Chapter Seven ABBIE
I sniff the air as the exhaust from the cab clears, leaving me standing outside the gates of the old bubblegum factory on Liege Road.
Memories cluster at the edges of my mind, back when this place was a refuge from the never-ending tensions in the Flyers’ clubhouse.
That compound had been converted from a warehouse, and to a kid with a vivid imagination, it always felt like a cold, soulless shell.
But as the scent of grape bubblegum wafts around me, the ten-foot metal gate starts to roll back, and I shove my nostalgia to the back of my mind.
Two prospects are waiting on the other side, one barely out of his teens and the other older and rougher looking, with a biker beard and a paunch under his vest. I don’t recognize either of them, and it seems they have no clue who I am, either.
“Sweetheart, you’re keen,” the older one drawls. “The next party isn't for a week.”
I look past him, taking in the three-story building with planter boxes at the door and a fresh coat of paint on the eaves. “I’m here to pick up a bike from Cruise.”
The younger one looks at me curiously, but his companion sneers. “You think you're the first sweetbutt to throw a road name around? Try again.”
Motorcycle clubs love to label things, and they have a name for most roles and ranks in the club.
Prospects are members on probation, while hangabouts are people who are trying out club life to see if they like it.
If they’re just interested in a little fun, the guys tend to call them sweetbutts, while those in a more serious relationship with a member are called patch queens, although rarely to their face.
Old ladies are bonded mates, and they keep the rest of the ranks in line.
I have no problem with the labels, really, but anger builds under my skin at the condescension in his voice. If this is Ark’s idea of a reformed club, then maybe I made a mistake coming here at all. “How about the name Taylor? Does that get me a pass?”
“Never heard of him,” he replies dismissively, leaning on the wall with a smirk.
He takes his time looking me over, from my cherry-red Docs, up my skinny jeans, to the leather jacket that still smells faintly of my brother, Samson.
It’s the only piece of clothing I wore out of the club that I still have with me, and I wanted that connection today, partly as a reminder and partly as armor.
“You sure you’re not looking for the strip club down the street?
They're always hiring omegas who know how to work a pole.”
I sigh, tired to the back teeth of this game.
Even when I was a teenager, uninvited innuendo was part of club life, and while a lot of the women laughed it off or even seemed to get a thrill out of it, it always left me cold.
Give me a guy like Pitt who lays his cards on the table, even when he knows I’m not ready to pick them up.
“So, what's it going to take? A bribe? Some pretty begging? Or should I just punch you in the throat and let myself in?”
The older guy takes a threatening step towards me, but he’s thrust aside by a burly alpha with a full beard and a flannel shirt under his cut. “Let her through the damn gate, you idiot!”
The guy scowls, but I ignore him, my gaze locked on the club’s medic, taking in the gray hairs at his temple and the new lines around his eyes.
He looks both older and somehow brighter, like he’s fought a hard battle but come out the other side.
“Patch,” I say cautiously, steeling myself against one of his smoky bourbon and mint-scented bear hugs.
But he keeps his hands at his sides, his brow furrowing as he takes in my stiff pose. “Ark said he’d reached out. I was hoping to see you, even though he was looking a little hangdog about our chances.”
I bite the edge of my tongue, since the last time I saw him in the company of the new president, they were sedating me ahead of my exile from the club. “Well, I’m here now.” I turn to look at the prospects. “Even if the welcome has been kind of lukewarm.”
The younger prospect goes pale and starts stammering out an apology, but the older guy gives Patch a dirty look. “You invite visitors, you should register them at the gate.”
Patch’s face flushes a dark red above his beard. “This is Abigail Taylor,” he grinds out. “A legacy and descendant of a founding member. Learn your club history, prospect!”
I shake my head at the glowering man, but Patch waits until he’s taken a sullen step back before he waves me through the gate.
I feel a strange sense of déjà vu as I look around the complex, taking in the row of bikes in front of the workshop, the double open doors to what has to be the gym, and the sight of so many people milling around in the Iron Flyers’ cut.
But most of all, I’m struck by the sweet scent in the air.
The tattered pink awning and neon signage have been removed, but if I closed my eyes, I’d still know exactly where I am.
“How does it still smell like grape bubblegum?”
