CHAPTER NINE
WYATT CARRIES ME up the stairs to old Preacher’s room, holding me gently, like I’m breakable. He shoulders the door open and lays me down on the bed.
I was in this room once when Preacher was alive. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling in posters of naked women. Now, even in the dark, I can see that it’s bare and immaculately tidy. Spartan. Very Wyatt.
Wyatt, whose apartment above the garage had felt like a second home, has a room here. I wonder how long he’s had it for. Preacher died almost two years ago.
I don’t fight him when he lays me down. I don’t have the energy, and even if I did, I don’t know what the point would be. My legs are jelly, my mouth dry as dust. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.
He moves away and turns on a bedside lamp. I hear the low hum of a fan click on, the rhythmic whir of the blades filling the room with white noise. A few seconds later, music crackles from a radio.
Then he comes back to me and kneels beside the bed, close enough that I catch his familiar scent—soap and warmth.
He brushes a knuckle beneath one eye, then the other, looking directly into them like he’s searching for something. I flinch and try to move away and he murmurs quietly. “Hold still.” Then: “Jesus, Max.”
He lays the back of his hand on my forehead, sighs, then cracks open a bottle of water, holding it out to me.
“Drink some water.”
I shake my head. I’m thirsty, but fuck him.
He sighs again, deeper this time, and stands up, putting the water bottle down on the bedside table and sliding his leather cut off, draping it over a chair. His new patch, white against black, catches my eye.
Fucking Road Captain. He doesn’t even have the excuse that he’s just out here riding for fun. He’s one of them. I can’t believe I ever thought I knew him. That I ever felt safe with him.
He crosses to the dresser and pulls open a drawer, rummaging for a moment before coming back with a small bottle of aspirin. He sets it on the table beside the water.
Then he crouches down beside me again, and looks at me—bright blue eyes crinkling with concern like I’ve seen them a million times before.
“I need to know you’re okay,” he says softly, his voice low and tender.
It’s too soft. Too familiar. Like he’s still Wyatt and not Ryan. Like he has any right to care.
It makes me want to scream.
“Fuck you, Wyatt!” I shout, louder than I knew I could.
The effect is immediate.
His eyes fly wide—panic—and he lunges forward, slapping a hand over my mouth.
“It’s Ryan,” he hisses, voice ragged and sharp in my ear. “It has to be Ryan. Please, Max.”
I try to twist away, but his hand tightens, fingers digging into my cheek. I can feel the heat rushing up my face, my eyes going wide and wild. I try to scream anyway, but his palm makes a perfect seal. The sound dies in my throat.
He moves fast—straddling me fully, pinning my body down—and dread surges through me.
Is this it? Is this how it starts?
With his free hand he pulls a cheap blue blanket over us, right over our heads until we’re under it like a tent. And then he bends down, mouth against my ear, his voice barely audible.
“Please, Max. Please. Don’t say another word. I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. I’ll explain everything. Just…please. They’re listening.”
He waits.
My heart slams against my ribs, racing from the exertion of shouting and the surprise of his sudden movement, from the weight of him, from the heat of the blanket. I can feel the pressure of his thigh against mine, the rise and fall of his chest. I don’t fight him and he take his hand off my mouth.
And the second he does, I let it rip.
“FUCK YOU!” I scream it as loud as I can, straight into his face, my throat cracking with it. “FUCK YOU, WYATT! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”
His hand is back on my mouth before I can draw another breath, harder this time, sealing my scream in my throat.
“Stop,” he breathes. “Don’t say my name. Please Max. Please.”
I thrash under him, fists pounding against his chest. I’m kicking, writhing, furious, but he doesn’t let go.
His mouth gets closer to my ear, his voice so quiet I can barely hear it beneath the sound of my thrashing. “There are microphones,” he whispers, voice low but urgent. “Max, there are fucking microphones. Silas monitors every room.”
That stops me. It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, my whole body goes still beneath him.
What?
