Chapter 6 - Delilah
"...but I don't want to be alone right now," I finish, hating how small my voice sounds.
Hating how needy and pathetic and weak I must seem to this man who just killed someone to protect me, who drove through a high-speed chase without breaking a sweat, who handles crisis situations like other people handle grocery shopping.
I wait for him to make an excuse. To tell me I'll be fine, that I'm safe now, that I need to be braver than this. It's what my ex-boyfriends would've said, the few brief attempts at relationships I had before giving up entirely.
*You're being dramatic, Delilah. You're being too sensitive. You're being too much.*
Always too much. Too emotional. Too needy. Too fat. Too loud. Too soft. Too everything they didn't want.
But Graham doesn't say any of that.
He just nods and says, "Okay."
"Okay?" I repeat, certain I misheard.
"Yeah. I'll stay until you fall asleep." He stands and moves to the chair near the window, settling into it. No wasted motion. No fuss. "Lie down. Try to rest. I'll be right here."
I should argue. Should tell him he doesn't have to babysit me, that I'm a grown woman who should be able to handle sleeping alone in a locked room after a traumatic day. Should demonstrate some shred of the independence I used to pride myself on before my life imploded.
Instead, I just whisper "thank you" and climb under the covers fully clothed because the idea of changing into pajamas requires more energy than I currently possess.
The pillow is soft. The comforter is heavy in that comforting way good blankets are. The room is quiet except for the distant sound of voices from downstairs and Graham's steady breathing from the chair.
I close my eyes.
Immediately see Marcus Vale's face. The snake tattoo. The gun pressed to David's temple.
My eyes snap open.
"Can't sleep?" Graham asks.
"It happened again. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. The murder. Today. All of it just playing on loop." I pull the comforter up to my chin even though I'm not cold. "How do you make it stop?"
"You don't. Not at first. Eventually your brain processes it enough that the images lose their power. But that takes time."
"How much time?"
"Depends on the person. For me, after Afghanistan, it took months before I could sleep through the night without seeing my friend step on that IED."
I turn my head on the pillow to look at him. He's still sitting in the chair, relaxed but alert, watching me with those beautiful hazel eyes that seem to see everything.
"You mentioned that earlier," I say. "In the car. That you lost someone because you didn't see the IED in time."
"Yeah. Corporal James Mitchell. Good man. Better friend. We were on patrol in Kandahar Province. I was on point, checking for threats. Walked right past an IED buried in the road. Didn't see it. He stepped on it three seconds later."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." He's quiet for a moment. "After that, I became obsessed with seeing threats before they arrived. Mapping every possible danger. Planning three moves ahead. It's why I'm good at tactics now. I learned to see patterns, to anticipate, to never miss what's right in front of me again."
"Is that why you joined the MC?" I ask. "To keep protecting people?"
"Partly. I left the military after my contract ended.
Didn't want to re-up even though they offered.
Spent six months doing private security work, but it felt empty.
Just protecting rich people's stuff for paychecks.
No purpose to it." He shifts in the chair, getting more comfortable.
"Then I ran into Judge at a bar. We'd crossed paths during our service.
Different units, but we knew some of the same people.
Started talking. He told me about the Iron Phoenix.
About what Phoenix was trying to build."
"Which was what?"
"A club that actually means something. That protects people who need protecting, not because they can pay but because it's right. Phoenix founded it after leaving the Vipers MC when they went corrupt. He barely escaped with his life, and he wanted to build something different. Something honorable."
I digest that information slowly. "So, you joined to have purpose again."
"Yeah. And to be part of something that felt like family. The military was family for a decade. When I left, I didn't have that anymore. Judge offered me a place where I could belong. Where my skills mattered for more than just a paycheck."
"Your sister," I say, remembering fragments of conversation from earlier. "Quinn. Judge mentioned her when he talked to me at the intersection. She's your family too."
"Yeah. Quinn's my younger sister. Raised her, mostly, after our father decided being a parent was too much work and being a drunk was easier."
"I'm sorry. That must've been hard."
"It was what it was. Our father believed the military would fix us, turn us into the disciplined soldiers he'd failed to become himself. So, he pushed us both into enlisting. Used his belt to reinforce the point when we weren't enthusiastic enough about the idea."
The casual way he says it, like he's describing the weather instead of abuse, makes my chest hurt.
"Quinn joined too?" I ask.
"Yes, then got out and spent a few years figuring out what she wanted to do. Now she's working as a kind of live-in protection specialist for Dean, one of our brothers. He has a five-year-old daughter, Mariah. Quinn lives with them and keeps Mariah safe."
"That's sweet," I say. And then, because I can't help myself: "Are they together? Dean and Quinn?"
"Yeah. Happened fast, within a couple days of her arriving to babysit. But that's how it works around here, apparently. The brothers meet their women and just... know."
There's something in his voice. Not quite skepticism, but close to it. Like he's observed this pattern repeatedly but doesn't fully understand it.
"You don't believe in that?" I ask. "Love at first sight or whatever?"
"I believe in tactical decisions based on available information.
I believe in compatibility, shared values, mutual respect.
I don't believe in magic." He pauses. "But I've watched Phoenix with Ivy, Judge with Nora, Canvas with Eden, Brick with Rosie, Dean with Quinn.
I've seen Echo with Hannah. And whatever it is they have, it's real.
So maybe I just don't understand it yet. "
"Yet implies you think you will eventually."
"I think I'm open to being proven wrong. That's about as close to belief as I get."
