Chapter 12 Wren
WREN
“We’re moving,” Catfish says when he returns to his room, a euphoric smile on his face.
“We are?” I wonder why disappointment laces my tone. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent the last twenty minutes vacillating between worry about River’s safety and concern for his longevity, partnered with a deep need to pick up where we left off, just before he was called away.
While I showered, I imagined the way his hands would feel on my naked body if he fucked me. And despite already having one orgasm, resisted the growing urge to touch myself to find a second one.
He comes to the bed and climbs over the top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. His hands come up to cup both my cheeks, but he kisses me tenderly.
Not with the blast of high energy he kissed me with earlier.
This is softer and unexpected.
“We are. I mean, I made a deal I hope you agree to, which is that you secure this place up tight like King’s clubhouse in New Jersey. But hopefully, you think the deal is worth it, because in return, there are much nicer beds in the ranch house across the field over there.”
He points out of his bedroom window.
I think about all the beds I’ve slept in. Some of them soft, some hard. Some with blankets, some without. Some on my own, some with others. “They all feel the same when you have to sleep with one eye open.”
“We’ll find you some peace, Wren. I promise.”
I place my hands over his ass and roll my hips up against his. “What if peace wasn’t what I wanted right now?”
Catfish chuckles at that. “Then, I’d tell you that the sooner we get you packed up from the bakery and moved into the ranch house, where we will have an around-the-clock guard outside the building, the sooner I’ll let you rip all my clothes off.”
I kiss him this time. “Fine. I’m moving.”
My attempt to shove him off me is met with laughter. “You might think you’re tough. But there’s no way you’re pushing me around.”
In a move akin to a push-up, he lifts himself easily off me, hovering, arms bent, to kiss me one more time before bouncing off the bed.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re dressed, in Catfish’s truck, on our way to the bakery with a prospect escort. It feels like a lifetime since we left there yesterday. And I feel like a different person.
Maybe it’s the power of someone else knowing you’re drowning. Maybe it’s someone else noticing what you’re emotionally carrying and offering to help carry it without you having to ask.
Maybe it’s just Catfish.
River.
But I feel more peaceful inside.
Quinn is in the kitchen of the bakery when we enter through the rear door.
“Hey, Wren,” she says when she sees me. “You doing okay?” There’s worry in her eyes, and I wonder if Smoke told her what happened to me yesterday.
“Yeah. Much better. Thanks.”
“We’re moving out,” Catfish says. “Sorry for all the coming and going, but we’ll be out of your hair as soon as we have all our stuff packed up.”
Quinn pouts playfully. “But we’ve barely had a chance to get to know each other. And I wanted to talk to you about book club, you know, if you’re interested.”
“They read dirty books where people fuck like rabbits. Vampires. Monsters. Bikers!” His eyebrows wiggle at the last one.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I tend to read a lot of fantasy and science fiction.”
“Well, Greer and Lucy aren’t really big romance readers either, so they read their own thing.
Some dry non-fiction shit. Or ‘the classics.’” She rolls her eyes and throws quotation marks in the air.
“But you should just come. You don’t even need to bring a book.
It’s just more of a way for us to get together while the big tough bikers are doing their thing. ”
“I take offence,” Catfish says. “I offered to join but y’all said no.”
Quinn laughs. “Yeah. Well, book club is our equivalent of club business. If we aren’t allowed to join club business, you aren’t allowed to join book club business. Our next meeting is coming up.”
It’s odd in moments like this. I have to ask myself which side of this conversation I want to be on.
I’m fully aware that I’m not a biker, one of those kinds of men.
While my nature is to protect, it’s not to the lengths these men will go to.
I’ve seen King, covered in blood, carrying Rae to safety.
I have no estimate of the number of men he killed to get to her.
But I’m acutely aware I’m not one of the girls, no matter what they’re doing. Sometimes, even kind offers like this make me worry I’ll be pushed into a box I’ve fought to get out of.
I guess in this situation, though, if I want to build a community, I need to pick a side, and it isn’t with the bikers who wouldn’t include me, even if I wanted them to.
