Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
LUCY
I step out of the clinic and pull my cardigan tighter around me, the thin fabric doing little to ward off the unexpected chill that clings to the evening air.
The sun has already dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky in shades of deepening purple and gray, and the parking lot lights flicker on one by one with a faint electrical hum. I text Tiny the moment I clock out.
I smile to myself as I walk toward my car, my sneakers scuffing softly against the cracked asphalt.
The weight of the day, the sterile smell of antiseptic still lingering in my nose, the endless beeps of monitors, the quiet ache in my lower back from standing too long, starts to lift at the thought of him.
The way he’ll kiss me like he’s been waiting all day, not just hours, hungry, yet somehow gentle, his lips claiming mine while his fingers thread through my hair.
The way he makes everything feel safe, like the chaos of the world outside the Iron Reapers clubhouse can’t touch me when I’m with him.
He always asks first, always waits for my nod, my whispered "yes." With Tiny, I’m not just wanted, I’m cherished and protected.
Loved in a way that makes my chest feel warm and full even on the coldest nights.
My fingers dig into my bag for my keys, the familiar jingle of them somewhere in the depths of tissues, lip balm, and my student ID.
Footsteps sound behind me on the asphalt, heavy, deliberate boots, not the soft shuffle of a tired nurse or the hurried click of a doctor's heels. I turn, expecting maybe a patient leaving late or one of the clinic staff waving goodbye. Instead, two men are walking toward me. They’re big, broad-shouldered, the kind of size that makes the shadows around them seem deeper.
Leather cuts hang over their shoulders, patches I don’t recognize glinting faintly under the streetlights.
One of them smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, cold, calculating, like a predator sizing up prey.
“Hey, you’re Lucy, right?” the taller one says. His voice is rough, gravelly from years of smoke and shouting, carrying an edge that sends an immediate prickle of unease down my spine. “Tiny’s girl.”
I take an instinctive step back, my heart giving a single, hard thud in my chest. The air feels thicker suddenly, the distant hum of traffic on the main road fading into the background.
“Who are you?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
My mind races, how do they know my name? How do they know about Tiny?
The shorter one laughs, a low, humorless sound. “Friends of friends. We heard you might need a ride. Tiny sent us.” He says it casually, but his eyes flick over me in a way that makes my skin crawl, lingering too long on my curves beneath the cardigan.
My stomach drops. Tiny would never send strangers to get me. I grip my keys tighter in my fist, the metal biting into my palm like a lifeline. “I’m fine. I have my car,” I say firmly, forcing myself to stand taller even as adrenaline begins to surge through my veins.
The taller one steps closer, his boots scraping loudly against the ground. The smell of leather and cigarette smoke wafts toward me. “Come on. Don’t make this hard. We’re just here to take you somewhere safe.” His tone is almost mocking, like he’s enjoying the game already.
I turn and start walking faster toward my car, my pulse pounding in my ears now, a frantic rhythm that drowns out everything else.
The clinic building feels miles away, its lit windows too distant to offer any real comfort.
“Leave me alone,” I call back over my shoulder, my voice cracking just a little at the end.
Fear coils tight in my gut, but I push it down, focusing on the familiar shape of my little sedan ahead.
Just a few more steps. Get in, lock the doors, drive to Tiny.
They follow. Their footsteps are quicker now, matching my pace effortlessly.
The shorter one lunges forward and grabs my arm, his grip like a vise, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my elbow.
Pain shoots up my shoulder, sharp and hot, making me gasp.
“Let go!” I yank my arm free with all my strength, twisting away.
My keys slip in my sweaty hand, clattering to the pavement with a metallic ping that sounds too loud in the quiet lot.
I bend down quickly to pick them up, heart hammering against my ribs like it wants to escape.
In that split second, the taller one grabs me from behind.
His arm wraps around my waist like a steel band, lifting me clean off the ground.
My feet kick uselessly in the air, sneakers scraping nothing but empty space.
“Stop fighting,” he growls low in my ear, his breath hot and foul with the stench of smoke and something sour. “You’re coming with us.”
Panic explodes through me in a white-hot flash.
I kick backward wildly, my heel connecting with his shin.
