Chapter 4
Christina
I drop my meager belongings on Slate’s bed. His room looks clean and tidy. I remember how he kept his room back in Afghanistan. He always liked to keep everything in order.
“You’re lookin’ at the Jackson family legacy,” he says with a smile.
“My old man bought this place in the nineties. It was meant to be a three-story industrial complex, but the funding ran dry. We put a lot of time and effort into making this clubhouse something to be proud of. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of our place and you can make sure my ma isn’t spoiling Katie rotten. ”
I follow Slate down the stairs, lagging behind at one point to take in the sights along the way.
The entire second floor feels more like someone’s home, with hardwood floors and family pictures lining the wall of their long hallway.
I guess it makes sense that the place looks lived in if they’ve been here for thirty years or more.
When we hit the main room, I take a good look around. The place is decorated with lots of biker memorabilia. It’s too rough to give a pub-type vibe and is clearly a biker’s clubhouse. I even see a vintage bike displayed in the corner of the main room.
These bikers know what they’re doing, though.
They’ve got exit doors on either side of the big room, wide enough that people won’t have any trouble escaping in case of a fire, and signs pointing out emergency routes hang on the wall.
It helps me relax to know they’re running a tight game.
I pay attention to stuff like that because my mind still works like a reporter’s, even if I haven’t written an exposé or investigative piece in years.
I don’t plan to get back into that line of work.
It’s too dangerous, and I have a child to worry about now.
I still haven’t unraveled the mystery of why someone tried to kill me with that pipe bomb four years ago.
I can’t remember all the details of what I was working on at the time, but I keep track of everything in a notebook.
It’s stuffed in the lining of my bag upstairs.
I believe it holds the key to figuring out what happened.
I have pages full of broken memories and names that come to me out of nowhere.
I haven’t added anything about today yet.
I will, because details matter. It’s the way I figure things out.
I hustle to catch up with Slate. He shouldn’t have to wait on me when he’s the one doing me a favor by letting me stay with him.
In the short time I’ve been lagging, he’s already briefly interacted with one of the club members.
They’re discussing something about making a pickup.
Just when I’m starting to worry that it’s a drug pickup and Slate lied to me about his club not being into illegal crap, the guy turns at the doorway to look back at Slate.
“Are you sure you want me to pick up all three alternators?”
Slate jerks his chin at him, “Winter’s coming, Maddox. Our fleet might need them. We might as well keep them on hand.”
“You got it,” Maddox replies before heading out the door.
Relief surges through my body. I probably shouldn’t have doubted Slate. I owe him my life, after all. A little voice in the back of my mind reminds me that he’s never done anything to make me distrust him.
I’m still trying to work it out in my head, when he glances over his shoulder and grins. “This way,” he says.
He pushes through a wide doorway and into a room that looks more like a well-funded veterans’ club than a biker’s meeting room. Maybe it’s because so many of the men I’ve seen already have a military bearing about them. I’m guessing Slate isn’t the only one with prior military experience.
The front room has lots of tables with scarred tops and restaurant-like chairs, as well as several sitting areas with leather couches.
It even has a long bar running down the side of the room.
Now that the doors are open, the space is huge.
There’s a big-screen TV in the alcove, three pool tables, a jukebox, and a bunch of crates sitting neatly on black metal shelving against the wall. It looks to be supplies of some sort.
There are a handful of men in the alcove watching a football game. Most are wearing faded jeans, t-shirts, and boots with their leather vests. They all turn to look at us curiously, before going back to the screen.
“This is the main floor,” he says. “The brothers hang out here most of the time. The club girls do as well. If you want food, coffee, a mixed drink, or need a prospect to run an errand for you, this is where you come. Let whoever is behind the bar know what you want. As long as you’re wearing my cut, they’ll accommodate your request.”
I look around the room, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Are you sure about that, Slate?”
His eyebrows fly up. “Yeah, because if they don’t, I’ll beat their ass. Any more questions?”
Before I can answer him, a man steps out from a side hallway and nods at Slate. He’s broad, with short hair, gray eyes, and an expression that says he’s seen some shit in life. He carries himself like maybe he’s ex-military, like Slate.
