Chapter 12
Ava
The CNN interview is scheduled for tomorrow, and I'm panicking.
Not because I don't know my material or because I'm afraid of the questions, but because this makes everything real in a way that publishing the article didn't. Millions of people are going to watch me discuss the trafficking investigation, and every word I say will be scrutinized, analyzed, and picked apart.
"You're spiraling," Mason says from where he's watching me pace his room. "I can see it happening."
"I'm not spiraling. I'm preparing."
"You're wearing a path in my floor and you've changed your outfit four times in the last hour. That's spiraling." He stands, crossing to intercept me. "Come here."
"I don't have time to come here. I need to review my notes, practice my talking points, make sure I've got answers for every possible question they might ask."
"Ava." His hands settle on my shoulders, solid and grounding. "You know this story better than anyone alive. You've lived it, bled for it, almost died for it. No amount of preparation is going to change that."
"But what if I freeze? What if I forget something crucial or say the wrong thing and compromise the prosecution?"
"Then you'll recover and move forward. But you won't freeze because you're too stubborn for that." He pulls me against his chest. "Breathe. Just breathe for a second."
I do, inhaling the scent of leather and motor oil and something that's uniquely him. Gradually my heart rate slows, the panic receding to manageable levels.
"Better?" he asks.
"A little." I pull back enough to look at him. "How do you do that? Make everything seem less terrifying just by being here?"
"Years of practice dealing with your particular brand of chaos." He's smiling, the expression soft. "You're going to be amazing tomorrow. You're always amazing."
"Flatterer."
"Truth teller." He kisses my forehead. "Now, you're going to stop obsessing about the interview, we're going to have dinner with the club, and then I'm going to fuck you until you can't remember why you were worried in the first place."
"That's your solution to everything. Sex."
"It's a good solution, it hasn't failed us yet."
I laugh despite my nerves. "Fine. Dinner, then distraction. But I'm reviewing my notes one more time after."
"Deal."
The common room's crowded when we head downstairs, brothers gathered around tables with food and beer, the atmosphere relaxed despite the tension that's been hanging over the compound since my article dropped. Sarah's here too, sitting with Condor and actually smiling at something he's saying.
"She's doing better," I observe, watching my friend.
"Sterling's been working with her, helping her process the trauma. And Condor's good at making people feel safe." Mason guides me toward the food table where Harrior's set out what looks like half a grocery store. "Plus, being around the club, seeing how we function, it helps normalize things."
"You're not exactly normal."
"No, but we're consistent. Predictable in our unpredictability." He loads two plates with food. "That's comforting for someone who's had their world turned upside down."
We settle at a table with Falcon and Sterling, and the conversation flows easily despite the weight of everything hanging over us. The brothers are careful not to mention tomorrow's interview, giving me space to just be rather than constantly preparing.
"Ava." Vulture sets down his beer, expression serious. "I want to thank you. For being careful about how you portrayed the club in your article. It could've gone very differently."
"You saved those girls. Saved me. The least I could do was tell the truth about what happened." I meet his eyes. "Besides, I meant what I told Mason. You're not the bad guys. You're just not the conventional good guys either."
"We'll take it." He pauses. "You know this interview tomorrow, it's going to bring more attention. More questions about the club's involvement."
"I know. And I'm prepared to defend your actions without compromising your operational security.
" I've thought about this extensively, practiced deflecting questions about specific club activities.
"I'll talk about how you provided protection, how you helped coordinate with the FBI, but I won't discuss anything that could expose legitimate club business. "
"Appreciate it." Vulture stands, clapping Mason on the shoulder. "Take care of her, the media circus is going to be rough."
"Always do."
After dinner, Mason makes good on his promise. We're barely through his bedroom door before he's got me pressed against the wall, his mouth on my neck and his hands everywhere.
"Need you," he growls against my skin. "Need to feel you come apart."
"Bedroom's right there." But I'm already wrapping my legs around his waist, grinding against him.
"Too far." He carries me the ten feet to the bed anyway, dropping me on the mattress and following me down. "Strip."
