Chapter 11
I'm falling through darkness, tied to something I can't see. Cherry pie and Marcus's voice—honey-dove, honey-dove—his fingers on my face, in my hair, places I don't want him. The syringe coming closer, closer—
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
I jolt upright, a scream lodged in my throat. My heart slams against my ribs as I blink at unfamiliar surroundings—cracked window repaired with duct tape, upside down milk crate, sheets that smell like Legion.
Legion. The silo. The rescue. The club.
I look down at my naked body tangled in rough sheets, chest still marked with Sharpie. PROPERTY OF DEMON. My wrists throb where the zip ties cut into them for three days.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
"Not Mine! Wake your ass up!"
Not Mine. I huff out a breath that's almost a laugh. It was cute last night when they christened me with whiskey and that ridiculous name, but in the cold light of morning, it feels less charming.
"I hear you breathing in there! When I fucking knock, Not Mine will get her ass up and answer the fucking door!"
The woman's voice is sharp as a cattle prod. Shit. I wrap the sheet around me, toga-style, and pull open the door with my heart still racing. I arrange my features into the polite mask I've worn at a thousand charity functions.
"How can I help you?" My voice comes out scratchy from sleep.
The silver-haired woman from last night stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. She's wearing jeans and a faded Badlands MC tank top, her arms lean and muscled.
Up close, I can see the lines around her eyes, the hardness in her jaw.
This isn't a woman who's ever smiled for a camera she didn't want to.
"You've got thirty seconds to pull on some clothes," she barks, "otherwise you're coming with me naked."
I blink at her, still foggy from whatever drugs are lingering in my system.
"While the men do their little vote, us women have a meeting of our own," she explains. Though it is very clear that she doesn't feel explaining is necessary.
Great. A female interrogation to match the male one. Because showing my tits and fucking Legion in front of fifty bikers wasn't enough of an initiation.
But I nod anyway, because what choice do I have?
I drop the sheet—the time for pretenses and privacy clearly over now—and pull yesterday's clothes back on.
Legion's T-shirt hangs to my thighs, and clearly this little foray into kidnap-victim territory has caused me to lose weight, because the jeans have no intention of clinging to my hips this morning.
I hold them up with one hand, nose crinkling because I now smell like spilled whiskey and stale ashes.
I sigh, wishing for more sleep. My body aches in places I don't want to think about, and I'm so hungry for more than liquid courage, my stomach is cramping.
But I follow the woman downstairs, feeling like I'm walking into judgment, as she leads me through a narrow hallway.
My bare feet stick slightly to the floor with each step.
God, I wish I had shoes.
"Where's Legion?" I ask.
She doesn't even turn around. "Church."
"Church." I sigh.
"The vote." She throws the words over her shoulder like I should know better than to ask. "When men decide things, they call it 'church'. When women decide things, they call it 'gossip'."
All right, then. She's friendly.
We reach a door at the end of the hallway, and she pushes it open without ceremony. The smell hits me first—burnt coffee and something fried hours ago. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud.
"Here," she says, gesturing me inside. "Sit."
The dining room isn't much of one. Just a scarred wooden table surrounded by mismatched chairs that look like they were rescued from various yard sales and dumpsters.
Faded wallpaper peels at the corners, showing layers beneath like geological strata.
Grease marks map the wall near an ancient stove visible through a pass-through window.
A metal percolator hisses in the corner, spitting coffee that smells like it could strip paint. The morning light filters weakly through a single window crusted with dust, casting everything in a tired glow.
I sit where she points, at the head of the table. Not out of respect, I realize, but so everyone can see me. Observe me.
"I'm Mama Jo," she finally says, pouring herself coffee in a mug that reads WORLD'S OKAYEST MOM. "Diesel's old lady."
I nod, recognizing the name of the burly man who fed me shots last night. "I'm—"
"I know who you are," she cuts me off. "Everyone knows who you are."
