Chapter 9 Whiz
WHIZ
“What the fuck are you doing?”
My voice, rough and demanding, cuts through the chill that’s always present in this room.
My gaze locks onto her, taking in the sight of a stranger standing over Undertaker like she belongs there.
The emotion that’s been simmering under my skin all damn week spikes, morphing into something volatile.
I cross the room, my strides purposeful, my focus pinned entirely on her presence in a space she shouldn’t be in yet.
She turns to face me, her expression confused and her stare unwavering. I expected to see panic, apology, or hell, annoyance, but that’s not what I get.
She’s calm, and even worse than that, she’s composed. Her demeanor hits me in a way I don’t like.
For a second, everything else disappears, and I actually take her in.
She’s wearing black leggings, a gray hoodie with ‘I see dead people’ emblazoned in red across the chest, and white slip-on shoes.
I don’t detect a hint of makeup, and her hair is in a messy bun.
She’s not at all what I expected when Lyric told me that he’d hired a woman to take over for Undertaker.
I’d pictured an older lady, one with years of experience and the harsh reality of the human race.
I imagined a woman who’s cold, detached, clinical.
I also thought about the fact that Lyric hired the complete opposite, a girl so mousy and innocent that she’d break under the weight of what she’ll see at Death’s Door.
What I didn’t think about was the possibility that I’d be faced with… this.
There’s nothing soft or uncertain about her, nothing tentative in the way she holds herself under my stare. There’s confidence there, quiet and grounded, paired with a sharp intelligence that shows in her eyes.
Despite the anger that’s taken up residence in my soul, my body reacts in a way I absolutely don’t want it to.
My cock hardens to a painful degree, and it’s unwelcome and completely out of place given the situation.
That alone causes my temper to spike.
“Who the hell are you?” I demand, my voice low and dangerous. “And why are you touching him?”
The woman doesn’t step back from Undertaker, and she doesn’t flinch. Her expression remains confused but calm, like she’s trying to figure out how to respond.
“I was about to—”
“She’s the new hire.”
Lyric’s voice cuts in as he enters the room from behind me. I don’t turn toward him or shift my focus away from her.
“The mortician,” he adds, and then focuses on her. “I’m Lyric, and I’m hoping like hell that you’re Zoey.”
She nods, and I clench my fists at my sides. “She’s your solution?” I huff out a humorless laugh. “Did you find her in a catalog or something?”
“She’s qualified,” Lyric replies, stepping further into the room, his presence filling the space without needing to raise his voice.
“That doesn’t mean she gets to come in here and start pulling fucking drawers all willy nilly,” I snap.
“She’s doing the job she was hired to do,” Lyric says flatly.
“And you’re absofuckinglutely sure she isn’t here digging for info on behalf of the people who put him there?” I growl.
“I wasn’t digging,” Zoey says, finally entering the conversation. “I was assessing what I’ve walked into.”
I snort. “Assessing,” I repeat, like the word itself is a problem. “And you figured this was the place to start?” I gesture at Undertaker.
“It is,” she insists, squaring her shoulders. “Because it tells me what kind of care he needs.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” I say, stepping closer, crowding her space just enough to make a point. “You have no idea what you’ve walked into.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver, and when she answers, her voice is quiet but firm. “Then tell me.”
Her words catch me off guard. They’re so simple in a very complicated situation. My jaw tightens, making it almost impossible to respond.
“Whiz.” Lyric’s tone is full of warning. “Check yourself,” he orders. “Now.”
I inhale through my nose, the alcohol I consumed before we left the clubhouse simultaneously dulling some edges but sharpening others. I know I shouldn’t have been drinking before coming here, but knowing doesn’t change the fact that I did.
“I’m good,” I say, knowing there’s nothing I can do to convince him.
“You’re drunk,” Lyric bites out.
I glance at him then, just enough to confirm he’s not guessing. “I’m functional,” I reply with a shrug.
“You’re pushing it,” he replies. “And I’m not going to let you take it out on her.”
I bristle at his statement despite knowing he’s right.
“If you can’t get your head straight, there will be consequences,” he continues. “You want to test that, go right ahead. But don’t think for a second that I won’t follow through.”
The word isn’t said outright, but the meaning is clear.
Sanctions.
Punishment by the club that could range from a tongue-lashing, to a beating, or worst case, being stripped of my patch, none of which are all that appealing.
For a few seconds, no one speaks. The tension settles heavy between us, thick and unrelenting, until I finally exhale and drag a hand down my face.
“Fine,” I mumble.
Lyric watches me for another moment, like he’s expecting me to explode despite my pitiful assurance that I won’t. When I don’t, he nods once, and then his phone rings.
He glances at the screen, and his expression hardens as he answers. “Yeah… I’m coming.” He pauses. “Five minutes.”
He ends the call and looks back at us.
“I’ve gotta go. It was nice to meet you,” he says to Zoey, then levels one last look at me. “Play nice.”
Lyric leaves before I can respond, and the second he’s gone, the room becomes suffocatingly quiet.
After a moment, Zoey turns back toward me.
“I wasn’t trying to cross a line,” she says. “I just needed to understand what happened so I can do this right.”
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about the situation. “You don’t need to understand anything,” I say, beginning to pace. “You just need to do your job.”
“My job requires understanding,” she replies simply. “That’s how I make sure I don’t miss anything important.”
Important.
I stop in my tracks, blinking several times before settling my gaze on absolutely nothing as the weight that’s been bearing down on me grows heavier, more intolerable.
“Who is he?” she asks after a moment.
My entire body tightens at once, and my chest constricts like it’s bracing for impact. I swallow, but it doesn’t help, and when I speak, my voice comes out sounding like consumed sandpaper.
“He’s not just somebody,” I say.
“I didn’t think he was,” she replies, and there’s no judgment in her tone.
There is, however, empathy, sympathy, and maybe even a little pity.
And that makes it worse.
I drag a hand over my face again, trying to get control of my spiraling thoughts. It’s been a week, and it still hits like it happened minutes ago.
“He’s got a name,” I finally say, unable to stand the silence that was stretching between us.
She doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush me. She just… waits.
Even though I fucking hate it, I’m grateful for it in a way I don’t want to examine.
“He’s one of ours,” I continue, my throat constricting, forcing me to pause and breathe through it. “Family.”
I lift my eyes to hers, and my knees threaten to buckle, although I’m not sure if it’s the weight of what I’m carrying that’s the cause or if it’s the way she looks at me like she understands the pain I’m in.
I don’t know why, but the thought that she truly understands because she’s been through some shit hits me hard and causes something to shift in my chest.
I breathe deeply. In and out. In and out. One more breath, and then I push out one more bit of information.
“His name’s Undertaker.”