Chapter 18
Roman
The half-finished design on my client’s arm blurs before my eyes.
It’s the third time I’ve lost my place in the pattern.
Exhaustion and worry gnaw at the edges of my concentration.
It’s been nine days since Kayla was released from the hospital — nine days of showing up at Morgan’s place every single day only to be turned away at the door. Nine days of hell.
“Sorry,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes with my free hand. “Need a minute.”
My client, a regular who’s been coming to me for years, just nods. “Take your time, man. I heard about your old lady. That’s rough.”
I don’t respond. News travels fast in a small town like Redbird, especially when it involves the VP of the Devil’s Rejects. Everyone knows my wife was kidnapped. Everyone knows she’s refusing to see me now that she’s free.
“You look like shit,” Dragon says from where he’s lounging in the waiting area, flipping through a magazine. “When’s the last time you slept?”
I ignore him too, turning back to my client. “We’re almost done. Let’s finish this up.”
I force myself to focus, to let the familiar rhythm of the needle guide me. For a few precious minutes, I can lose myself in the work and forget about the complete disaster that is the rest of my life.
When I finish, I wrap the fresh ink and give my standard aftercare instructions on autopilot. The client hands me cash, claps me on the shoulder with a concerned look, and leaves. As soon as the door closes behind him, I slump into my chair, exhaustion hitting me like a physical weight.
“Seriously,” Dragon says, setting aside the magazine, “you need to pull yourself together.”
“Why the fuck are you still here?” I snap, the question that’s been burning in my mind for days finally spilling out. “Kayla’s free. Demon’s in the wind. Don’t you have your own club to run?”
Dragon’s mouth quirks up at one corner, amused by my outburst. “And miss watching you fall apart so spectacularly? It’s the most entertaining thing I’ve seen in years.”
“Fuck you.” I stand up and begin cleaning my station with more force than necessary.
“You’re the one who dragged me into this mess,” Dragon reminds me, his tone still light but with an edge underneath. “And something about all this still doesn’t add up.”
I turn to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. “What are you talking about?”
Dragon pushes himself up and moves to the front window, standing with his hands on his hips as he looks outside. In the days since Kayla’s release, I’ve gotten used to his presence, even gotten to the point where I can ignore the unsettling feeling of seeing Demon every time I look at his face.
“Kit’s never kidnapped someone from another MC before,” he says, turning from the window and pacing the length of my small shop.
“He’s never started a club war. It’s not his style.
” He stops, turning to face me. “And then there’s this disappearing act.
The only thing Kit loves more than causing chaos is sticking around to watch the fallout. ”
“So what? Maybe he’s finally lost it completely.”
“Maybe,” Dragon concedes, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it. “Or maybe there’s something bigger at play here. Something we’re missing.” He studies my face. “And I intend to find out what it is.”
“Why do you even care?” I ask. “From what you’ve told me, you and Demon aren’t exactly close.”
Something flickers across Dragon’s face, too quick to read. “He’s still my brother,” he says simply. “And whatever else he is, whatever he’s done, I don’t want him ending up dead in a ditch somewhere.”
I laugh, a bitter sound with no humor in it. “That’s exactly where I want him.”
“I’m aware,” Dragon says dryly. “But our priorities differ. I did, however, come to tell you I’m heading back to Billings. My VP’s been running things in my absence, but I need to check in.”
“So you’re leaving?” I’m surprised by the sudden wave of not disappointment exactly, but something close to it. Despite my present irritation with him, Dragon has been the only person I’ve been able to depend on since this nightmare began.
“Kayla doesn’t seem to be in any danger at the moment,” he confirms. “I’ll be in touch if I find anything. About Kit, or about what’s really going on here.”
Dragon gathers his things, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Try not to completely self-destruct while I’m gone,” he says. “It would be a shame after all the effort you put into finding her.”
I just nod, not trusting myself to speak. Dragon gives me one last look, something almost like concern in those unsettling green-gold eyes, then turns and leaves. The bell over the door jingles; the sound oddly cheerful in the somber shop.
I watch through the window as he mounts his bike. He lifts a hand in a brief salute before pulling away from the curb, disappearing down the street.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t notice the cruiser pulling up until the door opens again, the bell jerking me back to the present. Deputy Colton steps inside, his expression grim as ever.
