Chapter 8 #3
Demon, Techy’s son, is my assigned bodyguard for the day.
He’s a few years younger than me, but what he lacks in age he makes up for in the intimidation factor.
Tattoos crawl up his neck and across his jawline, disappearing beneath the collar of his cut and only to reappear on his hands.
Despite the menacing appearance, there’s something of his mother in his eyes, a gentleness that contradicts the hard exterior.
“Is everything going okay out there?” I ask, buckling my seat belt. “Has the MC attacked again?”
Demon starts the engine, the truck rumbling to life beneath us. He glances at me, one tattooed hand resting casually on the steering wheel. “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say,” he starts, then his mouth curls into a wicked grin that reminds me of his father. “But if they were, then they’re dead.”
The casual way he references potential violence should probably disturb me more than it does.
Instead, I find myself nodding, a strange sense of comfort settling over me at the thought of the club’s protection.
It’s a world I’m still getting used to, this blend of danger and family, violence and loyalty.
We pull up to the clubhouse, the familiar building now feeling more like a second home than the intimidating structure it was just days ago.
The parking lot is packed with motorcycles and a few cars, evidence of the continued lockdown.
Outside the gate, a group of girls in their early twenties hover like moths around a flame, clearly hoping to be let inside.
The prospect in the guard shack, Cash, I realize as we get closer, watches them with a mixture of wariness and appreciation.
I wave as we pass, and Cash returns the gesture with a lazy salute, his attention immediately returning to the women. The truck hasn’t even fully stopped when I hear it, the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle approaching from behind, a sound I’ve come to recognize as easily as my own heartbeat.
My pulse quickens, a smile spreading across my face before I can even think to contain it. I know without looking who it is.
“Damn, you got it bad for our enforcer, don’t you?” Demon teases, putting the truck in park.
Heat rises to my face, but I don’t bother denying it. “Is it that obvious?”
“Bro, your whole face just lit up like the fucking Christmas tree my mom insists on putting up every year.” He laughs, shaking his head. “It’s almost embarrassing to watch.”
I should probably be offended, but there’s no real malice in his words, just the good-natured ribbing I’m starting to recognize as the club’s way of showing acceptance. Before I can respond, the motorcycle pulls up alongside us, engine cutting off with a final rumble.
Zach swings his leg over the bike with that fluid grace that still catches me off guard.
He removes his helmet, running a hand through his hair to smooth it back, and my mouth goes dry at the sight.
Three days into whatever this is between us, and he still affects me like a teenager with their first crush.
“Hey,” he says, approaching my side of the truck. His eyes scan me quickly, a habit I’ve noticed, checking for injuries or threats, making sure I’m whole and safe.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, stepping out of the truck. The urge to touch him is almost overwhelming, but I’m still learning the protocols here, still figuring out what’s acceptable in front of others.
Zach has no such hesitation. His hand settles on the small of my back, a casual claim that sends warmth spreading through me. “Everything go okay at the apartment?”
“Fine,” I assure him. “In and out, no problems.”
Something flickers across his face, a shadow I can’t quite interpret. His jaw tightens slightly before he nods. “Good.”
Demon coughs dramatically, drawing our attention. “If you two are done making googly eyes at each other, I’ve got shit to do.” He tosses my duffel bag at Zach, who catches it effortlessly. “Your doctor, your luggage duty.”
Zach’s eyes narrow, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Watch it, prospect.”
“Not a prospect anymore,” Demon reminds him with a grin, already heading toward the clubhouse. “Patched in last month. Try to keep up, old man.”
As he walks away, Zach shakes his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Kid’s getting cocky.”
“He’s just jealous,” I suggest, leaning slightly into Zach’s side, testing the boundaries of public contact.
Zach’s arm slides fully around my waist in response, pulling me closer. “Of what?”
“This,” I say simply, gesturing between us. The easy comfort we’ve found, the connection that seems to deepen by the hour.
His expression softens, those dark eyes warming as they meet mine. “Yeah,” he agrees, voice dropping to a register that sends shivers down my spine. “He should be.”
We stand there for a moment, the bustle of the clubhouse fading into background noise. Then Zach’s phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking the spell. He checks it with a frown, then sighs.
