Chapter 7 CARRIE
CARRIE
The room is dark when I finally come to, late evening light sliding through the blinds in fractured gold lines. My head throbs, the kind of ache that feels like punishment and warning both. Sweat clings to my skin, hair plastered to my neck.
My sheets are twisted tight around my thighs.
I blink, heart thumping, still halfway in the thick heat of the dream I just left.
In it, all three of them were there—Levi, Nico, Jace—hands and mouths everywhere, their bodies pressed close, heat and hunger and all that wild, greedy wanting.
My breath goes shallow just remembering it.
I can still feel Levi’s grip on my hips, Nico’s mouth at my neck, Jace’s voice rough and demanding in my ear.
The dream is so vivid my skin tingles where they touched me, where they filled me, where I let go and begged for more.
I press a palm to my cheek. It’s burning. My body is humming, desperate and raw. I’m so wet I could die from it. Shit.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to will it away, but the ache between my thighs only grows, needy and impatient.
I’m hot all over, heart pounding like I never left the dream at all.
Of course. Of course I wake up like this—horny, aching, every nerve sparking for men I can’t have, shouldn’t want, but do.
Shit.
I drag myself out of bed and find a T-shirt on the floor, pull it on, step into my jeans.
The headache is fading, hunger gnawing in its place, but nothing bites as hard as the regret swimming under my skin.
I keep replaying how I walked out—half-dressed, hair a mess, no explanation, just gone while the sun was barely up.
It’s not just the guys I left behind. It’s Jinn.
The way things ended between us is a bruise I keep bumping, no matter how many times I tell myself I’m over him.
I remember how he used to look at me, hungry and dangerous, the way he made promises he never kept.
For a second I even miss the chaos—before I remember what it cost me.
I glance around the apartment. The emptiness gnaws at me.
Marcy’s things are scattered, but she isn’t here.
I haven’t heard from her all day. I know where she is, even if she hasn’t bothered to text me—still at the clubhouse, wrapped up in whatever spell Jinn has always managed to cast over both of us.
Maybe she thinks it’s her turn now, like if she stays close enough he’ll finally choose her for real.
I shake my head, a sick feeling in my stomach. I don’t want her to come back. I can’t do another round of whispering through walls, pretending nothing happened, acting like we’re sisters instead of two broken girls circling the same man. I need her gone so I can finally breathe.
That’s when I know what I have to do. I grab a pen and find the old notepad I keep by the fridge. The words come fast, raw and shaky.
Marcy—
I hope you’re happy with your choices. I mean it.
I hope you get everything you wanted and more.
I can’t keep living in this apartment waiting for the next time you come home with guilt in your eyes and Jinn’s name on your lips.
I’m done. I’m leaving you the place. Don’t bother calling—I need a clean break.
Take care of yourself. Try not to let him ruin you the way he ruined me.
By the time I finish, my hands are shaking. But the relief is real. I fold the letter and leave it on the kitchen counter, heart pounding.
I grab a duffel, stuff it with everything I care about, and make a list in my head of what’s still at the clubhouse—books, some clothes, maybe my grandmother’s necklace in the drawer by the bar.
I’ll go back just long enough to grab what’s mine, drop the letter, and leave for good.
No more looking over my shoulder. No more waiting for someone to pick me.
I park a block away, nerves jangling, then hike up to the clubhouse with my duffel bag banging my hip. The lot’s scattered with bikes, a few trucks, puddles shining in the ruts. The place looks the same as ever—grim, battered, smelling like oil, cigarettes, and something wild underneath.
Inside, the lights are low. A few men I barely know are hunched over a pool table, eyes tracking me as I cross the room. Whale is behind the bar, his bulk impossible to miss, watching with that steady, unreadable stare.
“Didn’t expect to see you, Carrie,” he calls as I move toward the old storage room.
“Just here for my stuff.” My voice is steady, even though my stomach’s in knots.
He wipes his hands on a bar rag and steps out, blocking my path. “You hear from Jinn?”
My jaw tightens. “No. Not since yesterday.”
“JC, Blade, Wrecker?” His tone is too casual, eyes sharp beneath his brow. “None of them around. You know where they are?”
I shake my head, keeping my face as blank as I can manage. “I really don’t. I haven’t seen any of them.”
