Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Helle
The afternoon shift at Cactus Jack's is slower than nights, but that just means I have to work harder for less money.
Fewer customers means fewer tips.
Fewer tips means I'm counting every fucking dollar like it might be my last.
Because with one-twelve in my boot, it might be.
My body aches from last night's race.
There's a bruise on my left thigh where I gripped the tank too hard during that final turn, purple and ugly.
Another on my hip from where I caught myself after almost dropping the bike in my parking lot.
I'm wearing long sleeves despite the heat—which is stupid in Texas in March, but I can't let anyone see the road rash on my forearm.
The one I got three weeks ago that's still healing.
It raises questions I can't answer.
The bar smells like stale beer and fryer grease, with underlying notes of bleach from where Jamie mopped this morning.
The jukebox is playing George Strait, which means one of the regulars fed it quarters.
Classic country for classic drinkers.
Big Tom's at his usual spot by the pool table, drinking Coors and arguing with his buddy Mike about the Cowboys.
They'll be here until close, tipping decent but not great.
Two truckers occupy the bar, eating burgers and not talking.
The kind of tired that goes bone-deep, the kind you get from driving eighteen-wheelers across Texas in March heat.
And then there's the corner booth.
The one that makes my stomach clench every time I glance over.
Two men. Not the same ones from last night, but close enough.
Same energy. Same way of sitting—too alert, too aware.
Eyes that catalog exits and weapons and threats.
Los Coyotes.
I know it like I know my own heartbeat.
They've been here for an hour, nursing beers that are probably warm by now.
Not eating. Not playing pool. Just watching. Watching me.
"Bailey! Another round when you get a chance!" Tom calls.
I grab two Coors from the cooler, the bottles so cold they hurt my hands.
My fingers are already stiff from gripping handlebars last night, and the cold makes it worse.
"Here you go, sugar." I set them down with a smile that's all performance. "Y'all need anything else?"
"Just your company." Tom grins, and I know this game.
He's harmless, mostly.
Just lonely and drunk and old enough to remember when flirting like this was acceptable. "You're sweet, but I got other customers." I touch his shoulder briefly—the kind of casual contact that earns tips. "Holler if you need me."
"Will do, sweetheart." I pocket the ten he slides across the felt.
That's six bucks for two beers. Not bad. Brings my shift total to eighty-three dollars.
Add that to my one-twelve, I've got one-ninety-five.
Still not enough for rent and gas and food, but closer.
If I can make another hundred tonight, I'll be okay.
Maybe.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I ignore it.
It's been buzzing all afternoon—stopped for a while after my shift started, but picked up again twenty minutes ago.
Constant vibration against my hip like a wasp trying to escape.
I don't need to look to know who it is.
Elfe. Mom. Maybe even Dad, though he never calls.
Something's wrong, obviously, but I can't deal with it right now.
I can barely deal with anything right now.
The door opens, bringing in dust and heat and the smell of diesel.
I tense automatically, hand going to the knife strapped to my thigh under my jeans, before I can stop myself, but it's just another trucker.
An older guy, maybe sixty, with a CAT Diesel hat and a limp that speaks to years of climbing in and out of rigs. "Sit anywhere, hon. I'll be right with you."
He nods, takes a stool at the bar.
When I bring him water and a menu, he orders a burger and a Bud Light without looking up.
The kind of customer I like—easy, straightforward, no conversation required.
My phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
"You gonna get that?" one of the truckers asks, nodding at my pocket.
"It's nothing. Just spam calls." The lie is smooth, practiced. "What can I get you boys?"
They order another round, and I busy myself with pulling beers.
The cooler door sticks like it always does, and I have to jerk it hard enough that bottles rattle.
When I turn back, the men from the corner booth are at the bar.
Right there. Close enough, I can smell their cologne—expensive, out of place in Cactus Jack's.
"Another round?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
"Sure thing, sweetheart." The one with the scar through his eyebrow smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Two more Modelos."
I pop the caps, slide the bottles across. "Eight bucks."
He lays down a twenty. "Keep it."
That's a twelve-dollar tip for two beers.
Too much. Deliberately too much.
"Thanks." I pocket it anyway because I need it, and refusing would be suspicious.
They don't move, just stand there drinking, studying me like I'm evidence in a case they're building.
"You work here long?" Scar asks.
"A few months."
"Like it?"
"It's a job." I wipe down the bar, giving my hands something to do. "Tips are good."
