Chapter 7 #2
We spend the next several hours in my room, Ava making calls while I listen to every word. She's careful, feeling out each contact before revealing too much, and I'm impressed by how well she navigates conversations with people who clearly don't trust easily.
By early afternoon, she's collected a handful of useful leads.
Two of her contacts mention a private airport outside the city that caters to wealthy clients looking for discretion.
Another suggests Castellano has a property in Louisiana under a different name, somewhere remote where he could disappear for months.
"Louisiana makes sense," I say, studying the notes she's compiled. "Close enough to his operation's source, and close enough to be able to flee in a private plane into Mexican airspace to buy time."
"If he's there, the FBI needs to coordinate with local authorities. That could take weeks." Ava's frustration is palpable. "Meanwhile, he's free and we're trapped here waiting for him to make a move."
"Being safe isn't being trapped."
"It feels the same." She sets down her pen, rubbing her temples. "I need air. Need to move. I'm going stir-crazy in here."
I understand the feeling. The compound's secure, but it's still a cage when you're not allowed to leave. And Ava's not built for sitting still, not when there's work to be done and justice to pursue.
"There's a gym in the back building. Nothing fancy, but it's got weights and a heavy bag. Might help burn off some of that energy." I stand, offering her my hand. "Come on. I'll show you."
The gym's empty when we arrive, most brothers busy with repair work or security rotations. It's a converted storage room, basic equipment and rubber mats, but it serves its purpose. I wrap Ava's hands with tape and position her in front of the heavy bag.
"You know how to punch?" I ask.
"Self-defense classes. But I'm probably doing it wrong."
"Show me."
She throws a punch that's all arm, no body weight behind it, and the bag barely moves. I step behind her, adjusting her stance, my hands guiding her hips into proper alignment.
"Power comes from your legs and core, not your arms. When you punch, rotate your hips like this." I demonstrate, my body pressed against her back, and feel her breath catch. "Try again."
She does, and this time the bag swings. Not hard, but better.
"Good. Again."
We work through the basics, me correcting her form, her throwing increasingly better punches. Sweat starts beading on her skin, her breathing becoming labored, and there's something primal about watching her channel her frustration into violence.
"Harder," I encourage. "Pretend it's Castellano's face."
She unleashes a combination that has the bag swinging wildly, and when she steps back, her chest is heaving and her eyes are bright with adrenaline.
"Feel better?" I ask.
"Yes. And also like I'm going to throw up."
I laugh, pulling her away from the bag. "You did good. Natural fighter instincts under all that journalist professionalism."
"Had to develop them. Newsrooms aren't exactly gentle environments." She looks up at me, sweat-slick and beautiful. "Thank you. For this. For everything."
"Don't thank me. I'm just keeping you alive long enough to finish the story."
"Is that all you're doing?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with everything we haven't said. I could lie, could keep things professional and distant. But I'm tired of pretending, tired of fighting what I feel.
"No, that's not all I'm doing." I cup her face, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. "I'm in love with you, Ava. And that scares the shit out of me."
"Why does it scare you?"
"Because love makes you vulnerable. It makes you care about things beyond yourself, and it makes you do stupid things to keep the person you love safe." My forehead rests against hers. "I can't be objective when it comes to you. Can't make the smart call if it means putting you at risk."
"Then don't be objective. Be mine instead." Her hands fist in my shirt. "I'm scared too, Mason. Terrified, actually. But I don't want to run from this. I don't want to pretend it's not happening."
"What do you want?"
"You. All of you. The violence and the protection and the complicated mess that comes with loving someone like you." She pulls me down until our lips are almost touching. "I love you too. Even though it's crazy and too fast and probably going to end badly."
"It's not going to end badly."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I won't let it." Then I'm kissing her, pouring every unspoken promise into the press of my mouth against hers. She responds with equal intensity, her body molding to mine, and suddenly the gym feels too public, too exposed.
"My room," I manage between kisses. "Now."
We barely make it back to the clubhouse before I've got her pressed against the hallway wall, my hands under her shirt, her legs wrapped around my waist. Someone wolf-whistles as we pass, probably Zip, but I don't care.
All I care about is getting her alone, getting her naked, making her forget everything except the way I make her feel.
My door barely closes before we're tearing at each other's clothes, desperate and hungry. She's got my shirt off in seconds, her nails raking down my chest, and I hiss at the sting.
"Bed," I growl, lifting her.
"Floor's closer."
"Bed's softer."
"Don't care." She bites my neck hard enough to leave a mark. "Need you now."
I make it to the bed, dropping her on the mattress and following her down. Her jeans come off along with her underwear, and then I'm between her legs, tasting her, feeling her come apart under my tongue. She's loud, not even trying to be quiet, and the sounds she makes drive me insane.
"Mason, please. I need you inside me."