Whale narrows his eyes. “Funny, you always seemed to know more than you let on.”
I shrug, swallowing hard. “Not this time.”
There’s a long pause, tension settling in my shoulders. Whale stares a little longer, trying to decide if I’m lying. I don’t flinch. I just hug my bag tighter and edge around him, desperate to get my things, desperate to get out before the rest of the world comes crashing down.
I can feel his eyes on my back as I move down the hallway, heart hammering. Just a little longer, I promise myself. Then I’ll be done with this place—and everyone in it—for good.
I head upstairs, shoulders tight, my bag bumping against my leg with every step.
The hallway smells like old cologne and wood polish, a familiar ache in my chest. Every footfall echoes with memories I’d rather leave behind—Jinn’s voice cutting me down, that last fight still raw and ugly, the shame burning long after I walked out.
The house is quieter than I expected. I half brace for Marcy’s laughter or the heavy stomp of Jinn’s boots, but it’s just me and the hum of the fridge downstairs. Whale said the other guys are gone too. Are they really still holed up in that outbuilding where I left them?
I head straight for Jinn’s room first. The bed’s a mess—covers half off, a tangle of clothes and the familiar scatter of his things.
I move quietly, gathering what’s mine: a sweater draped over his chair, my favorite lip balm from the bedside table, the battered diary I always kept tucked under his pillow for when I couldn’t sleep.
Each item feels strange in my hands now, heavy with memories I don’t want but can’t let go of yet.
I keep my eyes away from the mirror, from the reflection that might show me someone who stayed too long. My fingers shake a little as I close my bag, but I don’t rush. I want to do this right. One last sweep, one last goodbye, and I’m done.
On my way downstairs, I slow by a door left ajar—Nico’s room. I pause, knock lightly out of habit, half expecting him to answer even though Whale already told me the place is empty. There’s only silence.
I spot something on the nightstand—a photo folded in half, edges soft from being handled too much.
Curiosity wins, and I pick it up. It’s a picture of Jinn and me, a blurry moment from a better summer, arms tangled, smiling wide.
But someone—maybe Nico—has folded it so only my face shows, my smile shining alone from that slice of paper.
A strange lump rises in my throat. I stare at the photo, thumb rubbing the crease.
For a second, I wish I could go back to being that girl—before the heartbreak, before the secrets, before everything twisted itself up.
But that girl’s gone, and the woman holding the picture is done letting other people tell her what she’s worth.
As I make my way down the stairs, bag slung over my shoulder and the photo crumpled in my fist, a flicker of movement at the window catches my eye. I pause, half-hidden behind the faded curtain, heart thudding for no reason I can name yet.
Outside, the parking lot is suddenly alive—men pouring out of black SUVs and unmarked trucks, boots pounding the gravel, weapons drawn. The gold of the late sun glints off something bold and blocky stenciled across their vests: ATF.
My breath snags. It’s not just a few. It’s a swarm. Dozens, maybe more, fanning out with hard faces and hard voices. They move like they’ve practiced this a hundred times before.
Panic hits me cold and sudden. My mind scrambles—what the hell? I freeze on the step, clutching my bag to my chest, not sure if I should run, hide, or just sink to the floor and pray.
Then it starts—the shouts echoing up from downstairs, thundering through the house.
“ATF! OPEN UP! FEDERAL AGENTS!”
Doors slam, boots thunder, the whole building shakes. I press myself against the wall, holding my breath, fear clawing up my throat.
My body goes still as the shouting and pounding intensifies, rattling every frame in the house.
The photo in my pocket is slick against my palm, my fingers trembling as I press my back to the wall, willing myself smaller, quieter, anything but seen.
Boots thunder against the wooden floorboards downstairs.
I hear Whale’s voice—rough, defiant, asking what’s going on, but the agents aren’t answering, just ordering everyone down, hands up, move, move, move. Someone slams a door and glass breaks, the sound sharp and final.
I want to run. I want to vanish, to be anywhere but here. But my legs won’t move. I’m caught in the tide of it all, mind whirring with questions that don’t matter anymore: Did they come for Jinn? For the club? For the guns I always pretended not to see?
