13. Jasmine
JASMINE
The drive to the Raiders’ hideout is mostly silent, minus the low twang of country music leaking from Landon’s speakers, as he hums along under his breath.
Outside, the road grows darker with every passing mile.
The trees get thicker, wilder. Civilization fades behind us like a bad dream.
At some point, the pavement gives way to gravel, and then the gravel dissolves into dirt.
We climb deeper into the woods, the tires crunching over dried leaves and scattered branches.
My fingers tighten on the edge of Landon’s jacket, pulling it closer around me like armor.
For a while, I’m convinced we’re lost.
Until he makes a sharp turn—one I never would’ve noticed on my own—and we slip off the main path onto a narrow trail, barely wide enough for the car. The woods press in on both sides like the trees are watching us, judging us for trespassing.
And then the hidden road opens up into a wide clearing, and at the center of it stands the largest cabin I’ve ever seen. Except calling it a cabin feels wrong. This isn’t some rustic getaway. It’s a fortress.
Built from blackened timber and stone, it stretches wide and tall.
The windows are tinted or covered altogether.
Massive flood lights hang from the eaves, casting sharp beams into the clearing.
Motorcycles line the front like a row of metallic teeth—chrome gleaming in the moonlight, leather saddlebags stamped with the Raiders’ insignia: a coiled serpent strangling a set of wings.
The air smells like gasoline and pine. Like smoke and steel.
Men are already outside—leaning against bikes, lighting cigarettes, tossing knives into a wooden target hammered into a tree. They don’t smile when they see us. They just watch.
Landon pulls the car to a slow stop, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel once before killing the engine. He looks at me.
“Any snarky, rude or minorly sassy thing you want to say,” Landon whispers. “Say it now, or forever hold your peace.”
I glance at him, brows raised. “Are you saying I can’t speak freely inside?”
“I’m saying,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the cabin ahead, “that these people don’t handle attitude the way I do. You mouth off to the wrong guy, and suddenly I’m cracking skulls in front of a charcuterie board.”
“There’s a charcuterie board?”
“There’s probably not a charcuterie board, but if there is. Don’t touch it.”
I roll my eyes. “So no attitude, no meat and cheese. Got it.”
Landon’s lips twitch like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. He just exhales, slow and controlled. “Are you done?”
“I’m never done, but since you asked so nicely,” I smile, leaning against the headrest. “I will only speak when spoken to, like this is the 1950s.”
“Thank you for listening to the rules of this courtship,” he mocks, unbuckling his seatbelt.
I scoff, but I follow suit, only stepping out when he’s nodded to himself a couple times like he’s trying to convince himself it’ll be fine.
It won’t be.
The second my boots crunch on the dirt, the energy shifts. It’s subtle—just enough to raise the hairs on my arms. Every man outside pauses, stares. Not a single smile. No warm welcome. Just long, lingering looks that feel more like threat assessments than introductions.
Landon rounds the car and comes to my side, his stride calm but focused. He doesn’t touch me, but he angles his body ever so slightly between me and the men, like he’s already prepared to block the first one who steps too close.
We pass the line of bikes, engines still ticking from heat. There’s a smell in the air—leather, smoke, motor oil, and something sour underneath it, like sweat and spilled beer left to rot.
The porch creaks under our weight as we climb the steps. The wood is old, stained dark, maybe from varnish—or maybe not.
The door opens before either of us knocks.
A man I assume is Marcus stands there like he’s been waiting for this moment, like he enjoys it.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest in that casual way men use when they want you to know they’re dangerous without doing a damn thing.
He’s dressed in all black—tight tank top, worn biker gloves, silver chains glinting at his throat—and when his brown eyes flick over me, slow and lingering, I feel it in my spine.
Then he smiles. Not the kind that’s warm or amused, but the kind that stretches too wide, too practiced, like it’s been carved into his face over years of getting exactly what he wants.
And something about that smile—about the arrogant tilt of his chin, the lazy way he shifts his weight, the heat in his stare—makes bile rise in my throat.
Because it’s familiar. Too familiar.
He smiles just like him . The man I tried to forget.
The man who used to look at me like that, just before his hands would roam lower, just before the air in the room turned too thick to breathe.
Marcus wears the same grin, the same shadow in his gaze, like hurting people is a game and I’ve already lost. And just like that, I’m not on the porch anymore—I’m thirteen again, bracing for impact.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “If it ain’t Romeo and his pretty little plus one.”
