Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
As they pulled into the parking lot, Sloan pointed to a bar across the street where a row of bikes lined the front like a steel barricade.
"That doesn't mean anything," Quinn said, dismissing the implication before anyone voiced it. "Could just be a riding club out enjoying wine country."
She turned to Echo. "Recognize any of those?"
Echo snorted. "Don't look at me. I don't know the first thing about bikes."
Approaching the entrance, they saw the outdoor section was just as busy as expected. Inside it was, then. Quinn caught Brandi holding the door open and gave her a nod of thanks as they stepped into the dimly lit space, the scent of grilled food and fresh hops hitting them immediately.
"Fingers crossed they have something big enough for us," Quinn said as Brandi fell into step beside her.
The evening had been wonderful. Laughter filled the air, the conversation staying light and easy, even dipping into a few stories that probably should have never seen the light of day.
As the table was cleared, talk inevitably circled back to why Quinn had thrown together a last-minute girls' weekend.
"Don't look at me. This was Brandi's call." Quinn nudged her friend, who was suddenly very interested in everything except the conversation. "Spill it, Red."
Brandi sighed, shaking her head. "I'm hoping that if I leave town for a few days, Tool will notice." She lifted her hands in surrender. "I know, it’s stupid."
"No, it’s not. He needs to get with the program," Quinn said firmly. "Has he given you any clue what he actually wants?"
"Shit. He’s like Fort Knox with information. He just shows up here and there for, you know…"
"For what? Sex?"
Brandi could feel the heat creeping up her neck. She should have kept her mouth shut. She noticed Layla watching her, an unreadable expression on her face. "What’s that look for?" she asked Quinn’s sister.
"I was just thinking about a guy."
Brandi’s stomach clenched. Was Layla thinking about Tool? Had something happened between them? Her heart pounded, a sick, irrational panic creeping in. "Did you see Angel when you rolled through town?" she asked, throwing out the question as a test.
Layla choked on her wine. Relief flooded Brandi’s chest.
Quinn laughed and raised her glass. "Busted."
"No, I was thinking about the deputy who pulled me over," Layla said, eyes dancing with mischief. But then she grinned. "Okay, fine. I saw Angel outside The Firehouse." She fanned herself dramatically. "That blonde-haired, tatted-up biker… damn."
Brandi rolled her eyes, but Layla wasn’t done.
"I think I could juggle both Angel and the deputy. Except the deputy didn’t seem charmed by me at all."
"Oh hell, he wrote you a ticket, didn’t he?" Quinn snorted.
Layla huffed, sipping her wine. She did tend to rely too much on her looks to get her out of trouble. If she thought she could mix it up with Deputy Wright, that was a disaster waiting to happen. Gypsy would probably prefer Layla sleeping with Angel over getting tangled up with a cop.
Before Quinn could say anything, a commotion from across the room caught her attention. Her stomach sank. A group of bikers was hassling other patrons, their voices carrying above the low hum of the restaurant.
Quinn immediately flagged down the waitress. "Can we get the check, please?"
It was time to go.
Quinn stayed sharp as the girls weaved through the crowded outdoor seating area. All they had to do was get out of the restaurant and back to the B&B. No distractions. No trouble. They were almost in the clear when she caught Layla throwing a haughty glare at one of the bikers.
The guy sneered. "Bitch."
Quinn’s stomach dropped. She grabbed her sister’s arm in an iron grip. “Don’t you say or do a damn thing, Layla.”
Layla always got herself into shit that could’ve been avoided if she just kept her mouth shut and her attitude in check. But instead of heeding the warning, Layla ripped her arm free and glared like a spoiled brat.
Quinn swore under her breath. One more reason Gypsy was getting a swift kick in the balls when she got home.
It happened too fast for anyone to react.
The patch holder—a towering, rough-looking biker—reached out and smacked Layla on the ass. The sharp clap cut through the noise of the beer garden.
Layla didn’t hesitate. She whirled and slapped him across the face.
"Don’t—" Quinn barely got the word out before the guy lunged.
He grabbed Layla by the throat, yanking her toward him like she weighed nothing.
Damn it, Layla!
Brandi’s blood went cold as she watched it unfold. She knew the rules. Layla had just made a mistake she wouldn’t walk away from. When you put your hands on a patch holder, you either fought until you were broken, or you were used until they were done with you.
The biker tightened his grip on Layla’s throat, grinning. “You’ve got two choices, sweetheart. I either beat the fight out of you, or I fuck it out. Your call.”
The table had gone silent. No one was going to help them.
Brandi’s pulse pounded. Layla was Quinn’s sister, a good girl who had no idea what kind of hell she’d just stepped into. Brandi, though? She had been through this kind of hell before. She knew how it worked. She knew how to survive it.
She stepped forward, pushing through the frozen crowd. "Take me instead."
The biker’s head snapped toward her. His eyes dragged over her body, slow and predatory. His grin widened. “Why the hell would I do that?”
Brandi locked eyes with Layla, silently begging her to catch on. Just this once, keep your damn mouth shut.
Brandi straightened, pulling herself into the role she needed to play. “She belongs to another club.”
The patch holder’s expression flickered with interest. "Yeah? Which club’s your old man in, bitch?"
Layla gasped against his grip, her nails clawing uselessly at his arm. Her wide eyes darted to Brandi, panic flooding her face.
“Gypsy Kings,” she choked out.
The biker hesitated, eyeing Layla before shifting his attention back to Brandy. "And you?" he asked, his voice thick with suspicion.
Brandi swallowed hard. She knew exactly what she was signing up for, but better her than Layla. Better her than Quinn’s sister. Layla wouldn’t survive what these men would do to her.
Brandi had been through worse. She could survive one more round. She lifted her chin. “I work for them. I’m just a club girl.”
