Chapter 3 Willow
Willow
My eyes flicker open, and a fluorescent light swims into my vision. I stare at it for a moment, thoroughly confused about where I am and why.
Then images of the day before swim into my brain. Slowly at first: cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway with George Ezra blaring through the speakers. The sky an impossible orange sunset. Feeling tired but pushing on, needing to get to Mom.
I remember the sound of motorbikes, then the black van that sped past me.
The images come faster now. Crawling on the road, powder in the air, one hundred dollar bills billowing across the tarmac. The smell of burnt metal and the taste of blood. The man who pulled a gun on me and the man who saved me.
I sit up with a start, gasping for breath as the weight of what happened settles on my chest.
A warm hand clasps mine and it’s my rescuer, disheveled and unshaven, dark circles under his eyes.
His hand squeezes mine, and it’s the reassurance of his touch that calms my racing heart.
We stare at each other, and his gaze is no less intense under the fluorescent lights than it was amid the carnage of the accident.
"You’re safe," he says in a gravelly voice that scrapes over my rough nerves, both calming me and making my spine tingle all at once.
The hand he clasps me with is pocked with red angry scars, the skin puckered and dead, and I wonder what pain he’s been through to cause those burns. Up close, I notice the silver flecks peppered through his dark hair and the deep lines etched into his face.
He looks like a man who’s seen some shit.
“You’re safe with me,” he says again as if reading my mind.
Memories swim into my brain of being lifted onto his bike, carried into this place. Swimming in and out of consciousness as this man bathed my sweaty forehead and tended my injuries, his touch impossibly gentle for someone who looks so hard.
"What's your name?" he asks.
I take a few deep breaths, collecting my thoughts. There’s something hard about this man, but a gentleness too. I immediately feel I can trust him, and besides, what other options do I have?
"Willow."
"Willow." His deep voice adds a gravelly rumble that belies the wistfulness of my name. I like the way he says it, and it sends a shudder all the way through my body which makes me wince with pain.
"Are you hurting?" His brow furrows with concern.
Hurting doesn’t even begin to cover it. I'm confused and in pain and my mouth is dry.
"Yes,” I croak. “My leg hurts like a motherfucker."
He smiles at my cuss word, and I’m annoyed at how pleased it makes me to get a reaction out of him.
“I’m Pans.”
“Pans. What kind of a name is that?” It slips out before I can stop myself. “Sorry, it’s just unusual. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s my road name,” he says without explanation. My gaze goes to the leather jacket he’s wearing and the MC club insignia there. I have so many questions, but my brain feels hazy.
"You've been in a car accident." That gentle rumble is doing weird things to my body, and I will him to keep talking.
"Where do you live?"
My brain feels muddled from whatever painkillers he must’ve given me, but even I know you don't give a strange man your address. Even if I did have one.
"It's none of your business."
His hand grips mine. I don't know if he means to be threatening, but all it does is send another shiver through my body.
"Do you have anything in the car, any ID with your address on it?”
I had my driver's license in my purse. But that was the address that I left behind in Seattle. The only address I had was a scribbled note of the place where I could find my mom.
I shake my head, wondering what the hell my address has to do with anything.
"Why do you want to know?”
The man takes a slow breath like he’s weighing how much to tell me.
"How much do you remember of the accident?"
I squeeze my eyes tight as images thrash through my head. The pain, the shouting, the blood. A whimper escapes my lips, and the man caresses my arm soothingly.
"Not much."
"The crash you had was with some bad men."
I give him a raised eyebrow look. With his bloodstained t-shirt and biker’s jacket, he's what I'd call the definition of a bad man.
He must see me looking at the emblem on his jacket, because he glances down and shakes his head slowly.
"Not us, precious. We’re the good guys."
An involuntary snort escapes my nose. His grim look, the blood, the drugs. There’s no way this man’s on the right side of the law.
"Really?"
"Trust me," he says. "This is nothing compared to what The Reapers would do to you.”
The name sends a shiver down my spine, and this one isn't pleasant.
“The Underground Crows don’t run drugs, but it's The Reapers that you crashed into, and it’s them I'm worried about."
"What do you mean?"
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You'll be safe here, precious. What I need to know is if there's anybody else we need to bring in for protection. Like your family who could be easily traced back to your address.”
Bring in for protection. I hear his words, but they don’t make sense. The full weight of my situation hits me. I’ve witnessed some kind of drug run gone wrong and The Reapers, whoever they are, will do anything to silence me, including killing me and those I love.
I've never felt so happy to be an orphan.
I bark out a laugh, and Pans looks confused. But the irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. Everyone I love could be in danger, if there was someone still alive I loved.
"You don't have to worry about that," I say. "There's no one else you need to protect."
I can't hide the bitterness from my voice or the sting of tears that threaten. I blink quickly and look away.
Pans gives me a curious look, but he doesn't press.
My answer must satisfy him, because he presses me gently back onto the bed.
"You need to rest, precious.” I can’t say I mind the pet name he’s given me, especially said in his badass voice.
"I need to make a phone call, and I'll be back. You've got food here, everything you need. But don't move too much. I'll come and change the bandages soon.”
I’m suddenly aware of the questions I haven’t asked, like where the fuck am I?
For the first time, I look around properly at my surroundings. The floor is concrete, and the bed I’m on is nothing more than a low bench with a thin mattress. My dress lies in tatters on the top of a metal cabinet with steel medical instruments laid out on top.
But I’m pretty sure this isn’t a medical center.
“Where am I?”
Pan shifts uncomfortably and gets up off the chair he’s been sitting on.
“Rest,” he says as he turns his back on me.
That's when I notice the metal bars. I don't know how I missed them before. They’re by the side of my bench-bed, and they reach all the way up to the ceiling.
"What the fuck?"
I sit up fully, ignoring the pain that throbs in my ankle. But I have to figure this out. The bars go all around me like a cage. I'm in a fucking cage.
As the realization sets in, Pans opens a metal door and steps out of my cell. Because, yeah, that’s what the fuck this is.
"Why am I in a cage?" I can't hide the panic in my voice. I've been having a nice teté-a-teté with my rescuer thinking I'm safe only to realize I’m locked up.
He turns to me, and there's real regret in his eyes.
“Sorry, precious. It's for your own protection. It's the safest place for you."
He shuts the metal door with a dull clanging noise and clicks the lock into place.
Fear pools in the pit of my stomach. I'm being held captive by a biker whose touch makes my body tingle.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?