“Sullivan,” he says by way of greeting.
“What do you want?” I ask, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”
Colton seems unfazed by my tone. “I have some new information I’d like to go over with you,” he says, reaching into his jacket for his ever-present notebook.
I sigh, leaning back against the counter. “Make it quick. I have another appointment coming in.”
“Tell me what you know about Amara Hammond,” Colton says, his eyes fixed on my face.
The name means nothing to me at first. “Who?”
“Amara Hammond,” he repeats. “She was an employee at one of the strip clubs in town, The Red Door. I believe that particular establishment is owned by your club.”
I start to shake my head, about to deny any knowledge, when suddenly I freeze.
A memory crashes into me, so vivid it’s like I’m back there.
A young woman with frightened brown eyes, tears streaming down her face as she begs, “Please, I swear I didn’t.
Please, just let me go. I swear I didn’t do it, Viper. ”
“Sullivan?” Colton’s voice pulls me back to the present. “You okay there? Looked like you went somewhere else for a minute.”
I swallow hard, trying to steady myself. “Yeah, I… I remember her now. She didn’t go by Amara when she worked for us. She used a stage name.” I try to recall it but come up blank. There have been so many dancers over the years; their faces and names blur together.
“What can you tell me about her?” Colton presses.
I shrug, aiming for casual, though my heart is racing uncomfortably. “Not much. She quit — what, a year ago? Maybe a little more. Dancers come and go all the time. They rarely leave forwarding addresses.”
Colton’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’re sure about that? She just quit?”
“As far as I know,” I say, meeting his gaze steadily. “Why the interest in a dancer who hasn’t worked for us in a year?”
Instead of answering, Colton flips to a new page in his notebook. “While we’re on the subject of the club, I’d like to ask about some recent activities of the Devil’s Rejects. There are a few things that I find concerning.”
I cut him off before he can continue. “Any questions about the club need to go to Atlas,” I say firmly. “I’m sure you know he’s the president.”
“I’m asking you,” Colton says, his voice hardening slightly.
“And I’m telling you to talk to Atlas.” I push off from the counter, drawing myself up to my full height. “We’re done here, deputy. Unless you’re arresting me, I’d like you to leave. I’ve got work to do.”
For a moment, I think he might push back. Then he snaps his notebook shut, tucking it back into his jacket. “This isn’t over, Sullivan,” he says.
“It is for today,” I reply.
He gives me one last hard look before turning and walking out. I watch him go, unease still churning in my gut. Amara Hammond. Why is Colton asking about her now? And what does she have to do with any of this?
I don’t have time to dwell on it. I have an appointment coming up in twenty minutes, and after that, I’ll try Morgan’s place again. Maybe today will be the day Kayla finally agrees to see me. Maybe today I’ll finally get a chance to beg for forgiveness.
My last client has left, and I’m cleaning up my station when the bell above the door jingles once again. I glance up, ready to tell whoever it is that I’m done for the day.
“Roman Sullivan?” The guy standing in my doorway is wearing khakis and a polo shirt, looking completely out of place in a tattoo shop. He could be an accountant or an insurance salesman with his clipboard and too-wide smile.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say, standing up and walking towards him. “What do you want?”
He reaches into a messenger bag and pulls out a thick envelope. “You’ve been served,” he says, thrusting the envelope at me.
“What?” I take it automatically, confusion giving way to a sick feeling in my gut. “What is this?”
“Have a nice day.” He turns and walks out, mission accomplished.
I stare at the envelope for a long moment, then tear it open. The legal language swims before my eyes, but certain phrases jump out at me: “Petition for Dissolution of Marriage” and “Kayla Marie Sullivan, Plaintiff” and “irreconcilable differences.”
“No,” I whisper, the word strangled in my throat. “No, no, no.”
Divorce papers. She’s actually filing for divorce. The reality of it hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. My legs suddenly feel unsteady, and I have to grab the counter to keep from staggering.
I scan the documents again, praying I’ve misunderstood, but there it is in black and white. Kayla wants to end our marriage. Not just a separation, not just time to think, but a complete, legal severing of the ties between us.
