Chapter 10 Zoey
ZOEY
“Undertaker.”
The name slips out before I can stop it, and Whiz’s demeanor shifts immediately. I want to call back the word, but it’s impossible. All I can do is hope that he doesn’t think I’m being judgmental because I’m not. I’m just surprised.
Whiz is stiff, granite-hard, and there’s no doubt in my mind that what little control he’s managed is dangerously close to being lost.
“What?” he snaps. “You got a problem with that?”
“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “No, I don’t. It just… caught me off guard.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to decide whether to believe me or not. For a second, I think he might argue, turning this into something bigger than I’m prepared to deal with, but instead, he exhales sharply and looks away.
“Yeah. Road names tend to do that.”
“Road names?” I repeat, and my eyes drop to take in the black leather vest he’s wearing. “Oh, crap. You’re bikers.” I glance over my shoulder at Undertaker. “That explains things.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he demands.
“I just mean his injuries make more sense now,” I explain. “I figured it was some sort of vehicular accident, but a motorcycle accident explains the complexity of his injuries."
“Motorcycles are vehicles,” he counters.
“Yes, they are, but…” I shake my head, trying to stem the flow of words that don’t matter. I dart my gaze between the living, breathing man before me and the corpse on the table before refocusing on Whiz. “What happened to him?”
The question hangs in the air, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer.
Then he moves. Not toward me or the body but away.
“Come on,” he mutters, already heading for the door without waiting to see if I follow. “You want to know, you can hear it where I don’t have to fucking look at him while I say it.”
I hesitate but only for a moment. Something tells me that following him is not only the safest option, but it’s also what he needs from me at the moment. So I follow.
We climb the stairs back up to the main floor, and his pace is quick, restless, like standing still would kill him. He heads straight to the kitchen where he yanks open a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey like his life depends on it.
He doesn’t bother with a glass, just twists the cap and takes a long pull straight from the bottle, his throat working as he swallows.
After what seems like an impossibly long time, he lowers the bottle and glances at me. “You drink?”
I shake my head. “Not while I’m working.”
Whiz smirks. “Yeah. That ship sailed for me a few hours ago.”
He takes another drink, then leans back against the counter. For a second, he just stands there, and I assume he’s trying to gather his thoughts, gain some composure.
Finally, he speaks.
“We were heading home from the annual biker rally in Anarchy, California. The ride was going smooth. We had zero issues, and nothing was out of place.” He pauses, breathes deeply.
“Until it was. We got off the highway, following the route exactly as I planned it. I thought it was the smarter option, the less deadly option.” His face contorts, though I can’t tell if it’s from anger or regret.
“They were waiting,” he continues. “There was no warning. One minute, we’re all fucking great, and the next, bullets are flying.
” His grip tightens on the bottle. “It was messy, but it didn’t matter. One good hit is all it takes.”
I don’t interrupt. I don’t move. I just listen.
His gaze finally shifts back to me, but it’s distant, like he’s looking at something that isn’t there.
“A bullet clipped his rear tire. He tried to control it, but the road gave out under him.” His voice tightens. “That’s all it took.”
The silence that follows is heavy, filled with everything he doesn’t say out loud.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
He huffs out a breath, sounding empty, hollow. “Yeah. Me, too.” Whiz pushes off the counter and takes one last drink before setting the bottle aside. “Come on,” he says, already moving past me. “You’ve got a job to do.”
I follow him back downstairs, the chill in the air welcome against my heated skin. When we reach the cooler room again, he walks straight to where we left Undertaker and stops, standing there for just a second before stepping aside.
“Go ahead,” he orders.
I hesitate. Not because I don’t know what to do, but because I can see how much this matters.
I watch Whiz, see the way his throat bobs with each swallow of emotion, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches.
I see the raw pain that he’s wearing like a second skin, and I see how hard he’s trying to not let me see.
He clocks my hesitation. “Don’t,” he groans. “Don’t stand there trying to figure me out. I’m not the star of this particular shit-show. He needs to be taken care of.”
“I know,” I reply softly. “I just—”
“I said start,” he barks. “Or I’ll find someone who will.”
“Okay,” I acquiesce.
I move to the prep area, already shifting into a routine that’s provided my comfort zone for as long as I can remember… cataloging, planning, mentally reviewing each step that needs to be taken.
But then a thought hits, and it’s so insistent that I can’t ignore it.
“Can I unload my car first?” I ask, glancing back at him. “And, uh, where’s the housing I was told was included?”
He glares at me, clearly annoyed that I’m straying from the task at hand. “There’s a cabin out back,” he says after a brief moment. “Small. Been empty for a while.”
“Okay…”
Care to elaborate?
He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps the screen a few times before putting the device up to his ear.
“Cabin ready?” he asks instead of greeting whoever answers his call.
“Yeah. She’s here.” He pauses. “Alright.” He hangs up and slides the phone back into his pocket.
“It’s good. Club whores cleaned it for you. ”
“Club whores,” I murmur, the tiniest bit of doubt creeping in about my drastic life changes.
“I’ll unload your car,” he says, ignoring my obvious unease. He holds out his hand, and without him having to ask, I hand him my car keys. “You start here. Everything you could possibly fucking need is in the building somewhere.” He gestures wildly to indicate the walls around us.
There’s no mistaking his desire for me to do what needs to be done for Undertaker without further delays and certainly with no excuses.
“You sure?” I ask.
He looks at me like the question is crazy, and I have to stop myself from reminding him how pissed off he was earlier when he saw me standing over Undertaker’s body.
He turns to head for the stairs, but over his shoulder, he says, “You better be working when I get back.”
I stand there for a moment after he’s gone, listening to his footsteps fade, letting the silence settle around me again.
Then I turn back to Undertaker.
“Okay,” I say, stepping closer and embracing the mindset I’ve relied on for years. The one that earned me the nickname Dead Zone Zoey, the one that meant I was misunderstood, the one that allows me to be exactly who I was meant to be.
I’m Zoey Matson, a woman who’s more comfortable with the dead than the living.
I search for the personal protection equipment and when I find it, I don the surgical gown, latex gloves, and face shield. Then I return to Undertaker.
For the first time since I arrived, I feel content.
I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.