“Grey needs me,” he explains, tucking the phone away. “Something about the Reapers’ movements.”
Concern tightens my chest. “They’re still in town?”
“Some,” he admits, not sugarcoating it. “But they’re keeping their distance now. This is just…” He pauses, clearly weighing how much to tell me. “Cleanup. Making sure they understand the message.”
I can see Zach’s jaw tighten, his eyes hardening as he reads something else on his phone. Whatever Grey needs him for, it’s serious.
“Shit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got to go now. Some of those Reapers just showed their faces at the gas station on Route 9.”
“Now?” I ask, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice. We’ve barely had five minutes together all day.
His expression darkens further, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Yeah. Now.” He leans in, pressing a quick, hard kiss to my lips. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I nod, trying to be understanding. “Be careful.”
“Always am.” He hands me my duffel bag, his fingers lingering on mine for a moment longer than necessary. “Go inside. Stay with the others.”
I watch him stride back to his bike, his shoulders rigid with tension.
He’s furious, not at me, but at the situation, at being pulled away yet again.
As he starts the engine, his eyes find mine one last time, and I see the promise there that he’ll be back, and whoever’s stupid enough to have shown up in Devil Souls territory might not be so lucky.
* * *
Zach
I gun the engine, the familiar roar of my bike vibrating through my bones as I tear away from the clubhouse. My jaw aches from clenching it so hard. Grey’s text replays in my head. Three Reapers spotted at First National. Armed. Police haven’t been notified yet.
The bank. Fucking amateurs. Coming into our territory was their first mistake. Targeting civilians is their last.
The wind whips against my face as I push the bike harder, weaving through traffic. In my side mirror, I catch glimpses of Butcher and Demon following close behind, forming a deadly convoy. No cuts today, we’re in plain clothes, our weapons concealed. Less attention that way.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. Probably Xavier, and thinking about him right now, about his concerned eyes as I left, will only distract me from what needs to be done. The enforcer in me knows sometimes peace comes through violence.
First National comes into view, a squat brick building with large glass windows. Nothing special, except it’s in our town. Our territory. I spot the black sedan parked haphazardly near the side entrance, engine still running. Amateur hour.
I pull into the alley behind the bank, cutting my engine and dismounting in one fluid motion. Butcher and Demon flank me instantly, no words needed between us. We’ve done this dance too many times.
“Security feed shows three of them,” Demon murmurs, checking his phone. “Two inside, one waiting in the car. They’ve got masks, but the jackets are Reaper cuts.”
I nod, already pulling my weapon from the holster concealed beneath my jacket. The weight is familiar, comforting. “You and Butcher take the front. I’ll handle the driver. On my signal.”
They move silently, disappearing around the corner.
I approach the sedan from behind, staying in the blind spots.
The driver’s window is half open, the faint bass line of music drifting out.
I can see the back of his head, how he’s nodding along, completely oblivious.
His cut is visible, the red trim of the Reapers’ logo stark against the black leather.
I tap my phone once, sending the signal to Butcher and Demon. Three seconds. Two. One.
In a single motion, I reach through the window, grabbing the driver by his hair and slamming his head against the steering wheel before he can react.
The horn blares briefly as his face connects with the hard plastic.
He struggles, reaching for something in his waistband, but I’m faster.
My forearm locks around his throat, cutting off his air supply.
“Not smart,” I growl into his ear, tightening my grip as he claws at my arm. “Coming here. Into our town.”
He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a choked gurgle. I can feel his pulse racing beneath my arm, the desperate thrashing as his body fights for oxygen. I ease up just enough to let him draw a ragged breath.
“Where are the others?” I demand, though I already know. I want to hear him say it.
“Fuck you,” he spits, blood from his broken nose spraying the dashboard.
I slam his head against the wheel again, harder this time. The crack of bone is audible even over the horn. “Wrong answer.”
His resistance weakens, consciousness fading. I drag him out through the window, his body crumpling to the pavement like a discarded doll. The bank’s side door bursts open, and I pivot, weapon raised, only to lower it when I see Butcher shoving another Reaper ahead of him.