3. Psycho
Chapter three
Psycho
“Go home, Psycho,” Pretty Boy said. “Get some rest.”
I drained the bitter dregs of my coffee—my third cup in the past hour. After my shift at the garage was over, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for hours.
But Huxley and The Filthy Rebels probably wanted my head on a spike. And home…well, home would be too quiet. Too lonely.
The clubhouse was a welcome distraction, with bikers coming and going around the clock.
A pleasant hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by laughter, and the clink of whiskey glasses and beer bottles.
The main room buzzed with activity, and it kept me grounded in the here and now, instead of drifting off into the flashbacks and dissociation of my mind.
“I’m fine,” I said, setting my empty mug on the bar.
Pretty Boy frowned.
“You’re chugging coffee at eight o’clock at night, but you can barely keep your eyes open.”
I shrugged.
“It’s been a long day.”
He surveyed me for a moment with an assessing look. Then he propped his elbows on the bar and leaned in, lowering his voice.
"Is there something we need to talk about?"
I fiddled with my mug, turning it around and around. For the most part, I knew it wasn't my fault that I had post traumatic stress disorder. And I knew I wasn't to blame for the struggles that came with it.
But I still didn't like talking about it.
After riding with these men and living alongside them for eight years, I trusted them with my life. They didn't care about my past as long as I showed up to watch a brother's back when he called for help.
They knew…a few things about the state of my mental health.
They knew about my brief stay in a psychiatric hospital in my early twenties, where I ran into Bobbie again after leaving foster care.
They knew about my nightmares, when I was asleep in a back room of the clubhouse and it took four men to wake me up while I fought against them like a rabid dog.
Sometimes, it seemed as if I walked a thin line between sanity and madness and it was difficult putting that into words.
"I'm just battling some personal demons, Prez."
Pretty Boy’s eyes narrowed with a skeptical look. He rapped his knuckles against the bar.
“Well, Hillbilly’s snitch reached out. She has some information we can use on Huxley’s whereabouts and we’re meeting within the hour.”
A jolt shot up my spine and I rose to my feet.
“I’m coming with you.”
Pretty Boy gave a lazy flick of his wrist.
“Sit your ass down. You’re staying here.”
“But this is my fight—”
“This is our fight, not yours.” He bumped his fist against the patches on my chest. “As a member of this club, a threat to you is a threat to all of us. You aren't going anywhere until you sort out your shit and get your head on straight anyway. It's nothing personal," he added apologetically.
I clamped my mouth shut, seething. Arguing with the President would only dig my grave deeper. He gave an order, and I was expected to follow it. End of story.
“Bruiser can babysit you,” Pretty Boy added with a smirk.
I groaned.
“Come on. Don’t do that to me.”
Bruiser spoke up from a table in the corner, with a club bunny snuggled under his arm.
“You sent those grimy little gremlins after me earlier. And now it's my turn to get you back. Pick your poison—old-school swirly? Or a classic wedgie?”
“You’re a goddamn child,” I said.
He chuckled.
Resentment burned in the back of my throat as I watched Pretty Boy leave. I should be going with him. I hated just waiting around, doing nothing.
A few years ago, The Filthy Rebels had planned a grab for our territory. Hillbilly’s snitch warned us in advance, giving us a chance to prepare, so we weren’t caught off guard and blindsided.
I didn’t know her name, or what she looked like. She maintained minimal contact with the club, and for a while, she didn’t speak to anyone else except Hillbilly.
But if she had information, I wanted to hear it first hand.
I scrubbed at a pockmark in the bar’s countertop with my thumb as an idea began to take shape. Bruiser whispered something in the club bunny’s ear. She giggled, sneaking her hand up his shirt.
He wasn’t paying any attention to me.
Holding my breath, I slid behind the bar, moving toward the kitchen, where I could easily slip into the alley, undetected.
Bruiser didn’t glance in my direction. Not even once.
A motorcycle roared outside, signaling Pretty Boy's departure. If I intended to follow him, I had to move. Now.
Just as I reached for the kitchen door—so close to freedom—a giant hand grabbed the back of my neck.
“How stupid do you think I am?” Bruiser growled.
I snorted.
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
“Very funny, smartass.”
I shrugged off his grip and turned to face him.
“What would you do if you were in my shoes?”
Bruiser grunted and crossed his arms.
“If I was in your shoes, the bastard who stabbed me would be dead. You were too soft on him.”
I spread my hands with exasperation.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Pointing out the mistake I made years ago?”
“Nope,” Bruiser said flatly. “But I don’t really give a fuck about your feelings. You should have figured that out by now.”
I sighed and rubbed my forehead. My temples were still throbbing with exhaustion. I closed my eyes, willing myself to think clearly.
“Well?” Bruiser prompted. “Are we going or not?”
I opened my eyes, blinking at him with confusion.
“You just said—”
“Prez gave an order,” Bruiser said. “And I’m the Enforcer. It’s my job to make sure people do what he says.”
“But…?” I prompted.
He shrugged his massive shoulders.
“But I like the thought of holding this over your head. And Pretty Boy wants someone watching your tail morning, noon, and night. So, I can’t let you ride off alone.”
“Ah. I should have known there was a catch in the fine print somewhere.”
It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but beggars can’t be choosers. Meanwhile, I was wasting time standing here chit-chatting.
“Okay,” I relented. “Let’s go.”
Two minutes later, Bruiser and I were on the road, following the red glow of Pretty Boy’s taillight in the dark. At the outskirts of town, he turned onto a gravel road that disappeared into the mountains. I shut off my headlight, so I wouldn’t give away my position. Bruiser did the same.
