Peak #2
The clubhouse lights flickered twice before every security monitor went black.
The room fell into an eerie silence. "What the hell?
" Ruin muttered. At that exact moment, Peak's laptop, which was sitting closed on the table in the corner of the room, powered on by itself.
The screen glowed bright blue, but no one had touched it.
Text appeared across the display—just one sentence.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT HER ALONE
Every man in church froze as more text appeared.
CHECK YOUR CAMERAS
The monitors flickered back to life. The front gate camera now showed a black cargo van parked just outside the entrance. It hadn't driven up. It was simply there, as if someone had cut to a prerecorded feed.
Peak's stomach dropped. "No." The image zoomed in automatically, and the back doors of the van swung open. Inside sat dozens of black barrels.
Captain's face hardened. "Everybody out!" Peak was already moving toward Maeve as another message flashed across his laptop.
90 SECONDS
Peak didn't hesitate. He grabbed Maeve's hand. "We're leaving."
She looked at him. "What about—"
"No time,” Peak growled.
Captain pointed toward the back hallway. "Take the safe route!"
"Warden," Ruin shouted. The Enforcer was already dragging Mercer toward the reinforced basement. The club erupted into motion as brothers sprinted for defensive positions. Prospects evacuated civilians, and Ruin shouted orders. Peak pulled Maeve through the kitchen toward the rear exit.
"What is happening?" Maeve yelled.
Peak didn't slow down. "They hacked my cameras and my laptop. "They knew where Mercer was." He looked back toward the clubhouse. "They're not here for him."
The realization hit them both at the same instant.
"They're here for us,” they said together.
Behind them, a deafening explosion rocked the front of the clubhouse, blowing out every window and sending a fireball through the entrance.
The blast wave slammed into Peak's back, throwing him and Maeve through the rear door and into the muddy darkness beyond the clubhouse.
Captain had been right; they had to disappear. It was the only way to keep his brothers safe. There was only one place Peak knew the enemy would never think to look first—a forgotten roadside motel on Maryland's Eastern Shore, where he'd hidden more than one brother over the years.
The motel looked exactly like every roadside motel on the Eastern Shore—old. A flickering neon VACANCY sign missing two letters. The parking lot was cracked asphalt surrounded by marsh grass. Motel Seven sat in the far corner and was as far from the highway as possible.
Peak killed the engine on his Harley and Maeve climbed off behind him. She removed the borrowed helmet and looked up at the building. "You've got to be kidding."
He smirked. "What?"
"This place looks like it rents rooms by the hour,” she grumbled.
"It does,” he said.
She blinked at him. “Seriously?"
"No." He grinned. "I have no idea."
She rolled her eyes. "You think you're funny."
"I've been told that I’m funny and good-looking,” he said, bobbing his eyebrows at her.
"By who? I’m thinking you were lied to and don’t realize it,” she teased.
"My grandmother, and that woman never told a lie in her whole life,” he insisted, making her giggle.
"She sounds biased,” Maeve said.
"She absolutely was,” he agreed, flashing her his smile. “Let’s get checked in,” he ordered.
Peak paid in cash and used fake names, which was the norm around town when it came to the Grave Prowler’s lying low.
The guy behind the desk didn’t seem to give a shit what his name was as he handed over the old motel key.
They walked down the row of rooms to the door with a giant number eight on it, and he unlocked it.
The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old wood.
It wasn't luxurious, but it was clean. A small table sat in the corner of the room, and there was one dresser, a mini fridge, and a tiny bathroom that still had the original pink tiles on the walls.
Maeve stopped in the doorway and looked at the queen-sized bed. “There’s only one bed."
Peak looked around. "Huh."
"Huh?” she repeated. “What does huh mean?”
"I thought there were two beds,” he said.
"Did you ask for two beds?” she questioned.
She folded her arms over her chest and waited him out. “Yep,” he lied. Honestly, when he called ahead to reserve the room, he could barely keep his head together. He had no idea what he had asked the guy.
“Didn’t you make a reservation?” she asked.
“Yeah, I made the reservation.”
"You've done this before. You knew that there would only be one bed, and you were fine with it,” she accused.
He looked horrified. "I’ve done this before, but not with women." She laughed, and he huffed out his breath. "I meant to say that I’ve gone into hiding before, but not with a woman."
"Oh,” she breathed.
He scratched the back of his neck. “I’ll call the front desk and ask if they have a room with two beds,” he offered.
