Chapter 3
Nova
Driving my car through the open gate before the biker can get out probably wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I really don’t give a damn.
The Kings of Ruin know something about my sister, and I don’t have time to mess with trying to talk my way in.
If they want me to move, they’re going to have to tell me what I want to know.
Not taking the time to think about what I’m doing, I get out of the car.
A wiry guy with a port wine stain birthmark on his neck comes storming my way, but I ignore him.
He starts yelling, but I’m pretty sure he’s actually yelling at two other guys who are just standing there, staring at me.
Then there’s the angry guy on the bike I’m blocking in.
He looks ready to spit nails, but I ignore him too.
I only want to talk to one person and none of these men have the sort of presence I imagine the leader of a motorcycle gang would need.
“I need to speak to the president.” My voice is quieter than I like and no one responds. I don’t know if it’s because they didn’t hear me or if they’re ignoring me, but either way, I don’t bother trying again.
I turn my attention to the clubhouse. It’s a two-story building that probably started off as some sort of club, but it’s gone through a lot since then.
The outside is gray and I can see gates that go across windows and the door.
I start walking in that direction, my entire body tense as I wait for someone to grab me.
I see a man out of the corner of my eye and he’s coming my way, but I don’t change my pace.
It becomes easy to ignore him a few seconds later because another man enters my line of sight.
He’s tall, with dark hair and sleeves of tattoos that disappear under his tight, black t-shirt.
He has some silver at his temples, making me put his age in his early to mid-forties.
I don’t need to see the president patch on his leather vest to know this is the man I need to talk to.
The entire atmosphere shifts when he takes a step in my direction.
His ice blue eyes lock with mine and my knees go weak at the intensity in them, all focused on me.
Still, I lift my chin and keep walking. When I get within a foot or so, I stop and look up at him, my brain registering his name before I speak.
Creed.
“My name is Nova Reed and my sister is missing.” I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds. “I think your club is involved.”
He raises an eyebrow and I notice a scar running through it. “You accusing us of something? Or has your sister got a thing for bikers?”
“Her name’s Layla.” He flinches when I say her name. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to tell me he recognizes it. Encouraged, I forge ahead. “I know she was involved with someone from your club.”
He crosses his arms and the muscles bulge, making his tattoos ripple. “And?”
“And she disappeared three days ago.” I pull out her phone and show it to him.
There’s desperation in my voice now, but I don’t care, as long as he listens.
“Look at all the calls she made to this ‘D’ right before she vanished. And I found the beginning of a message written to someone called Damien.”
“That could be anyone from anywhere.”
“There are calls to Ruin’s Roadhouse, too,” I point out.
I don’t know what I’m going to do if he refuses to talk to me.
I keep telling myself I won’t be leaving without getting the club’s help, but if they don’t want me here, it won’t take much for them to make me leave.
I’m pretty sure Creed here can pick me up with one arm and throw me over their gate.
“Where’s Damien? He’s a member of this club, right?” I ask.
He gives me this searching look like he’s trying to figure out if I’m trustworthy or something, but I’m too worried to be insulted. When he turns around, I almost reach for his arm, like I have any chance in the world of stopping him. He doesn’t walk away from me, though. Not exactly.
“You coming?” he asks as he glances over one broad shoulder at me.
The low timbre of his voice sends a shiver down my spine and it’s definitely not because I’m afraid of him.
Despite my concern for Layla, the tiny part of my mind that still thinks I should have some things for myself wonders what it would be like to hear this man ask that question under different circumstances.
The sort of circumstances that would let me know exactly how much of his body is inked.
I shake my head to clear it and walk up the steps to the narrow wooden porch that runs the full length of the front of the building.
I follow him inside, my hands curling into fists so no one can see them shaking.
I hear the murmur of a few male voices but don’t look around.
I keep my eyes fixed on the Kings of Ruin patch on the back of his vest and remind myself that no one else is going to look for Layla if I can’t do this.