“It’s the butterfly bushes,” Patch replies with a chuckle.
“The what?”
He gestures to a row of shrubs with spiky lilac flowers that line both sides of the gate. “Ark had them put in, along with the magnolia trees round the quad. He said he liked the scent, but I think he’s always had a weakness for butterflies.”
I glance up at him to find his gaze on my tattoo. “You getting soft in your old age, Patch?”
“I wouldn’t mind a little softness for Ark,” he muses, the shadows swirling back in his eyes. “He’s been working too hard, for too long, and it’s taken a toll.”
“I guess that’s what happens when you’re the one who insists on making all the decisions. Maybe you should tell him to look into delegating.”
Patch blinks at the resentment simmering in my voice, but what does he expect? Heavy is the head that wears the crown, but being powerless is a hell of a lot worse.
“He’s delegated where he can,” Patch says quietly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “But he’s spent a lot of time backed into corners that would break a lesser man. When you’ve lived through that, it makes it hard to put that load on others.”
I frown, not really sure what he means. I’m guessing the transition of power from the old president to the new was even worse than I imagined, but at the end of the day, Ark came out on top. And from the look of his fancy new clubhouse, he’s already started to reap the rewards.
“But he hasn’t taken a mate?” I ask idly as we head around the side of the club towards the quad.
Maybe some of the new blood that Pitt mentioned includes an omega, like one of the pretty women sunning themselves on deck chairs around a kidney-shaped pool.
The spike of jealousy that tightens my gut could be for their happy faces or their long, tanned limbs, but I have a pretty good idea it’s the thought of Ark pulling one of them into his lap, his lips moving hungrily over her throat…
I suck in a sharp breath. “Looks like there are plenty of omegas for him to choose from.”
“They’re not…” Patch stops abruptly, pulling at his beard like he’s trying to adjust the fit.
It’s an old habit, and one I remember from Christmas parties, when he dyed it white and tried to convince us kids his Fat Boy was a reindeer in disguise.
“Like I said, Ark’s been too busy to think of his own needs. But now that you’re back…”
“Hold up.” I grab his sleeve, narrowing my eyes at him.
“The last time I saw Ark on club grounds, he was throwing me out. With your help, I might add.” He flinches, but I’m not here to appease either of their guilty consciences.
“I trusted you, Patch. Dad always said I could go to you if things got dicey, but the first time I needed you, you stabbed me in the back. Both of you did.”
“Do you really believe that?” There’s regret in his voice, but disappointment, too. “You’re not a teenager anymore, Abbie. You can look back and see the club for what it really was.”
A pack of wolves.
It didn’t feel that way when I was wrapped up in Wings, riding dirt bikes and playing hooky in the bubblegum factory.
But now I can’t think of those days without remembering the scent of Ark’s fury as he told me what was being planned in the shadows: if you stayed, it was free use.
Any of them could have you, any time they liked.
“From what I’ve heard,” Patch goes on, “you’ve spent the past few years working in a trauma unit. You’ve seen what can happen to omegas who don’t have the protection they need.”
“I’ve seen a lot,” I agree, “which is why I know better than to put my safety in the hands of others. Protect yourself first is my motto. And make sure no one gets close enough to stab you in the back.”
He blows out a frustrated breath, but there’s a fond glint in his eye as he mutters, “Spoken like a typical mule-headed Taylor.”
I raise my brows at him, refusing to acknowledge the pinch of pain in my chest. “Since I’m the last of them, I figure I can be any damn way I want to be.”
“You can,” he surprises me by saying, and then touches the very tip of my arm, barely more than a brush of my elbow as he directs me across the quad.
“This is your legacy, after all. You’ll probably notice there are more kids now than ever, so the pool was a no-brainer, including a playroom and a daycare up the back.
” He points to a small building painted with big, bright flowers.
“There are yoga classes in the gym every weekend, and we even have a little smoothie bar, although I haven’t found a flavor that doesn’t taste like grass and cardboard. ”
“It’s… a lot to take in,” I tell him, shading my eyes as I look around. Everything is bright and new, even though I can sense the bones of the old factory underneath, and it’s hard not to feel out of place. “I don’t see a lot that I recognize.”