Chapter 4
Chapter Four
McKayla
Birds chirping was not how I expected to wake up in a motorcycle clubhouse. I didn’t know how I expected to wake up after last night.
Chained to a radiator maybe? Locked in a creepy underground bunker? Buried in the woods?
Instead, I was wrapped in a ridiculously soft blanket staring up at a ceiling fan lazily spinning above me while morning sunlight filtered through the curtains. For a solid minute, I just lay there blinking.
My body felt heavy in that warm, comfortable way that came after actually sleeping. Real sleep. Not the half-awake kind where your brain kept jerking you upright every twenty minutes because it was too busy replaying worst-case scenarios.
It took me a second to realize I’d slept through the entire night.
No nightmares, no waking up panicked because my phone hadn’t rung, and no lying there staring at motel ceiling stains while wondering if my sister was dead somewhere.
Just sleep.
Who would’ve thought the best sleep I’d had since Erin disappeared would happen inside a biker clubhouse on a haunted island after witnessing a dead body?
I groaned softly and dragged my hands over my face before immediately regretting it when pain throbbed through the back of my skull.
“Oh my God,” I muttered. Yep, still concussed.
That explained why my brain felt like someone had replaced it with microwaved mashed potatoes. I stayed there another minute listening to the birds outside the window and trying to mentally sort through the last twenty-four hours.
Because wow, what a train wreck.
I’d gone from angry sister determined to shake answers out of a motorcycle club to accidental clubhouse hostage in record time.
Not exactly my finest work as a private investigator.
Still, even though the headache and lingering panic, one thing kept replaying in my head. The Kings of Anarchy weren’t acting like killers.
That was the piece I kept circling back to.
Everything about the situation screamed bad. Secret tunnels. Dead bodies. Men who looked like they could snap people in half for fun, but none of them felt wrong.
I’d spent years reading people for a living. Most of the time, liars gave themselves away eventually. Some did it with their words. Others with body language with tiny cracks in behavior.
The club didn’t have cracks.
Not when it came to the bodies.
They looked frustrated, exhausted and protective, but not guilty.
Which meant one thing. Whoever was doing this was either very good at hiding or genuinely wasn’t one of them.
And honestly? That was worse because if the Kings of Anarchy didn’t know who was dumping bodies on their island, then whoever was behind this was smart enough to stay hidden from an entire motorcycle club that clearly took protecting their people seriously.
Still, if they really didn’t know anything about Erin, maybe they knew enough about everything else for me to figure something out. Most people focused on the obvious first. Sometimes the answer wasn’t in the information somebody gave you. Sometimes it was buried in the details around it.
Patterns, behavior and connections. The club might not even realize what mattered yet, but I might. At least that was what I hoped because right now I was running dangerously low on options.
I finally pushed the blanket down and sat up slowly. Pain slammed through my skull hard enough to make me hiss. “Tylenol better take care of this,” I muttered. The room tilted slightly when I stood, but thankfully stopped after a second.
The room stopped tilting, which felt like a win.
I shuffled toward the bathroom attached to the room and flipped on the light, then immediately regretted that, too. “Jesus Christ.”
The woman staring back at me in the mirror looked like she’d survived a bar fight and lost.
My dark hair stuck out in weird directions around the bandage hidden near the back of my head, and there were faint shadows beneath my eyes from stress and exhaustion.
I normally wasn’t some super polished person, but I at least tried to look like I hadn’t crawled out of a dumpster behind a gas station.
Right now? Dumpster chic.
“Fantastic,” I muttered. I opened the medicine cabinet hopeful, but there was nothing.
I leaned heavily against the sink and sighed. No toothbrush, clean clothes, or makeup. Not that makeup mattered right now, but still.
Everything I owned sat back at the motel while I apparently played house arrest with bikers. The thought should’ve freaked me out more than it did. Instead, weirdly enough, I mostly just felt annoyed.
A knock sounded against the bedroom door. “McKayla?” Push.
I don’t know why my stomach did a weird little flip at hearing his voice. Probably concussion symptoms. “Come in,” I called while turning on the faucet.
