Chapter 12
Someone's shouting.
No—several someones.
The sound filters through the thin walls, bounces down the hallway, seeps under the door. Voices rising and falling like waves crashing against rocks.
Angry waves.
Urgent waves.
Down below, a bike is revving.
Then another.
Doors banging.
Voices.
With the pillow now over my head, I burrow deeper into the mattress, trying to escape the noise and the light filtering through the blinds.
My head is pounding. Last night wasn't exactly wild, and I didn't drink much, but my crazy life is catching up to me and I'm desperate to go back to sleep.
But it’s so fuckin’ hot in here. Did the AC give out?
Beside me, Legion moans.
"What time is it?" I mutter, voice raspy and unfamiliar.
He doesn't answer.
I roll over, reaching for him, my fingers searching for the familiar warmth of his skin, the raised edges of his tattoos. My hand meets heat—intense heat—and I pull back instinctively.
Suddenly, I'm wide awake. Sitting up, looking down at him.
"Legion?" I whisper.
He's burning up. That's why I'm so hot. His skin radiates fever like a furnace, the sheets beneath him damp with sweat. His chest rises and falls too quickly, breath shallow and uneven.
"Legion?" I touch his shoulder gently, trying to rouse him. "Hey. Wake up."
Nothing. Not even a flicker of his eyelids.
"Legion." I shake him, gentle at first, then with more force. "Legion, come on. Open your eyes."
His head lolls to the side, unresponsive. Panic starts to build in my chest, a tight, squeezing sensation that makes it hard to breathe.
Outside, the commotion grows louder.
Someone shouts an order.
Boots pound across gravel.
A door slams.
I tune it out, focusing only on Legion. I slide out of bed, grab the first things I find—a pair of shorts, one of Legion's t-shirts—and pull them on quickly. Back at his side, I press my palm to his forehead. He's so hot, his skin slick with sweat.
"Legion!" I'm shaking him harder now, desperation creeping into my voice. "Please wake up. Please."
That's when I see it—his brand. The Badlands "B" they burned into his chest the night of his patching ceremony. It's angry red, swollen, with yellow-green pus oozing from the center. The skin around it is hot to the touch, streaked with red lines that spread outward like poison.
"Oh, my god." My stomach lurches. "Legion. Legion, wake up." I'm saying his name over and over, like a prayer, like if I say it enough times he'll have to answer. "Legion, please. Please wake up."
He doesn't move. Doesn't respond. His breathing remains shallow, too fast.
A siren bleeps outside, cutting through the shouting. One short burst, then silence.
I rush to the window, pushing aside the blinds. Down in the compound, chaos unfolds. Men running in every direction, shouting to each other. And at the gate a sheriff's cruiser, lights flashing.
Two deputies standing beside it, hands on their holsters.
What the fuck is happening?
I turn back to Legion, who looks like death itself, then to the window again. I can't process both emergencies at once. Legion needs a doctor, but there are cops at the gate, and no one's coming to help us.
I need to find someone. Anyone.
I bolt from the room, bare feet slapping against the worn floorboards as I race down the hall, then take the stairs two at a time, nearly colliding with a young man at the bottom.
"Where's Diesel?" I demand. "Or Brick? Or—anyone? Legion's sick. Really sick."
The kid just shakes his head, pushing past me, running toward the front door.
The main room is a blur of leather cuts and weapons. Men move with purpose, faces grim, no one even glancing my way. I spot Mama Jo near the bar and rush toward her.
"Mama Jo! Please—it's Legion. He's burning up with fever. His brand is infected. I can't wake him up."
She barely looks at me, eyes fixed on something across the room. "Not now, girl. We've got bigger problems." She pushes me aside, moving away.
"Wait!" I grab her arm. "You don't understand. He needs a doctor. He's—"
"I said not now!" She yanks free, disappearing into the crowd.
Everyone is shouting. Orders, questions, curses. No one's listening. No one cares that Legion might be dying upstairs. I stand in the middle of it all, invisible, helpless.
