Chapter 4
I wander the clubhouse, looking for Legion. But apparently, he’s a ghost. Because he’s definitely not here. Inside the bar it’s just Brandy, and Lord help me, if I have to talk about those pictures right now I might actually scream.
“Have you seen Legion?”
That’s all I say. That’s all I care about.
But of course she turns around with her whole face braced for war. “It wasn’t me.”
I blink. “What?”
“The videos. Everyone’s saying I leaked ‘em.” She sets down a bottle. “I didn’t. I’d never do that to the club.”
I let out a breath and wave a hand because no. Just… no. “I don’t care, Brandy.” I mean it. “Have you seen Legion or not?”
“Nope.” Then she turns back around like we never spoke.
And that’s it. That’s the end of that conversation.
I continue my aimless searching and find myself in a hallway I’ve never seen before, which, honestly, could describe this whole damn place.
The doors don’t have signs. The lights flicker like they’re just as tired as I am. And of course I have no idea where I came from. Directionally challenged in an outlaw compound. Super smart.
But whatever. I’ll grid search the place if I have to. Room by room. Building by building. How hard can it be to find one six-foot-two tattooed man in a place where everyone is six-foot-something and tattooed?
When I come to a door, I push it open without knocking. The room is bright, sterile. Chains is hunched over someone’s arm, needle buzzing like a fly trapped in a jar. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even pause.
There’s a woman sitting near the wall. She sees me. Immediately. Like she was waiting for me to walk in.
And yeah—I remember her. The ceremony. The bullet.
“Thanks,” I say, fingers brushing the necklace she gave me like it means something. Like I’ve figured it out.
She shrugs. “Time to let go.”
Cool. Vague wisdom from the woman with the haunted eyes. Great.
“I’m Savannah,” I say, because I don’t know what else to do. “You know that already, but—”
“You want my name.”
“Well, that’s usually how it works.”
She almost smiles. Not quite. “Haven’t seen him.”
Flat. Final. No curiosity. No warmth. The needle buzzes. Chains doesn’t react.
I keep going anyway. “He’s not in the clubhouse.”
She shifts. Just slightly. Looks down at the ink. Watches the machine instead of me.
And I get it. That’s the answer.
I turn to go.
But then—behind me—“Lita.”
That’s all she says. Just the name. No explanation. No tone.
That’s all I get. But I smile anyway.
Not for her. For me.
Because I walked into that room still hoping someone might help. And I’m not making that mistake twice.
Outside, I let out a breath as I walk, wondering where else I could look.
My new-to-me boots crunch on the gravel as I head toward the row of buildings near the fence line, no real plan in mind.
Just walking like I’ve got somewhere to be.
It’s either that or stand still and look confused, and I’m not handing that win to anyone.
One of the doors up ahead stands out—heavy, reinforced. I walk up to it, curious, and come face to face with a guy with a shaved head, the woman who gave me the handkerchief, and the very specific smell of gun oil and steel.
The man is sorting magazines into crates with the kind of precision I've only seen in military movies. His hands move with automated efficiency, like he's done this ten thousand times.
The handkerchief woman stands beside him, pen scratching across a clipboard. She's checking things off a list, murmuring numbers that the man confirms with single-syllable grunts.
These two people are a lesson in contradictions, a study in contrasts that makes me wonder how they even inhabit the same universe, let alone the same relationship.
The woman’s got this vintage thing going—cardigan, manicured hands, fresh, clean-girl face. Meanwhile the guy looks like he was forged in a machine shop and never came out. It shouldn’t make sense. But somehow it does. Like a Sunday picnic where the potato salad is laced with C4.
I wait at the threshold for a beat, not wanting to startle anyone in the vicinity of automatic weapons. The woman notices me first. She smiles—an actual smile with actual warmth. It's so unexpected I almost take a step back.
"Excuse me," I say, using my polite voice. "I'm looking for Legion."
The man doesn't look up. "No."
That's it. Just... no. No inflection. No eye contact. Nothing.