The bathroom door stayed open, and a second later his reflection appeared in the mirror as he leaned casually against the doorway. He was wearing fark jeans, a black T-shirt with tattoos disappearing beneath short sleeves, and messy dark hair like he’d run his hands through it recently.
Maybe it was because my brain was still fuzzy, but Push looked pretty damn good for a guy who’d found a dead body and kidnapped me twelve hours ago.
I met his eyes in the mirror. “Death and kidnapping suit you.”
A low chuckle rumbled out of him. “Didn’t know you were looking, Firecracker.”
I rolled my eyes immediately. “That nickname’s not growing on me.”
“Seems fitting.”
“For who? A cartoon?”
His mouth twitched slightly while he pushed away from the doorway and stepped farther into the room. “How’d you sleep?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard a little. “Good,” I admitted carefully. “Weirdly good.”
“Concussions’ll do that sometimes.”
“Pretty sure biker hostage situations aren’t supposed to improve sleep quality.”
“We’re not holding you hostage.”
I snorted softly while splashing water onto my face. “Right. Totally normal behavior.”
“You’re free to walk out that front door.”
I looked at him through the mirror again. “And then?”
His stare stayed steady. “Then someone follows you.”
“Ah. See? That part feels hostage-y.”
He huffed another quiet laugh.
I washed my face again before blindly reaching toward where I thought the towel was.
Instead of grabbing fabric, warm fingers brushed mine first. I blinked and looked up.
Push stood right beside me now, holding the towel out.
I hadn’t even heard him move.
The bathroom suddenly felt very small and very full of a six-foot-something tattooed biker.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“You’re welcome.”
I pressed the towel against my face mostly to avoid staring at him too obviously, because wow, up close in actual daylight?
Push was unfairly attractive.
Not polished, pretty, or clean-cut handsome, just rough in a way that looked very dangerous for common sense. He had dark eyes, a sharp jaw, a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken at least once, and tattoos.
So many tattoos.
The kind that disappeared beneath his shirt collar and wrapped around his forearms.
I lowered the towel slowly and found him still watching me. “I need my stuff if you plan on holding me hostage longer,” I informed him.
One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Yeah, we’ll go get your stuff.”
I narrowed my eyes. “No luck on being let go, huh?”
He shook his head once. “We’re not holding you hostage.”
I scoffed and tossed the towel at his chest. “Is this just a weird way bikers date?” The second the words left my mouth; I wanted to physically throw myself through the bathroom wall.
Oh my God. Why would I say that?
We were not flirting.
This was not flirting.
I didn’t flirt with men who carried dead bodies around haunted islands, even if they did look annoyingly good leaning against bathroom counters.
Push caught the towel easily, and for one horrifying second, I thought I saw amusement flicker deeper into his expression. “Pearl and Shay are making breakfast,” he said smoothly, like I hadn’t just verbally embarrassed myself. “We can head to the motel after.”
Thank God. I turned quickly and brushed past him out of the bathroom before my concussion allowed me to say anything else stupid. “Maybe after breakfast you guys can actually tell me everything you know about my sister.”
Push followed me into the bedroom while I shoved my feet into my shoes.
“We don’t know anything.”
I looked up immediately. “Was she here?”
He shrugged once. “We don’t know. We’ve been checking cameras, but we haven’t seen her.”
That made my stomach twist, because if Erin wasn’t caught on any cameras, that meant she was never there or whoever took her knew how to avoid surveillance. Neither option felt good.
“Maybe I can look at the footage,” I said. “And maybe you guys can tell me what the hell’s been going on around here.”
Push looked at me carefully. “You’re gonna have to take that up with Anchor.”
We headed into the hallway together. “Why can’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Because that’s club business.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt my concussion. “It’s my business if it has something to do with my sister.”
“We don’t know if she has anything to do with it.”
“That’s becoming everyone’s favorite sentence around here.”
We reached the common room just as Anchor stepped out from near the bar with a coffee mug in his hand. “Who has to do with what?” he asked.
I looked directly at him. “If my sister has something to do with your club business.”
