Chapter Eighteen #2
She didn’t argue. Just turned and rushed behind the bar, her phone already pressed to her ear.
The old-timers at the bar had gone quiet, their instincts sharp enough to feel the shift in the air as they slid off their stools and moved toward the back of the room, disappearing through a door marked Employees Only.
I stood slowly, never taking my eyes off the two Satan’s Angels.
They were smirking now, turning on their stools to face me.
The bald one cracked his knuckles. The lean one rolled his shoulders, his grin widening.
“Well, well,” the bald one said, his voice rough and mocking.
“Look what we got here. A Golden Skull, all by his lonesome.”
“Not so tough without your brothers, are you?” the lean one added.
I didn’t respond. Just stood there, my hands loose at my sides, my breathing steady.
They stood too, moving toward me with the kind of confidence that came from years of winning fights. From hurting people. From getting away with it.
I let them come.
The bald one charged first, closing the distance in three long strides. He swung a haymaker aimed at my jaw, telegraphed, sloppy, relying on brute force instead of skill.
I sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past me, and drove my elbow into the back of his skull.
The impact sent a jolt up my arm, and he stumbled forward, crashing into a table.
Plates and silverware clattered to the floor.
The lean one was faster. Smarter. He came in low, aiming for my ribs with a quick jab that I barely blocked.
His fist connected with my forearm, and pain flared up to my shoulder.
I twisted, using his momentum against him, and drove my knee into his gut.
He grunted, doubling over, and I brought my elbow down on the back of his neck.
He dropped to one knee, gasping for air.
But the bald one was already back on his feet, roaring like a wounded animal.
He grabbed a chair and swung it at my head.
I ducked, feeling the rush of air as the chair sailed over me and smashed into the wall.
Splinters rained down, and I surged forward, driving my fist into his ribs. Once. Twice. Three times.
He grunted, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he grabbed my cut and yanked me forward, headbutting me square in the face. Pain exploded across my nose and cheekbone. Blood poured down my face, hot and metallic, and my vision blurred for a second.
But I didn’t let go as I drove my forehead into his nose, feeling the cartilage crunch under the impact.
He howled, stumbling back, blood streaming down his face.
The lean one tackled me from the side, driving me into the bar.
My ribs slammed into the edge, and I felt something crack.
Pain lanced through my side, sharp and breathtaking.
He drove his fist into my kidney, and I saw stars.
My knees buckled, but I grabbed the edge of the bar and held myself up. He hit me again. And again.
I twisted, grabbed a beer bottle from the bar, and smashed it across his face.
Glass shattered, and he screamed, stumbling back with blood pouring from a gash across his cheek.
The bald one was on me again, grabbing me by the throat and slamming me against the bar.
His hands tightened, cutting off my air, and I felt the edges of my vision start to darken.
I drove my thumbs into his eyes. He screamed, releasing me, and I sucked in a ragged breath.
My lungs burned, my ribs screamed in protest, but I didn’t stop.
I grabbed his head and slammed it into the bar.
Once. Twice. Three times. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.
The lean one was still on his feet, swaying, blood dripping from his face. He pulled a knife from his belt. A wicked-looking blade that gleamed under the dim lights. “Gonna gut you, you Golden Skulls piece of shit,” he slurred, his words thick with pain and rage.
I didn’t have a weapon. Didn’t need one. He lunged, the knife aimed at my gut. I sidestepped, grabbing his wrist and twisting hard. Bone snapped, and he screamed, the knife clattering to the floor as I drove my knee into his face, and he went down hard, his head bouncing off the linoleum.
He didn’t get back up.
I stood there, breathing hard, blood dripping from my nose and split knuckles.
My ribs throbbed with every breath, and my vision swam.
But I was still standing. The bald one groaned, trying to push himself up.
I walked over and kicked him in the ribs, hard enough to hear something crack. He collapsed again, wheezing.
“Stay down,” I growled.
He didn’t move.
I turned, scanning the room. The old-timers were gone. The place was trashed. Broken chairs, shattered glass, blood smeared across the floor and bar. And then I heard footsteps as Abby rushed out from behind the bar, her eyes wide, her phone still clutched in her hand.
“Don’t worry,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve called my brother. He and his crew will clean up the mess.”
I stared at her, my chest heaving. “Who’s your brother?”
She smiled. A small, nervous smile. “His name is Monk. He’s the sergeant at arms for the Diamondback MC.”
My blood ran cold.
Monk. Diamondback. Shadow’s club. Which meant Shadow would find out. Kansas would find out. The entire fucking Diamondback MC would know I had been here. With Hope.
“Fuck,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair.
Abby’s smile faltered. “Is that... bad?”
I didn’t answer. Just reached into my wallet and pulled out a thick wad of cash. Everything I had on me. I pressed it into her hand. “For the damages,” I said. “And for keeping your mouth shut about the woman I was with.”
Abby’s eyes widened as she looked down at the money. “I—okay. Yeah. I didn’t see anything.”
“Good.”
I turned and walked toward the door, every step sending fresh waves of pain through my ribs. Blood dripped from my nose onto my cut, staining the leather.
Hope was waiting outside, leaning against my bike, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes widened when she saw me.
“Chapman?”
“We need to go,” I said, my voice rough. “Now.”
She didn’t argue. Just climbed onto the bike behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist.
I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, the gravel crunching under the tires. In the rearview mirror, I saw Abby standing in the doorway, her phone pressed to her ear, and I knew—knew with absolute certainty—that the clock had just run out.
Shadow would find out. Monk would tell him. And when he did, there would be hell to pay.
But as Hope’s arms tightened around me and her body pressed against my back, I realized something else. I didn’t care.
Let Shadow find out. Let the whole damn world find out.
Because Hope was mine. And I wasn’t letting her go.
Not for Shadow. Not for the club. Not for anyone.
I opened up the throttle, and we disappeared into the Oklahoma heat, leaving Joey’s Burger Shack and the wreckage behind us. But I knew we couldn’t outrun the truth forever.
Sooner or later, it would catch up to us.