"I bet they are." His friend speaks for the first time, voice accented. "Pretty girl like you probably makes good money."
The way he says pretty makes my skin crawl.
Not sexual, exactly, more like he's describing merchandise.
"I do okay." I move down the bar, pretending to check on other customers, but they follow, Scar leaving a five on the bar for me to find later.
Another tip I don't want but can't refuse.
When I pick up the cash, there's a note underneath.
Written on a napkin in neat, careful handwriting:
Tell your sister hello.
My hand freezes.
For just a second, everything stops—my breathing, my heartbeat, the world itself.
Then training kicks in.
The training I learned growing up in an MC.
Never show fear. Never show weakness. Never let them see you break.
I pocket the note with the cash, turn around, and they're gone.
Door swinging shut behind them, black pickup truck pulling out of the lot.
I make it to the bathroom before my knees give out.
Cold tile, harsh fluorescent light, the smell of industrial cleaner.
I sit on the floor because standing isn't an option anymore.
Tell your sister hello.
They know. They know who I am. They know about Elfe.
Which means they probably know about Dad, about the club, about everything I've been running from.
How long have they known?
Were they the ones watching me at the race?
Was that man outside last night one of them?
My phone buzzes again, and this time I pull it out.
Twenty-three missed calls.
Fifteen from Elfe.
Six from Mom.
Two from a number I recognize as Oskar—my sister's... whatever he is to her now. Ol’ man, husband.
If Oskar's calling me, something's catastrophically wrong.
There's a text from Elfe, time-stamped ten minutes ago:
Answer your phone. NOW.
Another from five minutes ago:
It's about Dad. Please.
And one from two minutes ago:
I know you're scared. I know you ran. But I need you to call me back.
My hands shake so bad I almost drop the phone.
I should call her. I know I should, but calling her means facing everything I've been avoiding for nearly three years now.
It means admitting I'm a coward, and it means going home.
A knock comes to the bathroom door. "Bailey? Are you okay in there?" Jamie, the day cook. Sweet guy, maybe thirty, with a wife and a kid, he shows pictures of constantly.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just—stomach thing."
"Jack's looking for you. Said to take your break if you need it."
"Thanks." I stand, splash cold water on my face.
The girl in the mirror looks like a stranger—too thin, too pale, blonde curls I haven't bothered to brush properly.
Dark circles under brown eyes that are almost black in this light.
I look like someone running.
Because that's what I am.
The back door leads to a small strip of concrete between the building and the dumpster.
Not pretty, but private.
I sit on the curb, pull out a cigarette I bummed off a customer last week.
I don't really smoke—never did before I left Florida, but sometimes I need something to do with my hands.
Something to justify sitting still when every instinct says run.
The lighter clicks three times before it catches.
I inhale, cough, try again.
Better.
The smoke burns, but it's grounding.
Physical discomfort to override the emotional kind.
My phone feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
I stare at it, watching the screen light up with another call from Elfe.
Answer it. Don't answer it. Answer it. Don't.
The ringing stops. Voicemail. Thirty seconds later, it starts again.
"Fuck." I answer before I can change my mind.
"What?"
"Helle." Elfe's voice is wrecked, broken in a way I've never heard before. "Oh, thank the Gods. Where are you? Are you safe?"
"I'm fine. I'm at work in Texas. What's wrong?"
"It's Dad." Everything in me goes cold.
"What happened?"
"Los Coyotes took him. Two days ago." She's crying now, trying to talk through it. "They... Helle, they're torturing him. They sent a video. His hand, they—"
"Stop." I can't hear this. Can't process this. "Why? The truce—"
"The Judge died. Last week. Lung cancer. Everything's void now." She takes a shaky breath. "But that's not all. That's not why they took him." Here it comes. Whatever bomb she's about to drop, I feel it building. "They think Dad killed someone. A Los Coyotes prospect named Andrés Medina."
The cigarette falls from my fingers.
I watch it roll across concrete, still smoking, heading toward a puddle of something dark. "The one you dated," Elfe continues, and there's something in her voice. Knowledge. Suspicion. "They want justice. Whoever killed Andrés, or they kill Dad."
"I didn't—" My voice cracks. "It was just a few dates. I barely knew him."
"I know. But they think Dad found him and killed him." Elfe pauses. "Did he?"
"What?"
"Did Dad kill Andrés?"
No. I did. I tracked him down after I found out what he was.
After I realized every conversation we had, every laugh, every time I thought he loved me—it was all a lie.