Anchor’s gaze shifted toward Push immediately.
Not angry exactly, more assessing.
Push lifted both hands slightly. “I haven’t told her anything. She’s chomping at the bit to know more, and I told her I needed to run it by you first.”
That told me two things instantly.
One: Push took club rules seriously.
And two: He wasn’t about to break them for me.
Honestly? Good. If he had suddenly started spilling secrets because I smiled at him once in a bathroom mirror, I probably would’ve trusted him less.
Anchor looked back at me slowly, and wow, that man had a stare that could probably make grown criminals confess to tax fraud.
I actually straightened unconsciously beneath it, because unlike some people, Anchor didn’t strike me as someone who softened answers to make people feel better. He looked like the kind of man who gave ugly truths exactly the way they were.
“Uh…” I cleared my throat slightly. “Push said he’ll take me to get my stuff after breakfast. Maybe when we get back you can go over everything that’s been happening, and I can help?”
The room stayed quiet for a second. Anchor studied me hard enough that I started second-guessing the entire idea.
Then finally, he nodded once. “Okay.”
I blinked. Wait, that easy. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one surprised because Push glanced at him, too.
Anchor took another drink of coffee. “Might be good having somebody with your background tell us what you think.”
Well, that was either encouraging or deeply concerning. Probably both.
The smell hit me the second we walked farther into the clubhouse kitchen area.
Bacon, coffee, pancakes. Actual homemade food. My stomach betrayed me immediately with a loud growl.
Pearl looked up from the stove and smiled knowingly. “Perfect timing.”
Shay stood beside her flipping pancakes while Lost leaned against the counter drinking coffee.
“Morning,” Shay said brightly.
“Is it?” I muttered.
Push grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured coffee while Pearl pointed at me with a spatula. “You need food before you fall over again.”
“I have not fallen over that much.”
Push handed me coffee. “You walked into a couch.”
“That couch attacked me.”
Lost snorted into his mug.
I took a cautious sip of coffee and nearly moaned. Real coffee. Not motel lobby coffee that tasted vaguely like burnt dirt and regret. “This might be the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in weeks,” I admitted.
Pearl’s expression softened slightly. “Sit,” Pearl ordered gently. “Before Push decides carrying you around is a full-time job.”
Push leaned against the counter beside me and shrugged.
I looked between all of them while Pearl loaded plates with eggs, pancakes, and bacon.
It was bizarre. Absolutely bizarre, because this felt… normal. Comfortable even. Like I’d somehow stumbled into a giant dysfunctional family instead of a motorcycle club connected to a murder investigation.
That might’ve been the weirdest thing about Skull Island so far.
Pearl handed me a plate piled high enough to feed a linebacker.
“Oh wow,” I said honestly.
“You need food,” she replied. “You look skinny.”
“That’s because my recent diet mostly consisted of protein bars and gas station snacks.”
Shay grimaced. “That’s depressing.”
“It was efficient.”
“It was tragic,” Pearl corrected.
We moved toward the large table while the guys filtered in and out around the kitchen grabbing coffee and food.
Push sat beside me automatically. Not close enough to touch, just… close. Like he’d decided at some point during the night that keeping an eye on me was part of his job now.
I stabbed a piece of pancake with my fork and took a bite. I immediately reconsidered every bad thing I’d mentally said about this place. “Oh my God.”
Pearl looked pleased. “Good?”
“I might cry.”
“That’s the concussion talking,” Push muttered.
I pointed my fork at him. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
His mouth twitched again. There it was. That tiny, almost-smile he tried not to let happen.
The conversation drifted around me while everyone ate, but I found myself relaxing despite every instinct screaming not to.
The clubhouse was warm, and the food was good. People laughed easily around each other, and for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel alone.
I didn’t like how easy it was getting to breathe around these people. This place was getting too easy to settle into.
Not when Erin was still missing. Not when, somewhere on this island, someone was dumping bodies like they meant nothing.
I wrapped both hands around my coffee mug and looked down at the table quietly. No matter how comfortable this felt, I couldn’t forget why I was here.
I was going to find my sister one way or another.