She doesn't offer me coffee. I don't ask.
"OK." I shrink a little as the silence stretches between us, uncomfortable and deliberate. I resist the urge to fill it with pleasantries or questions. This isn't a Junior League tea. This is something else entirely.
Footsteps approach, and a woman appears in the doorway. She's maybe forty, with a practical bob and the upright posture of someone with a military background. She nods at Mama Jo, then looks at me with undisguised curiosity.
"June," Mama Jo says by way of introduction. "Havoc's wife."
June doesn't smile or extend her hand. Instead, she walks to the coffee pot, pours herself a cup, and then—oddly—places a folded white handkerchief on the table in front of me. It's pristine, with a delicate "J" embroidered in the corner.
I stare at it, confused, then look up to thank her or ask why, but she's already turning away, coffee in hand.
"Wait, what—" I begin, but Mama Jo shakes her head once, sharply.
I fall silent, fingering the handkerchief. It's real cotton, soft from many washings.
Before I can process this strange interaction, another woman enters. She's younger, covered in tattoos with a pierced septum and hair dyed an electric blue. She barely glances at me as she grabs coffee, but on her way out, she drops something that clinks against the table.
A brass coin. Heavy, and worn. Like it's been through a million hands. I squint to make out the lettering. One Top-Shelf Drink. What the… then I realize what this is. A bar token.
How odd. Why did she give it to me? I look up at Mama Jo, ready to ask questions, but she cuts me off with a cold expression. "That's Sienna," Mama Jo says after she's gone. "Roach's girl."
More women arrive, one after another. Some get coffee. Some just pass through. Each leaves something behind.
A tarnished bullet on a silver chain, dropped by a woman with a sleeve of watercolor tattoos. "It never fired when it should've," she mutters, the only one to speak directly to me. Mama Jo identifies her as Lita, Chain's partner.
A heavy, old-fashioned key, laid down deliberately by Mama Jo herself. "To nothing," she says when she catches me examining it. "Not anymore."
The pile grows. A woman whose name I never catch leaves behind a faded paperback with dog-eared pages. Another drops a small jar of what looks like homemade salve.
I sit still through it all, accepting each item without comment, though confusion and curiosity burn through me. This feels like a ritual, but no one bothers to explain the tradition.
The door bangs open harder than before, and a young woman with too much makeup and a crop top struts in like she owns the place. She looks barely twenty-one, with bleached hair and an expression that suggests she's perpetually smelling something unpleasant.
"Brandy," Mama Jo says, her tone noticeably cooler.
Brandy smirks at me, then dramatically drops a pair of motorcycle boots on the floor beside my chair. They land with a heavy thud.
"Those should fit," she sneers. "Though they might be a little wide for those skinny princess feet."
I blink at her hostility, so naked compared to the cool assessment of the others.
"Thank you," I say automatically, my mother's training kicking in.
Brandy snorts. "First one's free. And I'm not like the rest of them." She shoots Mama Jo a look. “If I came in with no shoes, that's what I'd want someone to give me. Not some stupid drink token or used-up handkerchief." She flounces out without coffee, apparently just there for the delivery.
"Don't mind her," Mama Jo says after she's gone. "She's no one."
But Brandy was apparently listening around the corner, because she pops her head back in and snarls, "You wish, bitch." Then disappears again.
I'm aghast. And I clearly look it, because Mama Jo smiles at me, simply shrugging.
"She hates me. But I hate her too. So it's even.
One day, probably soon," Mama Jo says, calm as can be, "Brick will get tired of her skinny ass and that will be that.
I will have my say and she will get the fuck out. "
"Ohhhh Kaaay," I reply. Not sure what to think about that, but I am very appreciative for the boots.
More women file in—a steady stream of them. Many look like they've had hard lives—lined faces, tattoos that weren't done in proper shops, clothes that have seen better decades. Hangarounds, I'm told they're called. Women who aren't claimed by any one member.