The woman beside him sighs and puts down her clipboard. "Don't mind Havoc. He's just focused. I'm June."
She doesn't look anything like the other women here. No leather, no hard edges. She looks... house-wife-y. Like she wandered into the wrong building.
"Savannah," I say, though she obviously knows that.
"We haven't seen Legion," June says, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "But Havoc and I were just talking and we decided that the two of you should come to dinner tonight. Our place isn’t far. The kids would love to meet you."
The man, Havoc, apparently, straightens up—all six-foot-whatever of him—and stares at me. Doesn't say anything. Just looks.
I feel my throat go dry. There's something in his gaze—not hostile, exactly. More like he's measuring me for a coffin.
"I'd love to," I say, plastering on my best Ashby smile. The kind of yes I was raised to give, even when I have no idea what I was agreeing to.
June beams. "Wonderful! Havoc makes the best ribs you've ever tasted."
I nod, backing toward the door. I need to find Legion before I accidentally commit to any more social engagements with people who could probably kill me seventeen different ways.
As I turn to leave, Havoc calls, "Dinner's at seven sharp." His voice is low and mean. "Tell Legion if my kids can be at the table on time, so can he."
I smile again—practiced for just such an occasion. Fish-out-of-water meets man-who-could-disappear-me-and-still-make-it-home-for-bedtime-stories. And then quickly leave.
Outside, the sound of gunfire cuts through the air. Not random shots but a controlled rhythm—three quick bursts, then silence, then three more. I follow it like a beacon.
The shooting range sits at the edge of the property, half-hidden behind a row of shrubs. It's crude but functional—a dirt berm, paper targets pinned to metal stands, brass casings scattered across packed earth.
Two young men stand side by side, firing at human-shaped targets. They look younger than the rest of the men I've interacted with so far. A larger man stands behind them, arms crossed over his chest like a disappointed father.
There's not a single woman here. No buffer, no translator between worlds. Just men with guns.
I hesitate at the edge of the range, feeling the weight of the man's gaze shift to me. He doesn't smile, or nod, or acknowledge me in any way. Just watches, waiting to see what I'll do.
But on his vest—cut, whatever they call it—is a handy little name-tag patch. Butch, it reads.
Feeling stupidly brave, I step directly into Butch's line of sight, close enough that he can't ignore me, but far enough that I'm not interfering with whatever lesson he's teaching.
"Excuse me," I say, my voice steady despite the guns. "I'm looking for Legion."
Butch's face remains impassive. He's older—fifty maybe, with lines carved deep around his eyes. His arms stay crossed, fingers tapping against his bicep like he's counting something only he can hear.
"Haven't seen him," he says, finally. His voice is surprisingly quiet, forcing me to lean in slightly to hear him over the ringing in my ears from the gunfire.
I start to turn away when he speaks again.
"You wearing that ink or is it wearing you?"
I stop, my hand instinctively covering the scabbing on my wrist.
"You're not the first pretty girl to get a man's name put on her skin," he continues. "Won't be the last. Question is—you get it because you want everyone to know who you belong to, or because you're trying to convince yourself?"
The younger men have stopped firing, pretending to reload while they eavesdrop. I don't say anything back to Butch. Mostly because his question was quite deep and layered and I'm not sure how to answer.
Which, now that I think about it, was probably the point.
Butch holds my gaze for three more seconds, then nods once and turns back to his students.
"Again," he tells them. "And this time, breathe through it."
I walk away, the sound of renewed gunfire following me across the compound.
I head toward the garage next—a massive steel building with its bay doors thrown open. The noise hits me before I even cross the threshold: metal on metal, engines revving, air compressors hissing.
Inside, the space is cavernous. Motorcycles in various states of repair line the concrete floor. Some are gleaming beasts ready for the road, others just skeletons of metal and parts. The air smells like gasoline and something else—something metallic and masculine that smells distinctly of men.
Unlike the bar or the shooting range, this place feels alive. Men move with purpose, calling to each other over the din, passing tools back and forth. It reminds me of the ranch when we're preparing for a cattle drive—that same focused energy, that same invisible choreography.
