12. Whitney
WHITNEY
Ispend the entire drive questioning every decision that has led me to this moment: a child asleep in the backseat of a biker’s pickup truck, me beside him, and we’re headed to a motorcycle clubhouse in the middle of the night.
Okay, not quite the middle of the night, but it might as well be for as nervous I am.
If someone had described this scenario to me a week ago, I would have suggested they go to the hospital to get their head checked.
Melissa falls asleep fifteen minutes into the drive, the whole ordeal catching up to her and manifesting as exhaustion. When we first started to pull away from Sacred Haven, she was clutching my hand. Now she’s curled up with her head in my lap, and I’m absently running my fingers through her hair.
Before I know it, we’re pulling into a parking lot in the middle of nowhere, and a spike of fear tingles my spine.
“I thought we were going to your clubhouse,” I say.
“Relax,” Quake encourages. “This is the clubhouse. It’s an old airplane hangar.”
“Oh.”
“You were expecting a house,” he says matter-of-factly, and I nod. “Trust me, this is way better.”
Trust me.
It’s a simple enough statement, and I suppose I do trust him. Why else would I have agreed to this ridiculous plan?
Quake parks his truck at the end of a long row of motorcycles, and the moment he opens his door, music from inside the clubhouse filters to my ears. It’s loud, as are the voices coming with it.
“Stay there,” he says. “I’ll get her.”
He shuts his door, not letting it slam so he doesn’t wake her. A moment later, he’s pulling open the passenger door.
“You don’t have to get her,” I say.
His expression tells me just how stupid he thinks my statement is. “I know. But I will anyway.”
He gently lifts Melissa into his arms, and she barely stirs other than to rest her head against his chest.
What I wouldn’t give to be there right now.
And it’s that kind of thinking that makes this a terrible idea.
“You okay?” Quake asks when I make no move to get out of the truck.
“Oh, um…” I slide across the seat and hop to the pavement. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
I follow him inside and nearly lose my ability to form coherent thoughts.
Dear Lord, where are we?
Women are everywhere. Beautiful women who are scantily-dressed as if they’ve committed to wearing as little clothing as possible.
I stare. I can’t help it. I tell myself to look away, but my eyes don’t listen. I’m so shocked that I run straight into Quake’s back when he stops walking.
He glances over his shoulder at me and grins. “You’re staring.”
“I am not,” I lie.
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“You mean scandalized,” he corrects.
“I mean…” Words he spoke to me when we first met have me pausing.
I’m a biker, and you’re a nun. Those are just facts. I don’t expect you to change who you are, so don’t expect it of me.
I sigh. “Yes, I’m scandalized.”
Quake laughs, and it’s the first real laugh I’ve heard from him tonight. Not surprising under the circumstances, but it’s nice to hear.
“Who’s the nun?”
Quake and I look toward the voice, and my eyes widen at the woman approaching.
She’s one of the least dressed ladies here, not that there’s anything ladylike about her.
The black tank top she’s wearing ends just under breasts, which I can see the underside of at the hem.
It’s cut so low that I can also see the tops of her areolas.
Without thinking, I lower my stare and almost choke on my own spit when I see that she’s not even wearing pants. Nope, the purple underwear, if they can even be called that, leave little to the imagination. And the matching heels on her feet are the icing on the very slutty cake.
“Judge not, lest ye be judged,” I whisper.
“What was that?” Quake asks.
“Nothing,” I blurt. Then, remembering my manners, I thrust a hand out to the woman. “I’m Sister Emiliani. It’s nice to meet you…”
“Glitz,” she supplies and then drops her voice conspiratorily. “Do I have to call you Sister Emiliani? I’m not religious or anything.”
The question is so out of left field that I snort a laugh and shake my head. “No. You, um, can call me Whitney.”
She smiles, which puts me at ease. “Hi, Whitney.”
“Hello.”
Glitz tips her head to look up at Quake. “I got your suite ready for your company. And I’ll be around all night if any of you need anything.”
“You were in my suite?” Quake asks, his tone suddenly dangerous.
“Well, yeah,” she retorts. “When Sister Beatrice called and told Lyric about our guests, he asked me to make sure your sheets were clean.” His cheeks become ruddy, and she laughs. “He also had me get any toiletries the two of them might need, and I restocked your minifridge."
“Oh, thanks,” he says.
“No problem.” Glitz bounces on her heels. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
I release a breath. “This place is ridiculous.”
"It grows on you."
"I sincerely hope not."
He grins before leading me through several hallways until we reach a private section of the building.
Finally, we reach a door, and he presses his palm against a metal contraption on the wall that lights up.