The biker let out a slow, nasty laugh. “We’ll see about that.”
Layla stumbled back when he let her go, and immediately grabbed Brandi’s hand, trying to pull her away.
But the patch holder was faster. He snatched Brandi around the waist, yanking her back against him. "She stays."
Laughter rumbled from his brothers, a sickening sound that made Brandi’s stomach turn. Her eyes found Quinn’s in the crowd.
Quinn was already moving forward, ready to fight, to do something stupid. Brandi shook her head. No.
If they stayed, they’d see what the club would do to her.
If they stayed, they’d try to stop it.
And if they tried to stop it, they’d all be dead by morning.
“Go.” Brandi whispered.
Quinn’s jaw clenched.
Brandi silently begged. Please. Just leave.
Quinn stayed alert, her body thrumming with adrenaline as she ushered the girls toward the door. Get out. Get to safety. That was her priority.
“I need all of you to go to the truck and lock yourselves in,” she ordered, her voice low but firm.
“You aren’t staying in here alone, Quinn,” Echo shot back, refusing to budge.
Quinn barely registered the argument. Her mind was locked onto one thing—Brandi. They couldn’t let the club take her.
Pulling out her phone, she snapped a quick picture and fired it off to Gypsy with a single message: We have a problem.
Her phone rang instantly.
She slipped to the back of the crowd before answering. "Gypsy!"
"Talk to me, baby. What’s happening?" His voice was tight, clipped, already filled with rage. She could hear him moving, texting—mobilizing. Someone was about to fucking die.
“A patch holder from some club grabbed Layla, trying to—” Her breath hitched. “Anyway, she slapped him. And Brandi… God, Gypsy, Brandi told the guy she was nothing but a club girl. What do I do? How do I get her away from them?”
His voice was deadly calm. "Have they left with her?"
“No, he’s got her sitting on his lap like a fucking trophy. He’s not being nice.” Her stomach churned at the scene unfolding across the room. How the hell had this happened? This was wine country, not the middle of some backroad dive bar.
"Quinn, baby, keep it together. What’s the name of the club?"
She strained to see their patches. “Something Bone…”
A sharp, vicious silence followed before Gypsy let out a curse. “Motherfuckers!”
She could hear him breathing through his nose, holding back the explosion that was already brewing. “They’ve been stirring shit for months. I should’ve put them down hard when I had the chance.”
"Stay put. Do not engage. Just keep an eye on Brandi, and whatever you do, don’t let them see you or the others looking weak. She’s already in a bad spot—she doesn’t need pity.”
Quinn exhaled shakily. “Do you need me to hang up so you can do your president thing?”
“No, baby. I need you to stay on the phone with me.”
Quinn could hear the chaos unfolding at the clubhouse—Cruise barking orders, brothers getting ready to roll out. She kept her eyes on Brandi, willing her friend to hold on.
"Quinn!"
“Sorry, I’m here.”
“Help is coming. A guy named Tailor will find you. If his patch doesn’t say ‘President/Tailor,’ you don’t move. You understand me?”
“I understand.”
"We’re on our way as fast as we can."
“Promise?”
"Promise." His voice was firm. “Quinn, what’s happening? I can hear it in your voice.”
She swallowed hard. Her whole body trembled with rage and helplessness. “The way he’s touching her…” Her throat tightened. "She doesn’t deserve this, Gypsy. I know she’s done things to Wick, but this isn’t right. And no one’s helping her."
Gypsy’s silence was deadly.
“I think he’s gonna make her blow him,” Quinn choked out, her voice breaking. “Right here. In the middle of the bar. And no one’s stopping it. Why isn’t anyone calling the cops?”
She was nearly hysterical now, shaking from head to toe, ready to charge across the bar and end this herself.
Gypsy saw red.
“Quinn, you fucking stay put. I mean it.” His voice was sharp steel. “Brandi can handle it. She’s tougher than you realize. Be strong for her. Be me for the girls.”
Her fury ignited. “I don’t give a fuck if she’s made of motherfucking steel, she’s, my friend! She’s part of our family, like it or not, and I will be damned if I let that filthy mother—”
“Mariquinn!”
“What?”
“I swear to God himself, if you make a move, I will tan your ass.”
There was a beat of silence before she exhaled sharply. “I don’t know whether to be appalled or turned on right now, so, stop.”
Gypsy closed his eyes. He knew she was spiraling, knew she handled stress by snapping back. But if anything happened to her—
He couldn’t even think about it. “Quinn, talk to me. I can hear commotion in the background.”
She blinked, refocusing on the bar. “Umm… I think your friends just got here.”
“Tall guy? Long black hair? Tattoos on his neck?”
She sucked in a breath. “Yep.”
Holy shit. If she thought Gypsy was scary in biker mode, Tailor was something else entirely. “He looks pissed,” she whispered.
“That’s Tailor. Let him do his job. DO NOT hang up.”
Quinn watched in stunned silence as Tailor slammed the guy holding Brandi into the wall, his forearm crushing his throat. Another brother grabbed Brandi, checking her over.
The back of their cuts read: Road Devils MC.
Quinn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “They got here fast.”
“Cruise said they were across the street at another bar.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh. That one looked like a biker bar.”
“And the one you’re in?”
“A wine bar.”
Her stomach dropped. She turned just in time to see the Road Devils MC toss the Bone Hunters club out of the pub.
Well, shit.
Quinn continued giving Gypsy the play-by-play, her pulse still racing, but the relief was setting in.
So much for a nice, easy girls’ weekend.
She heard the roar of bikes over the phone and knew Gypsy was on his way. She saw the other girls on their phones too, calling their men, letting them know what had happened.
This was over.
They may as well go back and pack.
She exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. "Who’s coming with you?"
Gypsy’s voice was dark. “Everyone.”