Chapter 7 Chloe
CHLOE
The paper shook in my hands. Actually shook, like I was some scared little rabbit instead of a woman who'd been sleeping with the enemy for weeks.
Guardians of Mayhem. The words stared back at me from the fax, bold and black and damning. A formal request from the Albuquerque Task Force for all files, records, and intelligence on the motorcycle club currently operating out of Edgewood, New Mexico.
Finn's club.
My Finn.
I forced myself to take a breath. My desk was just a desk. The fluorescent lights were just lights. Margaret was typing away like the world wasn't ending. Because for her, it wasn't.
"Chloe!" Sheriff Malone's bark made me jump. "You get something on the fax?"
I turned, and I swear my face must have looked like I'd seen a ghost, because his eyebrows drew together.
"Everything okay?"
No. Nothing is okay. I'm holding a document that could put the man I'm falling for behind bars, and you're asking me if everything is okay.
"Yeah." The word came out steadier than I expected. "Just follow-up paperwork on the Devils. More records they need for processing." I waved the pages like they were nothing. Like they weren't a goddamn grenade. "I'll add it to the pile."
Malone grunted. "Good. Lord knows we've got enough on our plates with those idiots." He wandered back to his office, coffee in hand, newspaper tucked under his arm. Business as usual.
I waited until his door clicked shut. Then I slid the Guardians request to the bottom of my inbox tray, beneath three weeks' worth of filing I'd been "getting to." My heart was pounding so loud I was sure Margaret could hear it.
She didn't look up.
For the next four hours, I typed. I filed. I answered the phone with my usual chipper "Edgewood Police Department, how may I direct your call?" I ate my sandwich at my desk and laughed at Peters' dumb joke about the coffee machine. I was the picture of normalcy.
Inside, I was screaming.
The clock on the wall moved like it was wading through molasses. Every tick felt like an accusation. Every time Malone glanced my way, I was certain he knew. Certain he could see the guilt written all over my face.
At 4:47, I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed my phone and ducked into the bathroom, locking myself in the far stall.
My fingers trembled as I typed.
Need to see you. Tonight. Not Shady Meadows. Somewhere private. It's important.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Finn was nothing if not attentive when it came to my texts.
My place. I'll text you the address. Everything okay?
I stared at the screen. Was everything okay? No. Everything was the opposite of okay. Everything was fucked.
No. But it will be. See you in an hour.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
* * *
The drive to Finn's place felt like a fever dream. The desert stretched out on either side of me, all rust-colored earth and scrubby bushes, the sun sinking low and turning everything gold. Beautiful, if I'd been in any state to appreciate it.
Instead, my mind was a hamster wheel of worst-case scenarios. What if Malone noticed the missing fax? What if someone else requested it? What if I was already being watched, tracked, investigated?
What if I was about to throw away my entire life for a man I'd only known for a few weeks?
The address Finn sent led me down a quiet road on the outskirts of Edgewood, away from the main drag and the prying eyes of neighbors. His house was modest—a single-story ranch with a weathered porch and his Harley parked in the gravel driveway like a loyal dog waiting for its owner.
I pulled up behind the bike and killed the engine. For a long moment, I just sat there, hands on the steering wheel, staring at his front door.
This was it. The point of no return.
If I walked through that door and told him what I knew, I was committing a crime. Obstruction of justice, at minimum. Maybe worse. Everything I'd worked for—the steady paycheck, the health insurance, the illusion of a normal life—would be on the line.
But if I didn't...
The image of Finn in handcuffs flashed through my mind. Finn behind bars. Finn's face when he realized I'd known and said nothing.
I got out of the car.
He must have been watching from the window, because the door swung open before I even reached the porch. Finn stood there in a white t-shirt and jeans, his hair loose around his shoulders, those dark eyes scanning me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"What happened?" No hello. No small talk. He could read me like a book.
"Inside," I managed. "Please."
He stepped back to let me in, and I caught a glimpse of his living room—worn leather couch, flat-screen TV, a few framed photos I'd have to ask about later. It was masculine and sparse, but clean. Not what I'd expected from a biker, if I was being honest.
"Chloe." His hand closed around my wrist, gentle but firm, turning me to face him. "Talk to me."
The words came out in a rush.
"A fax came through today. From the Albuquerque Task Force. They're requesting files on the Guardians—membership records, known associates, financial connections, everything. They're building a case, Finn. A real one. And they're coming for you."
I watched his face as the information landed. First, a flash of something dark—anger, maybe, or fear. His jaw tightened. The muscles in his forearms tensed.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Replaced by something cold and calculating. The sergeant at arms, assessing a threat.
"How long can you stall it?"
"A few days," I said. "Maybe a week if I'm careful. I buried it under some old files, told Malone it was Devils paperwork. But Finn, if they find out I—"
"They won't."
"You don't know that."
"No." He stepped closer, his hands finding my hips, anchoring me. "But I know you. You're smart. You're careful. And you didn't have to come here tonight."
I looked up at him, at this mountain of a man who'd somehow become the center of my universe in a matter of weeks. The tattoos. The scars. The gentleness hiding beneath all that rough exterior.
"I'm choosing you," I said. The words felt heavy, significant. Like wedding vows or last rites. "Over my job. Over my safety. Over everything I thought I wanted. I need you to understand that, Finn. I need you to know what this means."
His eyes held mine. In the low light of his living room, they looked almost black.
"Then I'm choosing you too." His voice was low, rough with emotion. "Whatever happens. Whatever comes for us. We're in this together now. You hear me?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He pulled me against his chest, and I let myself collapse into him. His arms wrapped around me like a fortress, and for the first time since that goddamn fax machine had started whirring, I felt like I could breathe.
"We'll figure this out," he murmured into my hair. "I need to talk to Pops, work out our next move. But right now..." He pulled back just enough to look at me. "Right now, you're staying here. With me."
It wasn't a question.
"Are you going to tell them about me?" I asked. "The club?"
He shook his head. "I'll tell Pops I have a source inside the department. That's all he needs to know for now." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "I'm not putting a target on your back. Not ever."
"Finn..."
"Shh." He kissed my forehead. "No more talking tonight. You've done enough. You've done more than anyone should have to do."
He led me down a narrow hallway to his bedroom—a queen-sized bed with dark sheets, a dresser with a lamp, nothing on the walls but a single black-and-white photo of a man on a motorcycle. His father, I realized. The founder. The bulldog.
Finn handed me one of his t-shirts without a word. I changed in the bathroom, letting the soft cotton fall to mid-thigh, breathing in the scent of him that clung to the fabric.
When I came out, he was already in bed, the covers pulled back on my side like an invitation. Like I belonged there.
Maybe I did.
I slid in beside him, and his arm came around me immediately, pulling me close. My head found the hollow of his shoulder. My hand rested over his heart, feeling it beat slow and steady beneath my palm.
"First time you've slept here," he said quietly.
"First time you've asked."
He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Didn't want to push. Figured the Shady Meadows thing was more your speed."
"It was. Before."
"And now?"
I tilted my head up to look at him in the darkness. "Now I want this. Whatever this is. I want all of it."
His answer was a kiss—soft, slow, achingly tender. Not the desperate heat of Shady Meadows. Something deeper. Something that felt like a promise.
"Sleep," he said when he finally pulled away. "Tomorrow we plan. Tonight, you rest."
I closed my eyes, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. Outside, the New Mexico night was quiet—no sirens, no traffic, just the whisper of wind through the desert brush.
I was terrified. I had just bet my entire future on a man who ran guns and rode with outlaws.
And somehow, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I didn't feel alone.
I fell asleep in Finn's arms, and I didn't dream of anything at all.