Even though the New Jersey bikers accepted me as I am, there were lines we didn’t cross.
Things that only they could do. Which meant I was left on the other side of the equation with the old ladies.
Catfish looks at me and, as if sensing my indecision, speaks for me. “Why don’t you and the girls just come over to the ranch house for your next book club. Safer for Wren and the rest of you. I’ll even be designated driver and come get you and drop you home if your men are busy.”
Quinn grins. “Done. We can potluck it. Leave the details with me.”
“We gotta go,” Catfish says, tipping his head toward the door.
Once we hit the stairs, he reaches for my hand and squeezes it as he leads me up to the apartment. “I can get you out of it if you don’t want to attend.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’ve got no idea how long I’m going to be here for.
Would be good to have some friends. I got close to Niro and Spark and to Saint’s partner, Briar, and King’s wife, Rae, while I was in New Jersey.
Beyond Calista and Vex. It felt good to be grounded.
To have the slightest sense of putting down roots and making a home somewhere.
I didn’t have as many anxiety attacks towards the end with them. ”
We reach the apartment, and Catfish opens the door. “Then we’ll try to recreate that here.”
I decide not to clarify if he means he’ll help me feel grounded, or make this feel like home.
It doesn’t take long to pack up what few belongings we brought here, but I make sure to collect the crystals that Catfish’s mom sent me.
When we’re done and everything is loaded onto the truck, I take a last look around the apartment. Another place I was told to land. Another place that didn’t work.
It’s a melodramatic thought, but I wonder if I’m ever gonna land anywhere for good.
“You okay if we stop at the grocery store while we’re out? We’ll need supplies, and so does Mom.”
I shrug. “I’m easy. But please, let me pay for them. You guys are doing enough, and I can afford it.”
Catfish glances over at me. “My gut instinct is to tell you to shut up. But I get that the same shit I’d pull with women won’t work with you. So, I can’t decide whether to ignore you and lead us how I know best or let you have your way.”
“If you need some boundaries, I like being financially equal or even the breadwinner. Not dependent. And while I pretend I’m not, I think I might be more romantic than I let on. Riding Blaze with you was special.”
The corner of Catfish’s mouth lifts. “I can live with that.”
When he pulls into the lot of the store at the edge of town, it’s busy. So close to the holidays, people are frantically stocking up on supplies.
“We should get a tree,” Catfish says. “For the ranch house.”
I glance over to the pines, wrapped in mesh netting leaned up against the side of the store. They all look a little miserable, the last ones that no one else picked. “I’m not sure there’s a lot to choose from.”
Catfish leads us right by them as we walk into the store. “Not from here. We’ll take a snowmobile and trailer out onto Atom’s land and chop one down.”
We take two carts. One for our things, one for his mom’s. With both, Catfish is chaotic. Things get tossed in. From the ingredients, I have no sense of what meals he thinks we’re going to eat.
“You know, I’m gonna throw a few solid meals in there too,” I say, grabbing a large rack of ribs and a multi-pack of chicken breasts.
“You got a problem with my grocery choices?” he says, reaching over me to grab some beef off the shelf.
“None whatsoever.” But the words are laced with laughter.
We’re just down the soda aisle when a ripple of cold air trickles down my spine.
I glance behind us and see a family with two errant toddlers pushing an overfilled cart trying to make their way around a slow-moving elderly couple.
The other half of the aisle has a mom with a child in the seat of the cart, loading the cart up with chips.
And a group of students who are debating over their soda choices.
I double-check behind me, but there’s no one else there.
No one who looks like they might be…what? Following us?
“You okay?” Catfish asks, glancing in the direction I am.
“Someone walked over my grave.”
“What?”
“You know the saying. When you get a cold chill or your Spidey senses go off, it’s the sensation you’ll get when you’re dead and someone walks over your grave.”
Catfish studies the other end of the aisle. “You think someone’s watching us.”