Sensing the fight go out of me, he lifts his hand—tentatively at first—and then puts it down on the mattress, bracing himself over me.
“The whole place is bugged,” he continues in a hoarse whisper. “Silas reviews the footage and audio constantly. I couldn’t tell you anything out there.”
My lungs are heaving. My heart’s in my throat. My mind is trying to spin in six directions at once, but it can’t.
Microphones? Footage?
I blink hard, like that’ll help me make sense of what I just heard.
Silas monitors every room?
A wave of heat crawls up my neck.
Me with Rox, with Maze. And Silas…watching?
Wyatt shifts above me.
“I couldn’t say anything out there,” he repeats. “I couldn’t react. What the fuck are you doing here, Max?”
“Me?” I manage. “What the fuck are you doing here? Ryan?”
The name sounds like an accusation. It is.
His jaw tightens.
“Don’t say my real name again,” he whispers, imploring. “Please, Max. I’m serious. If anyone hears it, I’m dead.”
I stare at him. At that face I know so well, those eyes looking at me like they have a thousand times before. Familiar and unknown. A stranger I thought I knew. My pulse pounds in my ears.
He stares back, a thousand unspoken words in his eyes, and then finally he shifts off me, rolling onto his side until we’re lying parallel, our faces just inches apart in the dark under the blanket.
“I’m telling you this,” he says quietly, “because I need you to understand something. I don’t know why you’re here. If you left the others. If you chose this. If Billy got to you somehow. I don’t know.”
The words land like punches. If I chose this? Why the hell would anyone choose this?
“If you say my name again,” he continues, “or tell anyone who I am, they will kill me. Do you understand? I’m not who they think I am, and if they figure that out…it’s over.”
I go still, the fog in my mind making it hard to process.
He’s not who they think he is? He’s not Ryan? He’s…Wyatt?
He could be lying. But why would he?
I feel sick. Cold. Confused. Like my brain’s trying to rewire itself in real time and shorting out.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whisper.
“I tried,” he says. “There’s a blind spot behind the storehouse. I left a note in that cigarette pack. Told you to meet me there.”
Right. The cigarette pack.
I take a long breath, unsure what to say. It wasn’t just that I didn’t trust him. It’s that…I’ve lost track of time.
I don’t seem able to do the things I used to. Simple things. Like just showing up.
Maze had pills, and I wanted to stay high. That’s all I wanted. To keep riding the wave straight into deep oblivion. Because that’s the only thing that’s made this even halfway bearable. How do I explain that?
“I missed it,” I say, voice weak. “I…didn’t go.”
“It’s okay,” he says softly. He wraps his arm around me and pulls me in close. “I’ve got you now,” he says. “You’re safe.”
My body is crashing, nerves frayed, head spinning.
“You need to rest,” he says quietly, his mouth near the top of my head. “We’ll talk later. I promise.”
The blanket shifts as he lifts it, letting cooler air slip in.
He reaches past me and flicks off the lamp and the room goes dark.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I do feel safe.
It’s quiet. It’s rarely quiet in the clubhouse—it must be late into the morning. But I can’t sleep.
The room is dark. The fan is humming steadily. Wyatt’s breath is slow and even beside me. But my skin is burning up. Sweat beads between my breasts and under my hair. My thighs stick together.
I peel the blanket off. It feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
My dress clings to me, damp and suffocating. I push it up and shove it down, over and over as I try to regulate my body temperature, and finally I just tug it off over my head and toss it to the floor.
I lie there naked letting the drifting air pass over my skin, cooling the beads of sweat, but then the cold hits. Goosebumps ripple over me, making me shiver.
I slide back under the blanket and curl toward Wyatt for warmth. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans, but his body feels good, solid and warm beneath the fabric. I nestle in closer, breathing in his scent, hoping it’ll settle the racing in my chest, the nervous twitch creeping up my spine.