Six men notice me immediately, heads turning in sequence like dominoes falling. The conversations don't stop completely, but they quiet, words tapering off mid-sentence.
The nearest man is wearing worn jeans and work boots caked with grease and dirt. The denim around the ankles is so saturated with oil it looks black. He looks at me as I approach, his expression blank. His face is smeared with grease and his dark hair is pulled back into a long braid.
"Hello…" I read the name-tag patch on his cut. "Ratchet." Feeling a tiny bit smug that I've come up with a cheat sheet. It's like placards at a formal dinner. "I'm looking for Legion. Have you seen him?"
Ratchet wipes his hand on his thigh, leaving a fresh streak of black. His eyes move over me deliberately, from my borrowed boots, to my borrowed jacket, to my scabbing wrist. It's not a sexual assessment—it's mechanical. Like he's trying to identify make and model, checking for recalls or defects.
"Haven't seen him," he says finally, and there's no hostility in it. Just fact.
I glance behind me, feeling the weight of eyes. The other mechanics have resumed their work, but they're watching. Not staring, not leering, just... observing. There's nothing sharp in their attention, no judgment or threat. But no warmth either.
Just curiosity. Like I'm a new part waiting to prove it fits.
"If you do see him," I say, "tell him I'm looking for him."
Ratchet nods once, then slides back into his work without another word.
I wander for a few minutes. Just looking around the dusty compound, hoping for a glimpse of the man I love. And I’m about to give up and go back to the room and wait him out, when I catch a whiff of something different—fabric softener and soap cutting through the diesel and dust.
Following my nose, I round the corner of another building and spot a squat cinderblock structure with steam puffing from vents along the ground.
The laundry room.
Looking through the windows I see industrial washers thumping against the concrete floors and massive dryers rumbling with heat.
I let out a breath, because even though I didn't do my own laundry growing up, it's something I understand.
It's also a jackpot. Because Mercy is here, standing beside a folding table, her small hands smoothing wrinkles from a stack of white towels. Next to her is the woman who gave me the denim jacket I'm wearing now.
When I open the door, the air is immediately thick with humidity, cooled with blasting AC, and it smells like clean cotton.
"Savannah!" Mercy's face lights up when she sees me, and it's the first genuinely happy reaction I've gotten since I started this search.
"Hey," I say, stepping inside. The door swings shut behind me, muffling the compound noise. AC washes over me like falling snow. "You work here now?"
Mercy nods proudly. "I'm the official towel folder. And I get to listen to audiobooks." She points to a small speaker on the shelf. "We just finished a mystery where the Bonekiller Murderer was caught by the fresh-faced FBI agent. Next, we're gonna listen to Harry Potter."
The woman in charge glances up from her folding. Her eyes linger on my jacket, and I suddenly feel self-conscious.
"Thank you again," I say, touching the denim. "For the jacket. I didn't have a chance to tell you earlier. I didn't really understand what was happening."
She waves me off. "It was in lost and found for months. No big deal. I'm Giselle, by the way. Dusty's woman."
"Nice to meet you. I'm looking for Legion. Have either of you seen him?"
Mercy's says, "He dropped me off here like an hour ago. Then he walked that way." She points toward the eastern edge of the compound.
"Toward the old fence line?" Giselle asks, and Mercy nods.
Giselle turns to me. "There's an old hunting blind out that way. People go there sometimes." She pauses, selecting her words carefully. "For privacy."
"A hunting blind?" I repeat.
Giselle nods. "Follow the dirt path past the shooting range. When you hit the fence with the broken top, look left. You'll see it."
"Thank you," I say, feeling a rush of relief. Finally, a real lead after wandering this compound for what feels like hours.
"Put in a good word for me," Mercy calls as I turn to leave.
I smile at her, this small fierce girl folding towels in a biker compound laundry room. "I will."
I push back into the sunlight, orienting myself toward the eastern edge of the property. Hopeful that my endless wandering will come to an end soon.