Peak walked over to the ancient phone that sat on the nightstand and picked it up.
He dialed the front desk and waited as Maeve walked to the window and peeked through the curtain.
He had a feeling that she was checking exits.
"You always do that?" he asked.
She nodded. "Don’t you?"
He held up a finger when the guy at the front desk answered. “Hi, I’m in room eight. Can you see if you have any rooms with two beds?” he asked.
“Um, we only have rooms with one bed in them,” the guy said. Well, shit, this wasn’t going to sit well with Maeve.
“I see, okay, thank you.” He hung up and looked over to find Maeve mean-mugging him.
“Let me guess,” she said. “No rooms with two beds.”
“Correct,” he said.
“Okay, then I’ll just get my own room,” she insisted. She grabbed her purse and started for the door.
“I’m assuming that you have cash,” he called after her.
“Oh, no,” she breathed, “I don’t.”
“Well, you can’t use a credit card. The government can definitely trace them,” he said.
“I know what the government can trace,” she spat.
“Listen, we’re both adults, and I’m sure that we can sleep in the same bed without it being a big deal,” he said.
She barked out her laugh. “That’s exactly what I expected you to say. But luckily for you, I’m too tired to argue with you. I’m using the bathroom first,” she said.
“As you wish, sweetheart,” he drawled. He walked over to lock the front door, leaning against it when he finished. The adrenaline that had carried him through the last several hours began to fade. His shoulder throbbed, his ribs hurt, and his knuckles were split open.
"You're bleeding,” she said, nodding to his hand.
He looked down. "I've had worse."
She sighed. "Sit,” she ordered, “I’ll clean you up.”
"I'm fine,” he insisted.
"Peak." It was the first time she'd said his name without sarcasm.
Something about the way it sounded made him obey before he'd consciously decided to.
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Maeve disappeared into the bathroom.
A moment later, she returned carrying a small first-aid kit she'd found under the sink.
She stood between his knees. "Take off the kutte."
He looked up at her. "Bossy."
"I've been called worse." He smiled despite himself.
"So have I." She gently lifted his kutte from his shoulders.
Her fingers brushed the back of his neck for only a second, but still, neither of them moved away.
For the first time since she'd walked into Grave Prowler’s territory, there were no gunshots, no explosions, and no interrogations.
Just two exhausted people in a quiet motel room, discovering that silence didn't feel nearly as lonely when they shared it with someone else.
Peak had been stitched up before. He’d had road rash, knife cuts, and had taken a bullet that he'd lied to the emergency room doctor about five years ago.
Pain didn't bother him. What bothered him was sitting on the edge of a motel bed while Maeve stood between his knees, cleaning dried blood from his shoulder.
She was entirely too close to him, not that he'd admit that aloud.
"I don’t think that you missed anything, honey."
She didn't look up at him. "I know. I’m just being thorough.”
"Why are you torturing me?" he asked.
Her lips twitched. "I'm enjoying myself." She dabbed antiseptic onto another cut, and Peak hissed out his breath.
"Fuck, that hurts,” he growled.
"Oh, don't be dramatic,” Maeve said.
"Dramatic?" He looked at her. "You poured fire into an open wound, and you’re calling me dramatic?"
"I poured antiseptic into an open wound,” she corrected.
"Same difference,” he mumbled.
"No." She finally looked at him. "It really isn't." For a second, neither of them looked away.
Her green eyes caught the light from the bedside lamp, and for the first time since he'd met her, they weren't hard.
They looked tired and lonely. He knew those eyes because he saw them every morning in his own mirror.
"You've done this before."
She returned her attention to his shoulder. "Done what?"
"Patch people up,” he said.
"Once or twice,” she admitted.
"You aren't squeamish?” he asked.
"No."
"What did Mercer mean when he said that he’d interviewed you in Richmond?” he asked. That had been bothering him since they left the clubhouse.
She smiled faintly. "You ask a lot of questions."
"Yet, you answer very few,” he countered.
"That’s fair." She taped a piece of gauze over the cut before speaking again. “To answer your first question, my mom was an ER nurse, so no, I’m not squeamish.” Peak nodded.
"She'd come home after twelve-hour shifts, and sometimes she'd have blood on her scrubs.
I thought it was normal." Her fingers paused for just a second.
"When Wren and I were teenagers, she'd teach us basic first aid.
" She shrugged. "She said every woman should know how to save a life. "
Peak studied her quietly. "She sounds like a smart woman."
"She was,” Maeve breathed.