He shifts a little, half-asleep, adjusting just enough for me to rest my head on his shoulder, and I exhale and sink into him. His arm settles heavy around my waist.
He feels so nice. So strong. So real.
My Wyatt.
Hard, fierce, strong.
I take his hand and guide it up, slowly. His fingers skim my skin, sending a shiver through me that cuts through the static crawling just beneath the surface. I draw his hand over my breast, letting the heat of it make my skin tighten, goosebumps rising in waves. My nipple hardens under his touch.
He stirs.
His fingers move—light pressure, a gentle squeeze. A sound slips from his throat, low and warm.
And then he freezes.
His hand stops moving. He sucks in a breath, and pulls his hand away.
“Max,” he breathes. He’s lifting his arm, moving away from me. “What are you doing?”
I blink at him, still half-curled into his side, a janky wiredness pulling at my veins.
“Nothing,” I answer coyly, and then I lift my arms, stretching my body out. I want his hands on me. I need his touch to soothe this relentless buzzing inside me.
But he doesn’t reach for me.
“You’re not thinking straight, honey,” he says gently. “Where are your clothes?”
“I’m hot,” I whine, and roll to my side, pressing my body against his and brushing my mouth to the side of his neck. He smells so good. So warm, so soft, so comforting. “Aren’t you?”
He exhales hard and puts a hand on my arm, firm.
“Sweetheart…you’re not yourself.” He sits up. “Come on, let’s get you something to wear. I’ll turn up the fan if you need it.”
I blink and sit up with him.
“I don’t want the fan,” I say. “I want you to touch me. And I want to make you feel good.”
He frowns, brow twitching. “Max…”
He’s not confused. He’s concerned. Alarmed, even.
“Put something on,” he says quietly. “Even just a shirt.”
“No,” I say, low and seductive. “Just touch me. Please, Wy—“
“Shh.” His finger is at my mouth before I can get the word out. “Max, please. Sweetheart, please lie down. You need to get some sleep, okay?”
But I don’t want to sleep. I can’t sleep. I need something to take the edge off, because the edge is coming fast—and it’s sharp.
My mouth waters. My stomach clenches. The twist comes out of nowhere.
“Oh, shit,” I breathe.
A sharp, low cramp radiates through my gut and down my thighs, and I tense, sucking in a breath.
“Max?”
I clutch my abdomen, trying to breathe through it, but it gets worse. Cold tingles over my skin, like someone dumped a bucket of ice down my spine, and a shiver wracks through me so hard my teeth knock together.
“It’s okay,” Wyatt is saying, reaching for the blanket and wrapping it tight around me.
“I don’t feel good,” I manage to say.
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around me tight, like he’s holding me together. “I’ve got you.”
I close my eyes. My body starts trembling. My teeth chatter. Cramps spread like ripples in a pond.
I think about Rox. About Maze. About the empty baggie in Billy’s room and how much I’d give to have one more of those little pills melting under my tongue right now.
Just a little relief. Just one more breath where it doesn’t hurt to be awake.
“Can I have an aspirin?” I whisper.
“Of course,” Wyatt says softly.
He lets go of me, unscrews the cap, hands me a pill and the water bottle.
I toss it back and take a long sip—
And everything turns.
My stomach clenches hard. Heat flashes up my neck. The bile is instant, no warning.
I stagger off the bed, find the garbage bin, and drop to my knees. Watery vomit splashes into the plastic.
“Shit,” Wyatt says behind me. The lamp clicks on. The room fills with soft, yellow light.
Shit indeed.
The room spins. My skin feels wrong. Too hot, too tight, too thin.
I sit on the floor and rest the back of my head against the wall, my breath coming in short, shallow pulls.
I stare blankly at the ceiling, focusing on my breath, keeping it steady and smooth. Each one hurts.
And then, for the first time, I see it. Blinking red in the corner—just a tiny pinprick of light, almost impossible to notice.
A small black dome with a tiny glass lens at the center.
As black and beady as Silas’s eyes in real life.