Chapter 9 #2
The question startles me. I haven't even thought about work since catching Derek with that woman. "God, yes. I should probably call in tomorrow, explain what happened."
"You don't owe them details," Santiago says firmly. "Just tell them you had a personal emergency."
"And the bruise on my face?"
His expression darkens. "Makeup won't cover it completely. Tell them you fell. Or tell them the truth. Up to you."
I sigh, rubbing my temples. "I don't know what to do about any of this. My stuff is still at the apartment, I need to figure out living arrangements beyond crashing at your clubhouse..."
"Stay with me." The words come out quickly, like he's been holding them back. "At my apartment, I mean. I've got the space, and you'd be safe there."
I stare at him, surprised by the offer. "Santiago—"
"Whip," he corrects gently. "When it's just us, you can call me Santiago. But we're in public, and in my world, names matter."
"Whip," I correct myself. "We've barely started... whatever this is. Moving in together seems like a big step."
"It's not about rushing things," he clarifies. "It's about keeping you safe. Your ex knows you're staying with Ash. He might come looking for you there. My place is secure, and he doesn't know about it."
"And us sharing a bed would just be a convenient side effect?" I can't help the teasing tone that creeps into my voice.
A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. "I never said anything about sharing a bed. I've got a guest room." His eyes darken. "Unless you're offering something else."
Heat rushes to my face. "I just meant—"
"I know what you meant." He reaches across the table, taking my hand. "And yes, having you in my space, in my bed, would be more than convenient. It would be fucking incredible. But that's not why I'm offering."
The waiter returns to take our orders, giving me a moment to collect myself. Santiago orders for both of us without consulting me—normally a red flag, but somehow it doesn't bother me coming from him. He chooses the restaurant's special pasta dish for me, which is exactly what I would have picked.
"How did you know I'd want that?" I ask once the waiter leaves.
"Ash mentioned it's your favorite. Last time you two went out for Italian, you wouldn't shut up about the handmade pasta."
The fact that he remembers such a small detail from a conversation with his sister touches me. "You pay attention."
"To you? Always have." His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, sending shivers up my arm. "Even when I was pretending not to."
Our food arrives, and for a while, we fall into comfortable conversation about lighter topics—music we both like, movies we've seen, stories about Ashley that make me laugh. It feels normal, which is strange considering there's nothing normal about our situation.
Just as we're finishing our meal, Santiago's phone buzzes. He checks it and frowns slightly.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Yeah, just club business." He tucks the phone away, signaling for the check. "Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow."
The waiter brings the bill, which Santiago pays without letting me see the total. Outside, the evening air has grown cooler, and I pull his jacket tighter around me as we walk to his car.
"Thank you for dinner," I say as he opens the passenger door for me. "It was nice to feel normal for a few hours."
"This is just the beginning," he promises, helping me into the car. "We'll figure the rest out together."
As he walks around to the driver's side, I notice a dark sedan parked across the street, engine running. Something about it sends a chill down my spine, though I can't say why.
Santiago gets in and starts the engine, but before he can pull out, I touch his arm.
"That car," I say quietly, nodding toward the sedan. "It's been there since we went in. Engine's still running."
His posture changes instantly, body tensing as he looks in the rearview mirror. "You sure?"
"Pretty sure. Same spot, at least."
Without another word, Santiago pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a quick text. Then he puts the car in drive and pulls out, deliberately casual.
"What are you doing?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Taking a little detour," he says calmly. "See if our friend follows."
Sure enough, the sedan pulls out behind us, maintaining a discreet distance. My heart rate picks up.
"Is it Derek? How would he know where we were?"
"Could be coincidence," Santiago says, though his tone suggests he doesn't believe that. "Could be Derek. Could be something else entirely."
He takes a series of turns, some sharp, some gradual, and the sedan stays with us through all of them. His jaw tightens.
"Definitely following us." He makes another turn, this one leading us toward a busier street. "Time for plan B."
"Which is?"
Before he can answer, a motorcycle appears in my side mirror, then another, and suddenly we're flanked by four bikes. I recognize Cruel on one of them, his distinctive helmet giving him away.
Santiago relaxes slightly, a grim smile on his face. "That's plan B."
The bikes form a protective barrier around us, two in front, two behind. When we reach the next intersection, two of them break off, doubling back toward the sedan. I twist in my seat to watch, but Santiago's hand on my thigh stops me.
"Eyes front," he says quietly. "Let them handle it."
"What are they going to do?"
"Just identify who's following us. Nothing more." He squeezes my thigh reassuringly. "Not tonight, anyway."
We drive in silence for a while, the remaining two bikes still escorting us. Eventually, Santiago's phone buzzes again. He checks it at a red light, nodding to himself.
"Well?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
"It was Derek," he confirms, voice hard. "With a buddy. Cruel got a clear look at his face when they pulled alongside him."
My stomach drops. "How did he know where we were?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Santiago's knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "I've got some ideas, none of them good."
"What do we do now?"
"Now?" He looks over at me, expression softening slightly. "Now I take you home. My home. Where I can keep you safe."
I should be scared. I should be demanding to go to the police, file a report, get a restraining order. But as we drive through the night, Santiago beside me and club members watching our backs, all I feel is a strange sense of safety.
For the first time in my life, I'm not facing my problems alone. I have people—I have Santiago—fighting for me. And that feels like the most natural thing in the world.