The surge of panic finally jolts me loose, adrenaline overriding fear as I clutch my bag tighter and scan for any way out.
The front is lost—nothing but shouting, boots, the scrape of guns and radios—so I slip back into the hallway, pulse thudding in my throat, and make for the kitchen at the rear of the clubhouse.
The back door is just beyond the counter, half-shadowed, the porch visible through smudged glass. I can hear agents storming in from the front, the chaos rising behind me, but hope flickers—a thin chance to slip away, unseen, into the deepening twilight.
I move as quickly and quietly as I dare, ducking beneath the window, heart hammering so hard I’m afraid someone might hear it. The world narrows to footsteps and the creak of floorboards as I ease the door open. Cool air and the scent of wet grass hit my face—freedom is so close I can taste it.
I step out onto the porch, shoes barely touching the weathered planks, already imagining myself melting into the yard and then into the night.
But before I can take another breath, there’s a presence to my left—a flash of movement, an agent rounding the corner with his weapon raised and his voice sharp with command.
“Stop! Federal agents—hands where I can see them!”
I freeze, a cold weight dropping through my stomach.
There’s no point in running now. My body is already obeying, hands rising, bag slipping from my shoulder to the floorboards.
For a second, the entire world is just the echo of my own breath, and the distant, wild wish that I could have left this place behind just a little bit sooner.
The agent strides closer, his vest reading ATF, face set in that hard, no-nonsense way. His voice is cruel—just a man doing his job, certain of his purpose.
“Name,” he demands, not lowering the weapon even as he scans me head to toe.
I raise my hands higher, trying to keep my voice steady even though my heart is galloping. “Carrie Saxe. I was just here for a party last night. I left early, realized when I got home I’d forgotten my phone, so I came back to find it. That’s all, I swear.”
He narrows his eyes, not quite convinced. “You came all the way back here, now, for a phone?”
I nod, hoping I look harmless, just another girl caught at the wrong place, wrong time. “I work late. Didn’t think anybody would mind.”
He studies me a beat longer, the noise of agents shouting inside and boots on old wood filling the air behind us.
“Show me some ID, please,” he says, and I nod, already fishing for my wallet with slow, careful movements.
The whole time, I keep my breath even, hoping the story holds, praying he can’t see the wild panic barely hidden in my eyes.
I find my ID and hand it over, trying to swallow the tightness in my throat.
He glances at the card, comparing it to my face, then to the name I gave him. The seconds stretch and the porch feels colder with every heartbeat. Behind him, I can hear more agents moving through the house, boots on tile and muffled orders exchanged in clipped voices.
He studies me for another moment, then hands back my ID. “Sit tight, Carrie. Someone’s going to need to ask you a few more questions.”
I nod, lowering myself onto the porch steps. The relief that he’s not dragging me off in cuffs is tempered by the dread of what comes next. I glance out across the yard, the sky turning from dusk to true night, and I wonder if there’s any way to go back to who I was before this day began.
I sit on the porch, hands tight around my bag, mind racing. Voices from inside filter out through the cracked door—commands, radios, questions barked back and forth. It’s impossible not to listen for any name I know.
A few minutes pass before another agent approaches, younger and less rigid, holding a tablet and a notepad. He squats beside me, softer in his questioning.
“We’re sorting everyone out. You said you were here for a party. Did you see anyone else when you came back?”
I shake my head, keeping my story simple. “No, I just came in, grabbed my things. I was hoping to get out before anyone noticed.”
He nods, tapping the screen. His tone is almost sympathetic now. “You know some of the guys who were picked up today, right? JC, Blade, Wrecker?”
The words make my heart skip. “What do you mean, picked up?”
He glances back at the house, then lowers his voice. “They’re under arrest. ATF swept the property and found evidence. They’re being processed now.”
My breath stutters. I try to steady myself, holding on to the edge of the step. The world feels suddenly smaller, the old porch pressing in on all sides. “Are they—will they be okay?”
He just offers a tight smile, nothing reassuring in it. “Depends on what the feds decide. Depends on the case.” He stands, jotting something on his notepad, then gives me a longer look. “You should stay available. Someone will follow up with you soon.”
As he disappears back inside, I press my forehead to my knees, overwhelmed by the dull ache of regret and fear.