In the distance, just above the treeline, I spotted the looming silhouette of the old water tower. Retired from use over fifty years ago, it was abandoned now, and nothing more than a rusty hunk of junk, overgrown with weeds, and smothered in grasping vines.
Isolated in the forest, it was the ideal place for a private meeting. There would be no one to interrupt. And it would be damn difficult to follow Pretty Boy up there without getting spotted.
Bruiser and I parked our bikes in the trees, hiding them from view of the road. We continued on foot, with only the half moon’s light to guide us.
Then Bruiser shouldered me into the underbrush and pointed in the distance.
The glare of Pretty’s Boy headlight cut a blinding swath through the trees, rendering the trunks pale and ghostly. He knocked three times on one of the water tower’s deteriorating legs with a hollow, metallic ringing that echoed in the woods.
After a few minutes passed, a woman emerged, with striking red hair the color of a wildfire, and familiar honey-brown eyes that I haven’t seen in years.
Recognition slammed into me.
“Bobbie,” I rasped.
My mind whirled with a thousand questions. What was she doing in Juniper Creek? Why was she mixed up in club business? Did Pretty Boy put her up to this?
Bobbie lingered at the forest’s edge, like a rabbit or a deer ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. She was practically drowning in layers of baggy clothes that hid her frame. Taking a few steps forward, she passed a white envelope to Pretty Boy.
“Huxley was spotted at a gas station in town,” she said. “And he’s using an alias. So he’s still lurking around.”
My heart lurched at the sound of her voice.
I used to spend hours just listening to her talk about everything that crossed her mind while she distracted me from my nightmares and my insomnia.
She would curl up beside me in bed, intertwining our fingers together, and the soft warmth of her presence never failed to soothe the noise in my mind.
“Has he contacted his club?” Pretty Boy asked.
Bobbie shrugged.
“I don’t know. But I can’t give you boys all the answers. If The Filthy Rebels find out that I’m helping you, it’s my neck on the chopping block.”
“We can protect you,” Pretty Boy offered.
Bobbie glanced away and fiddled with her jacket sleeves, tugging them down over her hands. Before she could respond, a wolf howled in the distance. She flinched, skittish.
I hated seeing her spooked. I hated that she was involved in any of this. She could get hurt. And if The Filthy Rebels found out that she was the one feeding intel to us, they would hunt her down to shut her up.
Bobbie took a step back, retreating toward the trees.
I couldn’t let her slip through my fingers—not again. Without thinking, I barged through the underbrush. Bruiser swore, but I dodged out of reach when he tried to grab me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed.
Ignoring him, I stepped out of the forest. Pretty Boy growled at the sight of me. Bobbie’s eyes widened and she went white as a sheet.
“Hi, Bobbie,” I said.
She swayed forward on her toes, muscles braced to bolt. Her gaze flicked to Pretty Boy.
“I thought I was crystal clear. You were supposed to come alone.”
“That was the plan,” Pretty Boy said through his teeth. He moved toward me with a threatening glare. I screwed up—big time—and he was going to rip me a new one.
But I skirted around him, keeping my gaze locked on Bobbie. I didn’t want to risk looking away, even for a moment. She might vanish, like a ghost, and I’d never see her again.
“How long have you been in town?” I asked.
Bobbie shifted from foot to foot restlessly, plucking at the frayed cuff of her denim jacket. It was huge on her—probably a men’s size—with a rainbow of haphazard patches in the worn-out elbows.
“A while,” she hedged.
That wasn’t a definitive answer, and her caginess suggested she wanted to escape this conversation as quickly as possible.
“Bobbie,” I said softly. “It’s me. Arrow.”
She chewed her thumbnail.
“I know,” she whispered.
This was…confusing. And not the way she usually greeted me. She used to run into my arms, popping up on her toes to kiss my cheek while she chirped, there you are, my future husband, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.
But this was lukewarm at best.
Maybe Bobbie had moved on. Maybe she was in love with someone else.
I held out my hand as an invitation. Bobbie glanced at my upturned palm and gingerly traced the scar there. Her touch felt like butterfly wings.
Then her fingers strayed higher, to my wrist, grazing the cuff of tattoo ink. A lock of red hair brushed her cheek, and I resisted the urge to tuck it behind her ear. Or to thread my fingers into her hair, pulling her close.
Our breath frosted in the air, but the desire that vibrated between us was as hot as a fiery coal.
“What the hell are you doing here, Bobbie?” I said softly, my voice edged with concern.
The corner of her mouth twitched with a wry smile that didn’t meet her eyes.
“Hiding,” she said.
The pang of that one word made it hard to breathe.
“Hiding? From what?”
“Everything,” she replied. “Look, it’s a long story, and I’m getting cold—”
“Then come home with me,” I cut in. “Spend the night. We can talk. We can catch up. We can…”
I trailed off, floundering in my desperation to prevent her from running away again. Hell, I’d give her the moon if that’s what it took to convince her to stay.
“If I spend the night,” Bobbie said. “We would not be talking and you know it.”
I could practically feel Pretty Boy’s gaze drilling holes in my back, watching. Lowering my voice, I stepped closer to Bobbie, eliminating what little distance there was between us.
“Why do you think I made the offer?”
Bobbie’s throat worked as she swallowed. After what felt like a lifetime of deliberation, she fully placed her palm in mine, and I took her hand, lacing our fingers together.