“This is Jinx,” Slate says by way of an introduction. “He’s our sergeant-at-arms. Jinx, this is Christina.”
The guy gives me a nod. “Hope you’re settlin’ in okay, ma’am.”
I recognize him as one of the men who helped rescue me. I immediately extend my hand. “I am. Thank you for coming out with Slate to help me and my daughter get out of that situation.”
“You’re welcome,” he says in a gravelly tone. “Do you mind if I talk to Slate for a second?”
“Not at all,” I tell him quickly. “I’ll just take a walk.”
“Not necessary, ma’am. This won’t take but a minute,” he says, then turns to Slate. “If it’s alright with you, I’m gonna add a few more prospects to the front gate.”
Slate shoots a quick glance in my direction before nodding. “Absolutely. Better safe than sorry, especially now we have a kid in the clubhouse.”
“Great. I’ll see to that right now.” Without another word, he turns and stalks out the side door.
We move again, through the recreation area to another set of closed doors in the back of the room.
Slate swings them open and gestures to the spacious room.
“This is our meeting room where we hold church. Only the club brothers are allowed in this room—maybe an occasional old lady if a need arises.”
It looks like a large conference room with tables and sturdy chairs. It’s more utilitarian than fancy.
Two women walk behind us, laughing over something. They’re both sporting leather vests exactly like the one I’m wearing. Theirs say ‘Property of’ across the bottom, along with a brother’s name. I turn around, watching them walk away. They’re not scared. They don’t look trapped or even anxious.
“So,” I say, trying to keep the curiosity out of my tone. “Are those women being protected too?”
Slate freezes for a second before slowly turning around. When he doesn’t answer right away, I continue, “I thought you said this vest was just for safety,” I add, brushing my fingers along the edge of the cut he gave me. “You told me it was a way to keep people off me.”
“I did say that,” he responds cautiously.
“And?” I prompt him without being too pushy.
“And that was the truth, just not all the truth. That property cut means you belong to one of the brothers. As long as I’m your protector, you belong to me. You’re mine to protect, and that’s why I plan to get my name put on your cut real fuckin’ soon.”
Looking up at him, I ask, “So, you think that’s necessary?”
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “It’s just the way we do things here. If you’re not in a property cut, the other brothers will hit on you. They can be persistent. I’m sure you don’t want that, right?”
“Heck, no. Of course not. I want to take care of my daughter and try to recover from this latest round of what-the-fuck that just happened to us. I don’t have any time or interest in fooling around with any of your club brothers.”
The tension in his face relaxes. “It’s for the best, because around here, if you’re wearing my cut, that makes you family.”
There’s another reason I’m family.
I know I have to tell him about Katie, but right now I just need to know that we’re safe and I can start planning our next move.
We stand there looking into each other’s eyes, and for some reason I suddenly get a flash of how he used to look when he was on top of me, feeling his thick cock fill me up.
I feel my face get hot, and for one crazy moment I want to ask if wearing his cut means we can fool around.
Unfortunately, a shrill, high-pitched female voice cuts through the air. “This is total bullshit, Slate!”
A woman in tight jeans, a low-cut halter top, and way too much eye makeup stalks towards us.
“I spread all that cow shit around in the yard like you asked,” she says, arms folded tight as she glares at Slate.
“I didn’t ask you to do that, Silver. Tessa handed out that punishment, if you remember.”
“Look, I’m not trying to cause any more drama. I just want to be off punishment so I can wear my silver again.”
Slate’s jaw tightens. “Take it up with Tessa and stop wasting my time.”
“Come on,” Silver begs. “I apologized and broke three nails fertilizing the lawn with a couple of prospects who are too pissed to even talk to me.”
Slate shoots back coldly, “I can call Queenie over to explain the chain of command for club girls if you’re having difficulty rememberin’?”
Silver’s eyes go big and she takes a step back. “No. Don’t do that. I’m good.” She mutters something under her breath about Queenie ruling with an iron fist as she stomps off.
I watch her go, then look at him. “Is she always like that?”
“Only when she’s fuckin’ breathing,” he snarls.
I add this latest bit of information about the club girl to what I’ve already learned about the way the clubhouse operates. They have a structured chain of command and don’t appear to deviate from it.