The rage builds inside me—sudden, white-hot, overwhelming.
"STOP!" I scream, loud enough that my voice cracks. "LISTEN TO ME!"
The room doesn't go silent—this isn't a movie—but heads turn. Eyes find me. For a moment, I have their attention.
"Legion is sick," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Really sick. He needs a doctor. Now."
A few men exchange glances. Someone mutters something I can't hear. But before anyone can respond, Brick emerges from the open front door, face like thunder.
"Where the fuck is Legion?" he demands, eyes locking on me.
Finally. Someone who'll listen.
"He's upstairs," I say, relief flooding through me despite Brick's anger. "He's burning up with fever. The brand is infected. I can't wake him up. He needs—"
"We've got bigger problems," Brick cuts me off, echoing Mama Jo's dismissal. "Sheriff's here with a warrant. He needs to get his ass up and talk to them."
My relief evaporates. "You're not listening. He can't get up. He's unconscious. His brand is infected—it's oozing pus. He needs a hospital."
Brick's eyes narrow, assessing whether I'm telling the truth. Then he swears, a string of words that would make my mother's ghost faint.
He heads to the stairs, his long legs taking them four at a time. I follow him back to Room 3, a stream of men trailing behind us. When Brick sees Legion, even he looks worried. He tries shaking him, slapping his face lightly, calling his name. Nothing works.
"Fuck," he mutters. Then, to the room at large: "Sheriff's got a warrant to search the compound for Mercy Kane."
My heart drops. "What? Why?"
"Someone called social services. Reported that Mercy was staying here." Brick's eyes are cold. "If we don't turn her over, they'll search the place." He gives me a look that makes my skin crawl. "They are not coming in to search this compound."
Then he points to Roach, who's standing just outside the door. "Go get the girl."
The implication hits me like a slap. They're going to hand Mercy over to the authorities. While her brother lies here, possibly dying.
"Wait," I say, panic rising again. "Legion needs to go to the hospital. Now. Before—"
"I'll take him." One of the younger men steps forward. "I can drive them to the hospital in Terry. It's closest."
Brick nods. "Fine, you take care of them, Dusty. Call me when you get there and give me an update." Then Brick turns to Ledger. "Just in case they come in, go make sure everything is put away properly."
"On it, Boss," then Ledger rushes out, his boots thumping on the hallway and stairs.
From outside comes a high, panicked scream. "Legion! LEGION!"
A child's scream.
I rush to the window. Down in the yard, Roach and another club member are dragging Mercy toward the gate. She's fighting them, kicking and screaming her brother's name, small body twisting against their grip.
And beyond that, parked just outside the gate is a truck. A truck I know well because it's got the Ashby logo on the door.
Cash's truck.
Everything clicks into place with sickening clarity. And in that same moment, his eyes slide up to my window.
He smiles at me. Grins. Tips his stupid fucking Stetson.
He did this.
Cash did this.
Called social services about Mercy.
Created this mess to make us pay.
Brick appears beside me at the window. He sees the truck too. "You're one of us now," he says, voice low. "We voted and you got the ink to prove it. But that also means the club comes first from now on, Not Mine."
He gestures to Legion. "Get your shit. Take him to the hospital. And find somewhere else to stay." His mouth twists. "I hear there's a perfectly nice new trailer on twenty acres outside Drybone."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in Room 3 with a possibly dying Legion and only some kid named Dusty to help me.
My world narrows to this moment.
Legion burning with fever.
Mercy screaming his name as she's dragged away.
Cash waiting outside, ready to take her God knows where.
And me.
The backside of twenty-three laughs in my face.
You think you know what trouble is, bitch, the near side asks.
You think you know what sacrifice is, the near side taunts.
You think you have what it takes to keep him alive, let alone still in love with you after two decades, the near side sneers.
Fool.
Fantasy.
But I flip the near side of twenty-three off and give Dusty a nod as I pick up Legions jeans and start pulling them up his legs.
"Let's fuckin' go."