Landon doesn’t blink. “We’re here.”
“I can see that.”
His gaze settles on me again, heavier now. “You clean up alright, sweetheart.”
I feel Landon tense beside me like a live wire.
Marcus notices it too, and his grin widens. “Relax, Lanny. You brought her here, didn’t you? That makes her family.”
He steps aside, gesturing us in like it’s his house and not the gateway to hell.
“Come on in. Everyone’s dying to meet her.” Marcus crackles, stepping aside like the devil welcoming us into his parlor.
Landon doesn’t wait—he laces our fingers together as he firmly pulls me in with him.
The inside is not what I expect. Less biker gang fortress, more country frat house from hell .
The living room opens up wide, ceilings high and vaulted like an overdone hunting lodge.
There’s a massive TV mounted above a fireplace that looks barely used, its mantle littered with empty liquor bottles, poker chips, and one very real-looking rifle.
Tapestries of the American flag, old band posters, and mounted animal heads decorate the walls in clashing chaos.
There’s a fish tank in one corner with no fish, just murky water and a floating beer can.
The furniture is oversized and mismatched—brown leather couches patched with duct tape, a recliner that looks like it’s survived multiple bar fights, and a bean bag that definitely hasn’t been cleaned since the 1990s.
The scent of beer, barbecue, sweat, and smoke mixes into a single overpowering funk.
Red solo cups litter the floor. A country-rock remix thuds from unseen speakers. Someone’s playing pool in the back near an old jukebox, and the walls shake every time they laugh.
Every guy we pass is dressed in some variation of “my dad owns land and a shotgun.” Boots. Leather. Ball caps. Tattoos. Silver chains over sleeveless shirts. Some of them nod at Landon. Most just stare at me like I’m the party favor no one expected but no one’s mad about.
A few girls are here too—denim shorts, too much perfume, laughing too loud. One’s perched on a guy’s lap, taking a shot while he stares at her chest like it’s on the menu.
“This way,” Landon mutters, steering me down a hall lined with crooked family photos and an array of decorated, but very clearly loaded guns.
“Dinner’s this way!” Marcus yells behind us, his voice bouncing off the wood-paneled walls. “Hope she’s hungry—we’re serving rare. ”
A chorus of snickers follows. One of the guys makes a barking noise. I keep my chin up, but my stomach twists.
Landon mutters a very annoyed, fuck off, but for the most part he’s silent.
When we step into the open garage in the back of the house, the smell hits me first—thick, syrupy maple barbecue layered over smoke and meat. My stomach growls before I can help it, because of course my body doesn’t care that we’re at dinner with devils.
There aren’t any cars inside, just a wide, echoing space that’s been converted into a kind of biker banquet hall.
Folding tables are lined up in rows, covered with red-checkered cloths and mismatched plates.
Beer cans rattle in coolers shoved in the corners, and someone’s already halfway through a tray of ribs licking their fingers like it’s the best barbeque in Texas.
The fluorescent lights above cast a sterile yellow glow over everything, making the dried brownish-red stains on the concrete floor impossible to ignore. Landon tries to steer us toward a side table near the back, but we don’t make it two steps before two heavy hands land on our shoulders.
Marcus leans in between us like he’s parting the Red Sea, his breath a mix of nicotine and yeast from the beer.
“Nah,” he says, his voice slick with amusement. “Y’all’re sittin’ at the grown-up table tonight.” His laugh is sharp, phlegmy, and way too close to my ear. “We got business to discuss.”
Landon stiffens beside me, his jaw ticking.
I roll my eyes, plastering on a tight smile I don’t mean. “Wow, business and barbecue. How official. ”
Marcus cackles louder. “She’s a feisty one!”
Landon glares at me, as Marcus runs past us to the main table. I mouth an sorry, and keep my head down.
I can’t help it, Marcus is annoyingly country.
And yeah, I was raised country. I know the difference between a good Southern boy and a man play acting like he’s a family-guy when he’s really running a criminal empire.
He’s like a rejected extra from The Beverly Hillbillies, just with tattoos, a body count, and more rings than fingers.
At the main table, Marcus lounges like it’s a throne, his arm slung around the narrow shoulders of a black-haired girl with bright blue eyes—eyes that are too wide, too clean, too young to belong in a place like this.