Something snaps inside me. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m moving toward the door, papers clutched in my fist. I don’t even take the time to lock up.
My shop can burn down for all I care. Nothing matters except getting to Kayla, making her talk to me, making her understand that she can’t do this. Not like this.
I tear out of the parking lot; the wind whipping at my face. I blow through a stop sign, nearly clipping a minivan. I don’t care. Nine days of being shut out, nine days of showing up at Morgan’s only to be turned away, and now this? No, it ends today.
Morgan’s house is a small bungalow on the north side of town, painted a cheerful yellow that feels like a mockery of my dark mood.
I’ve been here so many times in the past week that I could find it blindfolded.
I’ve stood on that porch and argued with Morgan, begged her to let me see Kayla, even threatened her once when desperation got the better of me. She hasn’t once budged.
I slam on the brakes, my bike skidding slightly as I pull up to the curb. I’m off it in seconds, storming up the walkway to the front door. The divorce papers are still clutched in my hand, crumpled now from my tight grip.
“Kayla!” I pound on the door hard enough to make the frame rattle. “Kayla, I know you’re in there! We need to talk right now!”
I pound again, my fist connecting with the wood in a rhythm that matches my racing heartbeat. “Open the damn door! I’m not leaving this time!”
I’m about to pound again when the door swings open suddenly, and I nearly fall forward with the momentum. But it’s not Morgan standing there with her usual unimpressed scowl. It’s Kayla.
My breath catches in my throat at the sight of her.
Her light brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a sweater and leggings.
She looks tired, with dark circles under her blue eyes, but she’s here.
She’s real. She’s standing in front of me, close enough to touch for the first time in weeks.
“Sunshine,” I breathe, relief and love and desperation all tangled together in my voice.
Before I can think better of it, I reach for her, driven by the overwhelming need to touch her, to hold her, to feel her warm and alive in my arms. My hands find her shoulders; my arms pull her into an embrace.
Her body is warm and soft against mine, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I feel like I can breathe…
The pain explodes between my legs so suddenly that I don’t even see it coming. One moment I’m holding my wife, the next I’m doubled over, gasping as agony radiates from my groin through my entire body. My knees buckle, and I drop to the porch, the papers fluttering from my hand.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” Kayla says, her voice colder than I’ve ever heard it. “You lost that right.”
I can’t speak, can barely breathe through the pain. All I can do is look up at her, tears springing to my eyes that have nothing to do with the knee she just drove into my balls. It’s the ice in her voice, the cold anger in her eyes that really guts me.
“What do you want, Roman?” she asks, arms crossed over her chest.
I gesture weakly to the papers now scattered across her porch. “What… the hell… is this?” I manage to gasp out.
“What does it look like?” she replies, unmoved by my pain. “Divorce papers. I’m divorcing you.”
I shake my head, still trying to catch my breath. “No. You can’t.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me? I can’t?”
“I won’t sign them,” I say, finally able to straighten up slightly, though I remain on my knees. “I won’t let you do this.”
“I don’t need your permission,” she says, her voice flat. “The state of Montana doesn’t require both parties to agree to a divorce.”
“Kayla, please,” I say, my voice cracking on her name. “Just… can we talk? Please? Five minutes.”
“You’ve had years to talk to me, Roman,” she says. “Years to let me in. Years to treat me like an equal partner instead of some fragile little doll that you play house with when you need a break from your real life. What could you possibly say in five minutes that would change anything?”
Each of her words strikes a target she knows is vulnerable. Because she’s right. I did keep her separate. I didn’t let her in. I did treat her as if I were just playing house with her. And now I’m paying the price.
“Please,” I say again, not even ashamed of the desperation in my voice. “Just a few minutes. If you still want to go through with it after that, I… I won’t fight it.” I have to force the last part out as nausea churns in my gut.
Kayla stares at me for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then she sighs, stepping back from the doorway. “Five minutes,” she says. “That’s it.”
I drag myself to my feet, the pain between my legs still pulsing but manageable now. I bend down to collect the scattered divorce papers, tucking them back into their envelope. Then, moving slowly, I follow her into the house, feeling like I’m walking to my execution.