I almost smile at that. Almost. The exhaustion is creeping back in, making my eyelids heavy despite the fear of closing them.
"What about your family?" Graham asks. "Besides whatever brought you to witness a murder and end up running from bikers."
"There's not much to tell," I say quietly. "My mom raised me alone. Never knew my father. He left before I was born. Mom worked two jobs to keep us fed and housed. She died two years ago. Cancer. After that, it was just me."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too. She was... she was everything. My whole world.
When she died, I buried myself in work because it was easier than dealing with the grief.
Took the accounting job at the shipping company because it paid well and kept me too busy to think.
" I pull the comforter tighter. "Turns out the shipping company was a front for money laundering.
I didn't know that when I took the job. Just thought I was processing legitimate invoices and payroll. "
"When did you find out otherwise?"
"About six months in. Started noticing discrepancies.
Payments that didn't match up with deliveries.
Cash deposits that came from shell corporations.
I flagged it to my supervisor, thought maybe it was errors I should help correct.
" I laugh bitterly. "He told me to mind my own business.
Said the discrepancies were above my pay grade. "
"But you didn't mind your own business."
"No. I'm an accountant. Numbers are supposed to make sense.
When they don't, that means something's wrong.
So, I started tracking the patterns on my own time.
Built a spreadsheet documenting every suspicious transaction.
I was going to take it to the authorities eventually, just wanted to make sure I had enough evidence first."
"What happened?"
"I stayed late one night to finish reconciling a particularly messy batch of invoices.
Heard shouting from the supply closet. Went to investigate…
Stupid, I know, but I thought maybe someone was hurt.
Found the door cracked open. Looked through the gap and saw...
" I close my eyes, but this time the memory is softer.
More distant. Like I'm describing something that happened to someone else.
"Saw Marcus Vale and two other men holding David Miller down while Vale pressed a gun to his head.
Heard David begging. Heard Vale say he was being made an example of for skimming from the Vipers. Heard the gunshot."
Graham is very still in the chair. Listening with that complete attention that makes you feel heard in a way most people never achieve.
"I ran," I continue. "Grabbed my purse and my spreadsheet and ran to my car.
Drove straight to the police station. Told them everything, and gave them the spreadsheet.
Gave them names and dates and every detail I could remember.
" I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling.
"The detective I talked to seemed sympathetic.
Said they'd investigate. Said they'd keep me safe.
Two days later, someone broke into my apartment.
I wasn't there. I'd been staying at a hotel because I was too scared to go home.
But they trashed the place, and left a note that said 'witnesses don't live long. '"
"That's when you ran."
"That's when I ran. Called the detective.
Got voicemail. Called again. Got voicemail again.
Finally called the main police number and asked to speak to someone else.
Got transferred three times before someone told me that detective had taken sudden leave for 'personal reasons.
' That's when I knew, the Vipers had people in the police.
The detective who took my statement had probably called them the second I left. "
"So, you went into hiding on your own."
"Withdrew cash. Called the FBI, and a guy told me to wait in that motel.
I ditched my phone and took a bus to that terrible motel and paid in cash for a week.
Thought if I could just stay hidden long enough, maybe they'd forget about me.
Maybe they'd decide I wasn't worth the trouble.
Or things would be quickly solved." I laugh again, the sound hollow.
"That was stupid. Of course they wouldn't forget.
I could testify. Put Marcus and the rest away for murder.
Expose their money laundering operation.
I was a loose end, and they don't leave loose ends untied. "
"You did everything right," Graham says. "Everything a smart, capable person would do when the system fails them. You survived. That's what matters."
"I survived because you came to get me. If you hadn't shown up when you did—"
"But I did show up. And you're safe now. Protected by nine bikers who are very good at violence and very committed to keeping you alive."
"Why?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
"Why are you all committed to keeping me alive?
You said it's strategic, but that doesn't explain...
this." I gesture vaguely at him sitting in a chair watching over me.
"Staying with me until I fall asleep. Answering my questions.
Treating me like I matter instead of like I'm just an asset or a complication. "
He's quiet for a long moment, and I think maybe I've pushed too far. Asked for explanations he doesn't have or doesn't want to give.
"Because you do matter. Not because of what you can testify to, or what intel you might have. You matter because you're a person who tried to do the right thing and got hurt for it. That's the kind of person we protect. It's the whole point of this club."
"The whole point of this club is protecting accountants who witness murders?"
"The whole point of this club is protecting people who can't protect themselves.
Women running from abusive exes. Kids who need safety.
Witnesses who get abandoned by the system that's supposed to help them.
Anyone who needs it and deserves it." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
"Every brother here joined because we believe in that mission. "
"Even though it's dangerous."
"Especially because it's dangerous. The things worth doing usually are."
I let that sink in, rolling it around in my exhausted brain. "Why Ranger? I assume it's not just because you were an Army Ranger."
He almost smiles. "No. Though that's part of it. Phoenix gave me the name after I'd been around for a few months. Said I operated like a ranger in the tactical sense: always ranging ahead, scouting threats, mapping terrain. Seeing what's coming before anyone else does."
"That fits. You do seem to see everything three steps ahead."
"It's how I'm wired now. Can't turn it off even when I want to."
"Do you want to? Turn it off?"
He considers the question seriously. "Sometimes.
When the constant threat assessment gets exhausting.
When I'd like to just exist without calculating exit routes and defensive positions everywhere I go.
But mostly, no. It kept me alive in Afghanistan.
Keeps people safe now. I'll take exhaustion over losing someone I could've protected. "