A second later, the soft snick of a lock disengaging reaches my ears, and the door slides open.
“Wow,” I say, stepping inside his suite.
It’s not what I expected. I pictured concrete walls, motorcycle parts, a mattress on the floor, and junk strewn about. Instead, the space is large, neat, and oddly comforting. It isn’t luxurious or anything, just lived-in, normal.
The suite is divided into areas: a sitting area on one side, a bedroom on the other. I can see straight through to what looks like a pretty big bathroom, and there’s also a desk in one corner, a kitchenette in the other.
The surprises just keep coming.
Quake carries Melissa to the bed and settles her onto the mattress. She doesn’t wake. I sit with her for a few minutes, wanting to be sure she stays asleep, and when I’m sure she will, I rise and turn to take in the rest of the space.
“What’re you doing?” I ask as Quake is pulling a blanket off the couch.
“Making a bed.”
"On the couch?"
"No."
He tosses the blanket onto the floor, and my eyes widen.
"Absolutely not,” I say, striding toward him.
“What?” he asks, confusion in his tone.
“You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
“Why?”
I settle my hands on my hips. “You agreed to bring us here so Melissa feels safe. Her feeling safe doesn’t require you to give up your own comfort.” I glance around the room. “I’ll move Melissa to the couch since she’s the smallest, and I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yeah, no,” he says. “You and Melissa need to get some sleep.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’ll sleep… on the floor.” He toes off his boots and kicks them to the side. “I’ll survive.”
“Quake.”
“Whitney,” he counters, his tone mirroring mine perfectly.
We stare at each other, neither of us willing to back down. After a few minutes, I realize arguing with him is as pointless as arguing with God, and my shoulders slump.
Taking that as my acceptance, he spreads the blanket out and retrieves a throw pillow from the couch.
“I’m going to go grab your bags,” he says on his way to the door.
“Without your shoes?”
He grins. “Do you ever get tired of that?”
“What?”
“Worrying about everything?”
I bend to pick up the pillow and chuck it at his head which only causes him to laugh as he walks out of the room.
“Thank you!” I shout after him.
Of course, I don’t get a response. While he’s gone, I go in search of more blankets, finding 2 in the closet. I also grab one of the extra pillows from the bed. As I’m adding these to the makeshift bed he made on the floor, he returns.
“You’re welcome,” he says as he sets mine and Melissa’s bags at the foot of the bed.
“What?”
“I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring your ‘thank you’ so… you’re welcome.” He glances at the floor where he intends to sleep. “What’d you do?”
“If you insist on sleeping down there, I’m at least going to make sure you’re as comfortable as you can be.”
His expression shifts, softens. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Five minutes later, I crawl into bed. An hour after that, I’m still wide awake and staring at the ceiling. I have too many questions, too many unknowns, not the least of which is what happened to Melissa.
From his pallet on the floor, Quake snores, and I find the sound oddly reassuring. I roll over, curling my arm under my head, and eventually drift off to sleep.
I wake to voices I don’t recognize, and an impressive, slightly concerning, amount of cursing fills the room. I bolt upright and glance at Melissa, who’s still asleep. Then I crane my neck to see that Quake is not. The bed on the floor is empty.
Stretching my arms above my head, I listen for noises, and a moment later, Quake walks into my line of sight with coffee.
“Morning,” he says, handing me a cup.
I take a tentative sip of the brew, careful not to burn myself. When I lower it, the voices grow louder.
“Why are they yelling?” I ask, not even knowing who I’m referring to.
“They’re not.”
“They definitely are.”
“Nope.” He takes a sip from his mug. “They’re conversing.”
“Motherfucker! I’m gonna sic the lions on you if you do that again!”
I arch a brow at the crystal clear shout. “Conversing, huh?”
“Yep, listen.”
We both grow silent, but the yelling continues. Mixed in with the profanity and threats is the soft laughter of a woman.
“Who’s laughing at that?” I ask incredulously.
“That would be Lucy,” Quake says. “She’s married to Zombie, our VP. Pilot is the other guy you hear. If I’m understanding correctly, Pilot walked into Zombie and Lucy’s suite uninvited and found them in a… compromising position.”
“A comp…” His meaning registers. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“And that means Zombie’s going to feed Pilot to lions?”
“Of course not,” he counters. “He’s just trying to make a point. Although…”
“What?” I ask when he doesn’t continue.
Quake rubs his jaw, hesitating to answer. “Okay, so, just how much truth do you want here? Because I don’t want to scare you away, but I also don’t want to lie to you.”