He places his hand inside his cut, but I place my hand on his wrist. “I live a very paranoid life. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
His pace increases. “Let’s step this up and get out of here. I know the prospects are outside watching the truck to make sure no one steals your stuff, but let’s just get done.”
Despite our plan of action and haste, the feeling continues. “No one would attack me in a populated supermarket, would they?”
“Walk in front of me,” Catfish says, nudging me ahead. “And let’s not jinx ourselves. You’re right, it’s public. But let’s not take any chances.”
Catfish has changed, like he did in the clubhouse. Ninety percent of the time, he’s just an affable golden retriever, but in moments like this, he morphs into someone else. He stands taller, firmer, more intimidating.
His eyes scan up and down the aisles. And he steps ahead of me as we go around the corners.
We finish the shopping, but it’s clear Catfish is now on edge. And we’re almost to his truck when Catfish’s phone buzzes. He checks it and his jaw tightens.
“What?” I ask, the hairs on the back of my neck rising again.
“One of the prospects says there was a blacked-out Silverado parked across from the entrance. Been there since we went in. They didn’t see anyone get in or get out either. He was about to knock on the window when it suddenly peeled out.”
“Could be coincidence,” I offer, though I don’t believe it. Not with the way my gut is suddenly fizzing like it’s been connected to a live wire. “Did they get a look at the driver or the plate?”
“I’ll check on the ride. Look, let’s just get in and go.”
We push the carts faster through the lot, and my brain starts to try and catalogue everything.
Useless things, like how the snow is crusted beneath our boots and how the wind stings, to paranoid things, like how close a van has parked next to his truck.
Or how it looks as though someone sits in the car facing us.
A man leaps out of the van next to the truck, and my heart drops before I notice the club colors on the back of his leather jacket. His face is pale.
“He gunned it. Wasn’t sure if I should wait for you or go after,” he says.
Catfish throws the tailgate down. “Let’s not worry about that now. Let’s just get the truck loaded.”
We do, arms a blur, while we scan every vehicle that pulls into the lot and every person who walks anywhere near us. But nothing comes of any of it.
“Leave the carts,” Catfish says, and it’s a weird thing to think about, how leaving them in the lot is impolite.
We jump into the truck and Catfish has us moving before I even had time to fasten my seat belt. “You need to fasten your seat belt too,” I say.
Catfish glances at me, then does as I ask.
It’s not until we pull out of the lot and take the snow-packed turn headed west that Catfish starts looking out of his rearview mirror.
“What is it?” I ask, straining to look over my shoulder.
“That blacked-out truck.” He looks ahead down the road and then speeds up.
“Fuck, they’re gonna…shit!” Catfish slams the steering wheel. “They just took the prospects’ truck out. Forced it into a spin.”
“You think they’re coming for us?” I ask, which is a ridiculous question when all the evidence points to yes.
I yank on my seat belt to create some space and take out my phone.
“What the hell are you doing?” Catfish asks.
“Trying to get the license if I can see it. We need to let it get closer.”
“He’s half a block behind us. Any closer he’ll be pushing us off the road.”
The Silverado speeds up, tires fishtailing on the icy road. “He doesn’t have the tire grip you do,” I say suddenly. “Lure him in so I can get the license, then gun it.”
“Can’t do it on Main Street. We’ll end up killing someone or riding into one of the buildings. Gimme a minute to get out of town a little.”
They follow us through the town, past the industrial building and onto the rural road that cuts through the tree line. There’s snow banked on the shoulders, tall drifts that haven’t been plowed. Only compressed by the occasional passing car.
This isn’t the path we took; this isn’t the path to the clubhouse.
I wonder if it’s the road to the ranch house. Some back road, maybe.
Catfish lets the gap close, and I can just make out the license plate. I record it as a voice note, then try to get a photograph, but the beam of the Silverado’s lights blurs it.
“Got it,” I yell. “Go.”
And Catfish floors the truck, leaving the Silverado in the dirt…well, snow. As it tries to keep pace, it fishtails and ends up nose first in a large snowbank.