I do, fumbling with buttons and zippers while he watches with dark eyes. When I'm naked, he takes his time looking, his gaze heating my skin everywhere it touches.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, finally stripping off his own clothes. "Every fucking time, you take my breath away."
"Less talking, more action." But my voice comes out breathy, needy.
He grins, predatory and dangerous. "Bossy. Guess I need to remind you who's in charge here."
Before I can respond, he's between my legs, his mouth on me, and coherent thought becomes impossible. His tongue works me expertly, knowing exactly where to touch, how much pressure, when to back off and when to increase intensity. I'm climbing fast, right on the edge, when he stops.
"Mason, don't you dare."
"Patience." He moves up my body, positioning himself at my entrance. "I want you desperate for it."
"I am desperate. Now move."
He pushes inside in one hard thrust that has us both groaning. The stretch is perfect, that edge of too much that becomes exactly right, and when he starts moving, it's with a rhythm designed to drive me insane.
"Touch yourself," he orders, his voice rough. "Want to watch you."
My hand slides between us, finding my clit, and his eyes darken watching me. The combination of his cock inside me and my fingers on myself is overwhelming, and I come hard, clenching around him.
"Fuck, yes." He increases his pace, chasing his own release. "Love watching you come. Love feeling it."
He follows me over the edge with a groan that's half my name, and we collapse together in a sweaty tangle. My heart's hammering, my body loose and satisfied, and for the moment, the interview tomorrow feels manageable.
"Better?" he asks when our breathing evens out.
"Much." I trace the scar on his side, the reminder of how close I came to losing him. "Thank you."
"For the sex or the distraction?"
"Both. All of it." I prop myself up on his chest. "I don't know how I got through the last decade without you."
"Probably a lot more peacefully." But he's smiling. "Though significantly less orgasmic."
"Can't argue with that." I settle back against him. "Mason, what happens after tomorrow? After the media attention dies down and we're just, I don't know, us?"
"We figure it out. Find an apartment for you like we talked about, somewhere you can work. I'll split my time between there and here." His hand traces patterns on my back. "We’ll make it work because the alternative's not acceptable."
"What if it doesn't work? What if we're too different, or our worlds are too incompatible?"
"Then we'll adapt. Change. Find a middle ground." He's quiet for a moment. "But I don't think that's going to be a problem. We've survived trafficking investigations and assassination attempts and federal raids. I think we can handle domesticity."
"Domesticity with an outlaw biker, that's a sentence I never thought I'd say."
"Get used to it. You're stuck with me now."
"Good." I kiss him softly. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
We lie there in comfortable silence until my phone buzzes with a reminder about tomorrow's call time. Five AM pickup for hair and makeup, live interview at seven. Less than twelve hours.
"You're tensing up again," Mason observes.
"Can't help it. This is the biggest interview of my career."
"Then let's make sure you're too exhausted to be nervous." He rolls us so he's above me again. "Round two?"
"You're insatiable."
"Only with you." His mouth finds mine. "Only ever with you."
He proves his point over the next hour, taking me apart with a thoroughness that leaves me boneless and satisfied. By the time we finally sleep, it's past midnight and I'm too tired to be anxious about anything.
The alarm goes off at four thirty, brutal and unwelcome. Mason's already awake, coffee made and clothes laid out for me. He's thought of everything, including making sure I eat something before the car arrives.
"You're going to be incredible," he says as I finish getting ready. "Just remember to breathe, trust yourself, and tell the truth. That's all anyone can ask."
"What if they ask about us? About our relationship?"
"Then you decide what you're comfortable sharing. I'm not ashamed of what we have, but I understand if you want to keep some things private." He pulls me close. "Whatever you choose, I support it."
The car arrives at exactly five, a nondescript sedan that'll take me to the studio. Mason walks me out, his hand on my lower back, and kisses me hard before I climb in.
"Knock 'em dead, sweetheart."
"That's the plan."
The ride to the studio is a blur of nerves and last-minute preparation.
Hair and makeup take an hour, transforming me from exhausted journalist to polished professional.
The producer briefs me on the format, the kinds of questions they'll ask, and by the time I'm led to the set, I'm as ready as I'll ever be.