I shed the rest of my clothes and grab a condom from the nightstand, rolling it on with shaking hands. When I push inside her, we both groan at the sensation. She's tight and wet and perfect, and the way she clenches around me makes me see stars.
"Move," she demands, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Stop being gentle and fuck me."
I don't need to be told twice. My hips snap against hers with force that has the headboard slamming into the wall, and she meets every thrust with equal intensity. This isn't making love. This is claiming, possessing, marking each other in ways that'll leave bruises.
"Mine," I growl against her neck. "Say it."
"Yours." She arches beneath me. "And you're mine."
"Always."
The word's a vow, a promise I intend to keep no matter what comes next.
My hand slides between us, finding her clit, and she shatters around me with a cry that probably carries through the entire clubhouse.
I follow her over the edge, her name torn from my throat, and we collapse together in a tangle of sweaty limbs.
"Jesus," she breathes when she can speak again. "That was..."
"Overdue." I pull out carefully and dispose of the condom, then gather her against my side. "Been wanting to do that since you walked into the gym."
"Just since the gym? I'm insulted."
"Fine. Since you walked into the compound. Since you showed up at that garage. Since the moment I saw you standing up to those hired guns with nothing but pepper spray and attitude." I kiss her temple. "Better?"
"Much." She traces patterns on my chest, her touch light. "What happens when this is over? When Castellano's caught and the trafficking network's dismantled and I don't need protection anymore?"
It's the question I've been avoiding, the one that doesn't have an easy answer. When the danger's gone, what keeps her here? What keeps us together?
"What do you want to happen?" I ask instead of answering.
"I want this. Us. I want to wake up next to you and argue about whether I'm being reckless and have you brood protectively while I work.
" She props herself up on her elbow, looking down at me.
"But I also want my career. Want to write stories that matter, expose corruption, make a difference.
And I don't know if those two things are compatible. "
"Why wouldn't they be?"
"Because you're an outlaw biker, Mason. You operate outside the law, deal in gray areas, do things that would make most people uncomfortable.
And I'm a journalist whose job is to expose exactly those kinds of activities.
" Her expression is troubled. "Eventually, I'm going to write a story that puts me at odds with the club. What happens then?"
It's a fair concern, one I don't have a good answer for. The club's been my family for years, my brothers bound to me by loyalty and blood. But Ava's become something more, something I'm not willing to give up.
"Then we figure it out. Together." I pull her back down, wrapping my arms around her.
"I'm not asking you to give up your career or compromise your integrity.
And I'm not giving up the club. But maybe there's a middle ground where we can both do what we need to do without destroying what we've got. "
"You really believe that?"
"I have to because the alternative's losing you, and that's not acceptable."
She's quiet for a long moment, then nods against my chest. "Okay. We'll figure it out."
"Together."
"Together."
We lie there in the fading afternoon light, wrapped around each other, and I let myself believe that maybe we can make this work. Maybe love's enough to bridge the gap between our worlds.
Or maybe I'm just an idiot falling for a woman who's going to break my heart.
Either way, I'm all in.
My phone buzzes, shattering the moment. Text from Vulture.
Vulture:
FBI just called. They've got a location on Castellano.
Moving in tonight. Need all hands for backup in case it goes sideways.
I show Ava the text, and her eyes go hard.
"I want to be there."
"Absolutely not."
"Mason, this is my story. I've earned the right to see it through."
"And you will. From here, where it's safe." I stand, already planning logistics. "The FBI doesn't need journalists in their operation, and I need to know you're protected while we're gone."
"So I just sit here and wait? While everyone else finishes what I started?"
"Yes, that's exactly what you do." I cup her face, making sure she's looking at me. "I know it's not fair. I know you want to be theorem but I can't focus on the mission if I'm worried about you. Please, Ava stay here, let us handle this."
She wants to argue. I can see it in every line of her body. But finally, she nods. "Fine, but you call me the second it's done. I want to know immediately."
"Deal."
I get dressed quickly, strapping on my cut and checking my weapons. Ava watches from the bed, wrapped in the sheet, her expression a mixture of frustration and fear.
"Be careful," she says as I head for the door.
"Always am."
"That's still a lie."
"I know." I cross back to her, kissing her hard. "But I'm coming back, that's a promise."
"You better, because if you die on me, I'm going to be pissed."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I leave her there, forcing myself not to look back, and head downstairs where brothers are already gearing up.
Falcon briefs us on the location, a private estate north of the city where Castellano's been hiding.
The FBI's leading the operation, but they've requested our presence as backup in case Castellano's got private security.
We ride out in force, a dozen bikes tearing through the night toward whatever ending this story's written for us.
And the whole way there, I think about Ava waiting for me at the compound, about the promise I made to come back, and about the future we're both terrified to hope for.
This has to work. It has to end with Castellano in custody and Ava safe, because I'm not ready to lose her.
Not now.
Not ever.