He grunts but doesn’t loosen his hold. “Help! Someone help!” I scream, my voice echoing across the nearly empty parking lot.
A couple of people, a nurse I recognize from the day shift and an older patient, glance our way from near the entrance, their faces pale with shock.
But no one moves. No one calls out. They look away, hurrying to their own cars like this isn’t their problem.
The betrayal stings almost as much as the fear.
The shorter one snatches up my keys and my bag from the ground, rifling through it briefly with a smirk.
They drag me toward a black van parked at the far edge of the lot, its windows tinted dark as midnight.
I scream again, thrashing in the taller man’s grip, my cardigan riding up and the cool air hitting my exposed skin.
“Let me go! Tiny will kill you for this!” The words tear from my throat raw and desperate.
The taller one clamps a massive hand over my mouth, muffling my cries. His palm is rough and sweaty, pressing so hard my lips ache. “Shut up,” he growls, the vibration of his voice rumbling against my back. “You’re making this worse for yourself.”
They shove me roughly into the back of the van.
The door slams shut with a final, deafening thud that seals my fate for the moment.
The interior smells of stale beer, oil, and unwashed bodies.
I scramble toward the door on my hands and knees, fingers clawing at the handle, but the shorter one is already there, holding me down with his weight.
His hands are rough, calloused, pinning my shoulders to the grimy floor.
I fight as hard as I can, twisting, bucking, my nails raking down his arm and drawing blood.
I bite the hand that tries to cover my mouth again.
He curses loudly, yanking it away with a hiss of pain.
“You little bitch,” he spits, his face twisted in anger, eyes blazing with something ugly and violent.
I scream again, the sound tearing from my lungs.
The van pulls out of the lot with a screech of tires, the motion throwing me sideways.
I keep fighting, kicking out at anything I can reach, my legs connecting with seats and doors.
The taller one turns from the front seat, his face illuminated briefly by passing streetlights.
“Knock her out if you have to,” he orders coldly, like I’m nothing more than an inconvenience.
The shorter one grabs a cloth from somewhere and slaps it over my mouth and nose.
It smells sweet and chemical, cloying and wrong, burning my nostrils.
I hold my breath as long as I can, my lungs screaming for air, my head starting to spin in dizzying circles.
Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
Thoughts of Tiny flash through my mind, his laugh, his gentle touch, the way he’d promised to keep me safe.
I fight the darkness, but it swallows me whole anyway. The world goes dark.
When I wake up, my head is pounding with a vicious, throbbing ache that radiates from my temples down to my jaw.
My mouth feels dry and fuzzy, like cotton has been stuffed inside it.
I’m lying on a dirty couch that reeks of smoke, sweat, and something sharper, maybe spilled whiskey or worse.
My hands are tied in front of me with coarse rope that bites into my wrists with every small movement, the fibers digging deep enough to chafe the skin raw.
I sit up slowly, wincing as the room spins for a moment.
The space is dim, lit only by a single bare bulb swinging from the ceiling and the glow of neon signs on the walls.
Loud music thumps from somewhere nearby, heavy bass that vibrates through the floorboards and into my bones.
Men laugh raucously, the sound harsh and jagged.
Glass breaks with a sharp crash, followed by more cheers.
I look around, my eyes adjusting to the gloom.
This isn’t the Iron Reapers clubhouse. That place feels like home now, rowdy but warm, filled with brothers who tease each other and protect their own.
This place feels wrong. Dangerous. The air is thick with smoke, the walls are stained and peeling with posters of half-naked women torn at the edges.
A man walks in, his heavy footsteps announcing him before I see his face.
He’s tall, broad, with mean eyes under bushy brows.
His leather cut bears the patches of Southside Kings, a name that sends a fresh wave of terror through me.
He looks me up and down slowly, possessively, like I’m something he already owns, his gaze lingering on my tied hands, my disheveled hair, the curve of my chest beneath my rumpled shirt.
“You’re awake,” he says, his voice a low drawl laced with satisfaction. “Good. We’ve been waiting.”
I pull at the rope desperately, the fibers burning my skin as I twist my wrists. My heart races, but I force steel into my voice. “Where am I? Let me go. You can’t do this.”