Each one drops something. A faded t-shirt. Some pink shorts. A pair of jeans with a rip at the knee. A little dress with blue flowers on it. A tank top with the Badlands logo. Socks. A belt. A brush. Lip gloss.
By the time they're done, I have a small pile of clothing and accessories in front of me. None of it new. All of it worn. But enough to make at least three complete outfits.
I touch a denim jacket, fingers tracing a Badlands patch sewn over the heart. These women—who clearly have so little—just gave me their clothes.
"I don't understand," I finally say when the procession seems to have ended. "What is all this for?"
Mama Jo sips her coffee, regarding me over the rim. "What do you think it's for?"
I look at the pile. "For me to wear?"
"Smart girl," she says, not unkindly. "Since you came with nothing but what you had on."
I swallow hard. It's true. I have nothing. No phone, no wallet, no change of clothes. I'm literally wearing the shirt off Legion's back.
"But why would they—"
"Because I told them to," Mama Jo interrupts. "And they do what I say."
I nod slowly, fingering the soft denim of the jacket. "Should I... thank them?"
"No." Mama Jo stands and refills her coffee. "This isn't about gratitude."
"Then what is it about?"
She turns to face me, leaning against the counter. "It's about rules, Not Mine."
I wince at the nickname. "What rules?"
Mama Jo sets down her mug and approaches the table. She picks up the handkerchief, runs it through her fingers. "The first gift is free. Always. It's our way of saying maybe. Not yes. Just maybe." She places it back on the pile. "You take it, you owe nothin’."
I frown, not understanding.
"Any gift after the first," she continues, "is a contract. Silent. Unwritten. But real as hell. You take it, you owe somethin’.
" Her eyes bore into mine. "What you owe is never stated—but it will be decided by the person you owe.
Could be loyalty. Could be protection. Could be silence.
But you won't get to say no when it comes due. "
The weight of her words settles over me. I look at the pile of offerings with new understanding.
"Don’t worry about these," Mama Jo gestures to the pile. "Like I said, these ones are free. They don't cost nothin'. Not today. You take what's offered. You nod. That's all. But hear me good, girl—if they hand you somethin' tomorrow? You best know what that's worth before you reach."
I swallow hard, suddenly seeing these women in a whole new light. I don't know much about motorcycle clubs. I mean, basically, I know zero about motorcycle clubs. But it's very clear that the women don't have a say in what happens here.
At least… as far as the men are concerned.
But the biker culture isn't the only thing spinning inside this clubhouse.
There's a woman's culture too. Wife, or girlfriend, of the bikers.
And I'm part of that now.
"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" Mama Jo asks.
I nod slowly. "I think so."
"Good." She stands straighter. "Now put on those boots. No one in this club walks around barefoot. Makes us look like we can't provide."
I reach down and pick up the boots Brandy left. They're well-worn but solid. Black leather with silver buckles on the sides. I slip them on, and to my surprise, they fit perfectly.
"Thank you," I say quietly, not sure if I'm thanking Mama Jo, or Brandy, or all of them.
Mama Jo just nods. "The vote's done," she says, glancing at a clock I hadn't noticed. "They'll be out soon."
My heart skips. The vote. Legion. Whether I can stay or have to leave without him.
"You're in," she says.
"How do you know?" I ask.
Something that might be a smile touches Mama Jo's lips. "Because if it went the other way, Savannah Ashby, I wouldn't be wasting my time with you."
Relief floods through me so suddenly I feel dizzy. I'm staying. I'm in.
This place is… home.
"Now," Mama Jo says, picking up the denim jacket and holding it out to me. "Put this on. When they come in, you should look like you belong."
I take the jacket, feeling its weight, the history woven into its fibers. I slip it on over Legion's t-shirt. It fits like it was made for me.
Mama Jo looks me up and down, then nods once, satisfied.
"Almost there," she says. "Almost."