Chapter Two
CLOVER
My body is heavy, like I’m swimming through molasses, and there’s this weird tingling sensation running from my fingertips all the way up to my scalp.
I try to open my eyes, but they feel like they’re weighed down with anvils.
But the first thing I notice when consciousness starts creeping back is that everything feels…
… wrong.
When I finally manage to crack my eyes open, the world spins as if I am on the worst carnival ride ever invented.
What the fuck did they give me?
I’m sitting in what looks like a metal chair, and my wrists are zip-tied behind my back so tight that my fingers are going numb.
My ankles are secured to the chair legs, and I’m still completely naked except for someone’s oversized jacket thrown over my shoulders—probably so I don’t freeze to death before they’re done with me.
The warehouse around me is exactly what you’d expect from a Cartel operation. Concrete floors stained with God knows what, dim lighting that creates more shadows than illumination, and the kind of oppressive atmosphere that screams ‘people die here regularly.’
But here’s the thing that’s really messing with my head…
Everything seems hilarious.
Like, genuinely, gut-bustingly funny.
I know I should be terrified.
I know I should be calculating escape routes.
I know I should be trying to figure out how to get word to Phoenix.
But instead, I’m sitting here trying not to burst into giggles because one of my captors has this ridiculous mustache that makes him look like a second-rate porn star from the seventies.
Focus, Clover. You’re in serious trouble here.
But even that thought makes me want to laugh.
It’s like my brain is wrapped in cotton candy and everything is just, well, amusing.
“She’s awake,” Mustache Guy announces to the room.
Oh fuck! I have to bite my lip to keep from snorting.
Two other men emerge from the shadows, and they all look like they stepped out of a Generic Cartel Thugs Catalog. Black clothes, dead eyes, the works. One of them has a laptop set up on a metal table, and there is a video call running on the screen.
That’s when I see him.
Javier Rojas.
The man who’s been orchestrating this entire war from behind the scenes, while everyone thought he was just some punk kid playing dress-up in his Uncle Rico’s shadow.
He looks younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, with the kind of refined features that probably made him popular with the ladies before he decided to become a sociopathic criminal mastermind.
He’s sitting in what looks like an expensive office, wearing a shirt that is far too brightly colored for a Cartel boss, and I can’t help myself as a giggle escapes me.
How can this guy be the orchestrator of all this chaos?
“Buenos días, Clover,” he chimes with a smile that does not reach his eyes. “I hope my men didn’t handle you too roughly during transport.”
I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but what comes out of my mouth instead is a boisterous, almost manic laugh.
“Oh, you know, just the usual kidnapping experience. Four stars, would definitely recommend to friends. Just need the scream masks to make it five stars. Girls looove that kinky shit.” I wink at him through the screen.
The three guards exchange confused looks, and Javier’s eyebrows rise slightly.
“Truth serum,” the biggest guard explains to Javier in accented English. “We administered it during transport as you instructed, along with a double shot of glucose to counteract the effect the drug has on her sugar levels. She should be unable to lie to us now.”
He smiles wider, like he is proud of the guard. “Ahh, excellent,” Javier says, leaning forward in his chair. “Now then, Clover, let’s have a little chat about LA Defiance and their plans regarding my organization.”
Another giggle bubbles up from my chest, and I can’t stop it. “Oh, this is rich. You think I know anything about their plans? Dude! They literally sent me to Vegas to get me away from all your Cartel bullshit.”
It’s the truth, and apparently, the serum is working exactly as intended. But instead of feeling violated or panicked about my inability to filter my thoughts, I simply find the whole situation absurdly funny, plus this sugar hit feels real damn good.
Better than any juice box pick-me-up!
“Surely, you must know something,” Javier presses. “You’re Maverick’s sister. Phoenix confides in you. You’re living at the clubhouse.”
“Yeah, well… here’s the thing about being Maverick’s sister,” I say, another laugh escaping.
“He treats me like I’m made of glass and might shatter at any minute, especially if I hear anything too scary.
And Phoenix? Phoenix has been too busy trying to get into my pants to give me a detailed breakdown of biker business 101.
” The words are out before I can stop them, and even though they’re true, they make me laugh harder.
