Chapter 3 - Chloe
Angel hasn't said a word since we emerged from those tunnels – and what tunnels they were, stretching beneath the streets of Cedar Falls like a secret underground city. Now she's perched by my window, peering through the curtains while I pace my small living room.
My phone buzzes for the second time tonight, and I jump. The first message from Hellfire was threatening enough:
"Don't make me regret letting you live."
This new one makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with fear: "Sleep well, sweetheart. Tomorrow your real education begins."
"You can relax, you know," Angel says, not turning from the window. "Dad's not going to reach through the phone and bite you."
I drop onto my couch, running my fingers through my disheveled hair.
"Your father... he's not what I expected."
Now, she does turn, and I see a hint of amusement in her expression.
"What did you expect? Some dumb thug with a motorcycle?"
"No, I..." I pause, trying to organize my thoughts. How do I explain that I expected a violent criminal, but not one with such intensity, such presence? Not one who could make my skin tingle with just a look? "I didn't expect him to be so..."
"Commanding?" She suggests with a knowing smirk that makes me blush.
Before I can respond, her phone rings. She answers immediately, listening for a moment before saying, "All clear. No one's followed us." Another pause. "Yes, she's behaving." She rolls her eyes at whatever response she gets. "Fine, I'll tell her."
She hangs up and turns to me.
"Dad says you're going to work tomorrow like normal. Act natural. He'll contact you with instructions."
"Instructions for what?" I ask, but she's already heading for the door.
"Just remember," she says, hand on the doorknob, "you're under our protection now. But that protection only lasts as long as you're useful and loyal."
The door clicks shut behind her, and I'm alone with my thoughts. Thoughts that keep drifting back to big, strong hands and amber eyes.
I grab my laptop, trying to distract myself. My article about the local farmers' market is due tomorrow, and it seems laughably mundane now. Just this morning, I was frustrated with covering small-town events. Now I'm caught between two motorcycle clubs at war.
My phone buzzes again, and this time I check it immediately. It's not Hellfire, but an unknown number:
"Meeting tomorrow. 2 PM. The coffee shop on Oak. Come alone. - Butcher"
I sink deeper into my couch, wondering how my life changed so dramatically in one night. I went looking for a story and found... what exactly? A death sentence? A new purpose? Or something else entirely, something that makes my heart race when I think about certain gold-flecked eyes?
One thing's for certain – I'm way over my head.
Sleep doesn't come easy that night. Every motorcycle sound has me jumping to my window, expecting to see Outlaws or Iron now I'm about to walk through the front door with their president.
"They won't..." I hesitate, searching for words. "I mean, how will they react to a journalist?"
Hellfire glances at me, amusement dancing in those amber eyes.
"Sweetheart, you stopped being just a journalist the moment you agreed to help us. You're under my protection now. That means something in our world."
The way he says 'my protection' instead of 'the club's protection' doesn't escape my notice.
The place looks different in the evening light. Motorcycles line the front, their chrome gleaming under the neon signs. Music pulses from inside, and I can see shadows moving behind the frosted windows.
Hellfire parks my car around back, next to a row of particularly impressive bikes.
"That one's mine," he says, nodding toward a massive black Harley with custom metalwork.
Of course it is – powerful, imposing, dangerous. Just like its owner.
He comes around to my door and opens it, offering his hand again. This time when I take it, he doesn't let go. Instead, he tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, like some twisted version of a gentleman escorting a lady to dinner.
"Ready?" he asks, and I'm not sure if he means for dinner or for everything this night represents.
"No," I answer honestly, which makes him chuckle.
"Good answer."
The bar goes quiet as we enter, every head turning our way. I recognize faces from last night, but names escape me. Angel is there, raised eyebrows the only indication of her surprise at seeing me on her father's arm.
"Brothers," Hellfire's voice carries across the room. "Meet our new ally. Chloe Matthews." He starts pointing out people, his free hand moving in a casual sweep. "That's Butcher, my VP. The brothers, Crow and Wrath, were our shadows tonight. Over there, it’s Ruthless and Maverick."
"Food's ready in the back," the man he identified as Butcher calls out, and I notice for the first time that the bar smells fantastic.
Hellfire guides me through the crowd, his hand moving to the small of my back. Every touch feels deliberate, possessive even, and I wonder if he's doing it on purpose. Marking his territory? Warning others off? Or is there something else behind these casual points of contact?
The back room turns out to be a large dining area I didn't notice last night. A long table dominates the space, loaded with what looks like homemade spicy food and a good number of steaks – enough for everyone and more.
"Angel's specialty," Hellfire explains, pulling out a chair for me. "She runs the kitchen here."
"Among other things," Angel says, appearing with a bottle of wine. She gives me an appraising look. "Hope you like spicy food, journalist."
Before I can respond, the club members file in, taking seats around the table. It feels surreal – sitting down to dinner with the very people I was spying on twenty-four hours ago. Hellfire takes the seat at the head of the table, with me on his right and Butcher on his left.
"First," he says, once everyone is seated, "Chloe witnessed the Outlaws' operation at the docks tonight." A serious mood falls over the table. "She's going to help us expose them."
"And can we trust her?" Crow asks from further down the table.
Hellfire's hand finds my thigh under the table, and I nearly jump.
"She's one of us now," he says firmly, his fingers gently squeezing. "Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me."
No one speaks up.
"Now," he continues, his hand staying where it is, "let's eat. Then we'll show our new friend everything we have on the Outlaws."
As food is passed around and conversation flows, I try to focus on anything except the warm weight of his hand on my leg. This is about exposing human trafficking, about justice, about getting the story of my career. It's not about how my skin tingles where he touches me, or how his occasional glances make my heart race.
But as I sit here, surrounded by dangerous men who now consider me "one of them," I wonder if I'm not in more trouble than I realized – and not just from the Outlaws.