Still, I have the impression of a large, open space and manage to catch what looks like a bar to my right.
Then we turn down a short hallway, and he opens a door to the left.
When we end up in a small office, he points at a rickety wooden chair. It looks older than me, but it’s clean enough, so I sit. He shuts the door and then goes around a metal desk that’s seen better days to sit in an office chair.
“You’re Layla’s sister?”
I nod.
“She’s an adult,” he points out. “Maybe she’s off doing adult shit.”
“That’s the same bullshit the cops said,” I blurt out.
For a second, I think I’ve said too much, but he doesn’t yell at me or tell me to get out. I almost think I see a glint of amusement in his eyes before it’s gone.
“You got parents?” he asks. “Other family who’re looking for her too?”
I shake my head. “Dad went to prison for armed robbery when I was sixteen. Mom coped like she always does and went on a bender for three weeks. Any time life gets hard, she disappears into a bottle… and life’s hard most of the time.
Our Uncle Marty helps out when he can, but just the two of us can’t really cover a lot of ground.
Cops are convinced she’s just like our mom and took off.
But Layla wouldn’t do that. If she wanted to go on a trip, she’d tell me. ”
“You talk about her more like she’s a daughter than a sister,” he observes.
I shrug. “I did most of the parenting even before Dad went to prison. After, it was just me.”
He gives me that searching look again, then puts his forearms on his desk and leans forward. “You come here to accuse one of my men of doing something to her?”
“No,” I answer quickly, surprised by the question. “But I don’t know this Damien person. Is he the sort who’ll convince a girl to take off on a cross-country ride without telling anyone? Or is he more the kind who might hole up at a motel for a long weekend with a girl and liquor?”
There’s silence as he weighs my words. When he stands up, the movement’s so sudden I jerk backward. His expression is unreadable as he comes around the desk.
“Stay here.”
It’s clearly an order, and even though he isn’t the boss of me, I do what he says, watching him leave and close the door behind him.
There’s a window behind the desk and he reappears there just a minute later.
Two other men are with him, and I hear names tossed around.
They all sound similar to his. Whizz. Ravage.
Sin. Not exactly common names. I idly wonder if those are all nicknames or if some are real—my parents saddled me with Nova, after all—but I know it’s only partially real curiosity.
I’m trying to distract myself from all the ‘what if’ scenarios running through my head.
The men outside the window disappear and I hear movement outside the office.
No one’s really talking, or at least they’re not saying anything I understand, but I can feel something strange in the air, like something’s happening even though I don’t know what.
I want to be out there, in the middle of it.
Not because I want the attention, but because I don’t do well just waiting around when something needs to be done.
Except I don’t think the club would like me wandering around their property, maybe seeing or hearing something I’m not supposed to. So I stay.
By the time Creed comes back, I’ve paced five hundred steps back and forth across the office, but I’ve at least resisted the urge to leave.
When the door opens, I stop in mid-step.
He stands in the doorway, his massive shoulders practically filling the whole space.
It’s only then I figure out I still have one foot part-way in the air.
I put it down and hope I don’t look too awkward.
“You’re staying here for now,” he says. “Patch—Damien—is one of our prospects, and he’s missing too. Until we know what happened, you’re under our watch.”
“No.” I start shaking my head before he’s finished. “I have to go look for my sister. I have work. I can’t just–”
“This isn’t a discussion,” Creed cuts me off. “We moved your car inside the compound, and then we took a couple of things to keep you from going anywhere.”
He holds up some sparkplugs, but there’s no humor in his expression.
“You can’t do this,” I protest.
“It’s done.”
And then he leaves, closing the door again.
If he thinks I’m staying in this office until they find Layla, he’s been inhaling too much exhaust. I take out my phone.
I didn’t want to let Uncle Marty know about the Kings of Ruin, but I can’t hide being stuck here.
Except when I place the call, it goes straight to Uncle Marty’s voicemail, and I know, at least for the time being, I’m on my own.