There are other options. We could get you out of the city, set you up somewhere safe.".
"Running doesn't solve anything. The story's still there. The women are still missing."
"The women might already be dead."
The bluntness of his words hits like a fist. "You don't know that."
"I know how these things work. Trafficking rings don't keep victims around for long.
They move them fast, break them down, sell them off.
" His voice is flat, emotionless, but there's something underneath it.
Pain, maybe. Old wounds. "The best thing you can do for them is expose the operation and make sure it can't happen again. "
"That's what I'm trying to do."
"Then let us help you. Stop being so goddamn stubborn and accept that you can't do this alone."
I want to argue, I want to insist that I've made it this far by myself, that I don't need protection from a motorcycle club. But the truth is staring me in the face, written in the bruises on my skin and the exhaustion in my bones.
I can't do this alone. Not anymore.
"Fine," I say, hating how defeated the word sounds. "I'll stay at your clubhouse, but I have conditions."
"Of course you do."
"I keep my files. I write the story my way. And when this is over, you let me publish everything."
"Even the parts about us?"
"I'll keep the Saints out of it. Unless you give me a reason not to."
He considers this, then nods. "Deal. But you follow my rules while you're under our protection. You don't go anywhere alone. You don't make contact with anyone without clearing it first. And you sure as hell don't do anything stupid like walking into enemy territory by yourself."
"That was one time."
"Once is all it takes to get killed." He holds out his hand. "Do we have an agreement?"
I look at his hand, scarred knuckles and calluses that tell a story of violence and survival. Taking it means trusting him, trusting his club. It means diving deeper into a world I've only observed from the outside.
But it also means staying alive long enough to finish what I started.
I shake his hand, feeling the strength in his grip. "We have an agreement."
"Good." He doesn't let go immediately, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Welcome to the Saints Outlaws, Ava Langley. Try not to get yourself killed on our watch."
I picture the clubhouse; not just men and cuts and guns, but the women I’ve seen around clubs like this: some there for fun, some there because it’s safer than the streets, some because they chose a biker and stayed.
Club whores. Ol’ ladies. The line between them isn’t shame; it’s consent, loyalty, and whether you’re protected when the door locks.
"I'll do my best."
His mouth quirks into that almost-smile again. "Somehow I doubt that."
And despite everything, despite the danger and the fear and the uncertainty, I smile back.
This is either the smartest decision I've ever made, or the one that's going to get me killed.
Probably both.