The guards are looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, which only makes everything funnier.
“Está loca,” Mustache Guy mutters. “Is this even working?”
“She is crazy…” Javier says calmly, “… but the serum is working perfectly. We need a little more time for her to loosen up a bit more.”
One of the other guards, a guy with a scar running from his ear to his jaw, steps closer to me. “Maybe we need to encourage her memory,” he suggests, cracking his knuckles.
The sound should terrify me.
The implication should have me begging for mercy.
Instead, I burst into full-blown, eye-watering laughter.
“Oh my God, did you guys rehearse this? Because this is like every bad action movie ever made. Are you going to tell me I have something you want next? Maybe threaten to kill my goldfish? Make me beg for my life like a pa-the-tic little man. Notice I said man and not woman? Because women are never pathetic. Only men are when they’re trying to be tough because they have teeny weeny little dicks. ”
I shift my eyes to Scar Face, a giggle erupting from me that I can’t control, and almost instantly, Scar Face’s hand connects with my cheek in a slap that snaps my head to the side.
My ears ring with the brute force. My eyes are rolling with the pain, which is sharp and immediate, but even as tears spring to my eyes from the impact, I can’t stop this crazy laughter.
“Holy shit… that actually hurt,” I gasp between giggles.
“But you guys are still ridiculous. Like, seriously, who taught you how to be intimidating? A DVD box set? Or wait? Do you guys sit around watching YouTube tutorials? It’s not a bad thing…
I learned how to give really good head from there.
At least Phoenix said it was, so it’s not—”
Fuck me! His slap becomes a backhand, harder this time, splitting my lip. Blood seeps into my mouth, but the metallic flavor just makes me think about how weird it is that blood tastes like pennies, and that sets off another round of goddamn laughter.
“Mierda,” the third guard swears. “There’s something wrong with this bitch.”
“The serum is making her giddy,” Javier explains patiently. “It’s a common side effect. The loss of inhibitions affects emotional regulation as well as honesty.”
“Well, it’s fucking annoying,” Scar Face snarls, grabbing my chin roughly, so I smirk back at him. “Tell us about their security measures. How many men they have? What weapons?”
I try to focus, try to think of anything that might be useful information, but all I can come up with is, “Phoenix has really nice abs. Like, seriously impressive. And Alpha… he’s their president…
he’s got this whole brooding mysterious thing going that would probably work really well on dating apps.
But he’s totally got this whole violent relationship happening with Haven.
It’s so fucking hot watching them. It’s the entire reason I wanted Phoenix to choke me during sex, because we’ve all heard Haven and Alpha going at it in the Chapel, and when I say those two are violent, I mean in the sexiest way possible.
And let me tell you, when Phoenix did actually choke me during sex, it was everything I was hoping it woul—”
Another slap. This time, it is hard enough to make my vision blur for a second.
“I’m telling you the truth, dammit!” I protest through my laughter.
“That’s literally all I know about their security measures.
The guys are all hot, so I don’t pay attention to that shit.
I do social media and ogle the hot men. They don’t exactly hold strategy meetings during movie night with the women and family members of the club, you idiots. ”
But Scar Face isn’t listening. He reaches for something on the table. It’s a knife with a serrated edge that gleams under the warehouse lights. “Maybe if we give her some extra motivation,” he suggests, testing the blade against his thumb.
The sight of the knife should sober me up, should snap me back to the reality of my situation.
But for the life of me, I can’t stop fucking laughing at every dangerous situation, and this seems to be the funniest thing yet.
“Oh, come on!” I wheeze, barely able to catch my breath.
“A knife? Really? What is this, Crocodile Dundee? Are you gonna challenge me? ‘That’s not a knife. That’s a kni—’ ”
The blade slides across my forearm, a shallow cut but deep enough to draw blood. The pain is immediate and incredibly real, but my brain processes it as just another part of this surreal comedy show.
“Ow, ow, ow!” I giggle. “Okay, that legit stings. But I’m still not going to magically develop knowledge I don’t have. That’s not how this works, genius.”
The big guard leans down, his stinky garlic breath in my face, his eyes all fierce and red as he stares at me. “Tell us about their safe houses,” he demands. “Their escape routes.”