Chapter Ten
Goldie
My head was trying to kill me.
That was my first thought when I opened my eyes.
Actually, no. My first thought was that someone had somehow replaced my skull with a metal drum and invited Gramps to snore directly inside it.
My second thought was that I was never drinking again. Ever.
I rolled onto my side and groaned into the pillow. The sound came out rough, pathetic, and not at all like a woman who had spent the last couple of days running from a secret organization that apparently owned half of Madison.
Nope.
I sounded like a woman who had let Tempi make her drinks. That was its own kind of danger.
The room was dim, but sunlight still managed to sneak around the edges of the curtains and stab me directly in both eyes. I squeezed them shut and tried to remember how I had gotten upstairs.
Nothing.
Well, almost nothing.
There was a flash and strong arms sliding around me, the scent of leather, soap, and motorcycle exhaust. Wheels’ voice near my ear, low and amused, telling someone he had me.
Then nothing.
I opened one eye slowly, and the room spun. I closed it again. “Absolutely not,” I whispered.
A few seconds passed before I tried again. This time, I kept both eyes cracked open and focused on the nightstand beside the bed.
A glass of water sat there, and beside it were two pills.
I didn’t question it. I didn’t think. I reached out, grabbed the pills, and swallowed them down with half the glass of water like my life depended on it. Honestly, it might have. The water was cool, and for three glorious seconds, I thought maybe I was going to survive.
Then someone knocked on the door. The sound cracked through my skull like a gunshot. I flinched and pressed one hand to my forehead. “Come in,” I croaked.
The door opened slowly, and Wheels stepped inside.
Of course it was Wheels, because apparently my humiliation needed an audience.
He filled the doorway like he was made for it.
Big shoulders. Thick arms. Black beanie pulled low over his head.
Dark beard covering a jaw I had no business thinking about while I was hungover and mostly dead.
His cut hung open over a black shirt, and tattoos climbed over his forearms and disappeared beneath the sleeves.
He looked rough.
Not messy.
Not careless.
Rough in that steady, dangerous way. Like he belonged on a motorcycle. Like he belonged standing between trouble and anyone dumb enough to bring it to his door.
He had the kind of face that could make a person cross the street if they didn’t know him.
But I did know him. A little. Enough to know he wasn’t rough with me. He got right to the point, sure. He asked questions like he expected answers. He told me when I was lying. He stood too close sometimes and watched everything. But he didn’t do it like an asshole.
He did it like a man who had decided I mattered.
His eyes moved to the nightstand, then to the empty spot where the pills had been. His mouth twitched. “You’d be easy to drug if I wanted to.”
I laid my head back down and groaned. “Being drugged would probably feel better than this.”
Wheels chuckled.
I kept my eyes closed. “My eyes are closed, but I know you’re looking smug as hell right now. Knock it off.”
The floor creaked as he stepped farther into the room. A second later, the foot of the bed dipped under his weight.
“We did all tell you girls to slow down last night.”
“As if Tempi and Britta were going to listen to you guys,” I muttered. “You already tell them what to do all the time. I think they were more than happy to play bartender and get my butt drunk.”
“They didn’t have to try hard.”
I cracked one eye open. “Are you blaming me?”
“Little bit.”
“Rude.”
“Honest.”
“Still rude.”
He laughed again, and this time I opened both eyes because apparently I hated myself.
There he was, sitting at the end of my bed like he belonged there. All rugged and handsome and entirely too awake. It wasn’t fair.
The man screamed biker. Thick beard, tattoos, black beanie, broad chest, and arms that looked like they could lift me like I weighed nothing. Which, apparently, he had done last night.
That thought did not help my hangover. Or my sanity.
“You carried me up here,” I said.
His mouth twitched again. “You remember that?”
“Barely.”
“Then yeah.”
I stared at him. “Was I embarrassing?”
“That depends.”
“Oh God.”
“You told Britta she had beautiful elbows.”
I closed my eyes. “I did not.”
“You did.”
“Why would I say that?”
“No idea.”
“Were they?”
“Were they what?”
“Beautiful elbows?”
He was quiet for a second. Then he said, “I wasn’t looking at Britta’s elbows.”
My eyes opened again. He looked right at me.
My stomach did a slow, stupid little flip that had nothing to do with alcohol. I should’ve looked away. I should’ve made a joke. I should’ve pulled the blanket over my head and hidden until my pulse remembered how to act.
Instead, I just stared back. Then my head throbbed again, reminding me I was in no condition to flirt with a biker before coffee. I groaned and pressed the heel of my hand to my eye. “I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ve seen dying. This isn’t it.”
“That was dark.”
“But true. You good?”
I shook my head carefully. “No, but I’m sure a pot of coffee will fix it.”
“I’ll get one going.”
“Bless you.”
He stood, and the bed shifted back into place.
“What are the plans for the day?” I asked.
Wheels moved toward the door, then looked back at me. “Twister wants to talk to you about some of the papers.”
I nodded, then immediately regretted it. “Ow.”
“Other than that, not much. Watching our backs. Waiting to hear from the guys. Making sure nobody does anything stupid.”
“So, basically your full-time job.”
“Pretty much.”
I pushed myself onto one elbow. “I figured staying in a motorcycle club would be more exciting.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Haven’t you had enough excitement the last couple days?”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“A day of sitting around and maybe looking at papers should sound good to you,” he said.
I waved him toward the door. “You may be right. Go make coffee before I agree with anything else.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He walked out, shutting the door behind him.
I stared at the ceiling.
Doing nothing did sound boring. Painfully boring, but the thought of spending another quiet day with Wheels nearby sent a little thrill through me that was completely inappropriate considering the circumstances.
I sighed. “Nope.” I threw the covers back and immediately regretted moving that fast. The room tilted, and I had to sit on the edge of the mattress with my head in my hands for a full minute.
I needed to stop thinking about Wheels. I needed to start thinking about how I was going to get out of this mess. Running was still an option.
Not a good one, maybe not even a smart one, but it still sat in the back of my mind, packed and ready like my backpack by the door. I could disappear. I could leave Madison behind. I could take the second set of copies, get in my car, and drive until I hit a state where no one knew my name.
Except The Ledger had already found my apartment.
They knew where I lived. They knew what to take. They knew how to move without leaving a trace.
Running might buy time, but it wouldn’t make me safe.
The Saints were the only thing standing between me and them right now.
The thought should’ve scared me. Instead, it felt like the truth. I rubbed my hands over my face. “I am never drinking again.” My voice sounded like gravel.
I stood slowly, grabbed clean clothes from the small pile I’d tossed on the dresser last night, and shuffled toward the door. The hallway was quiet when I stepped out, but I still looked both ways out of habit.
The bathroom across the hall was empty. Thank God.
I slipped inside, locked the door, and leaned both hands on the sink while staring at myself in the mirror. Yikes.
My blonde hair was a disaster. My eyes were puffy. My cheeks were pale except for the faint pink mark on one side of my face where I’d apparently slept with the pillow trying to become part of me. “Looking good, Goldie,” I muttered.
I used the bathroom, then washed my face with cold water until I felt slightly less dead. Brushing my teeth helped even more. By the time I dragged a comb through my hair and twisted it into a messy knot at the back of my head, I almost looked human.
Back in my room, I pulled on jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Sneakers went on my feet.
I looked down at myself and almost didn’t recognize me.
Jeans. T-shirt. Sneakers.
Not slacks. Not a pencil skirt. Not a blouse tucked neatly into something high-waisted and boring. Not heels clicking against City Hall floors. Not a blazer hanging over the back of my chair while I checked permits and pretended everything made sense.
This version of me looked different.
More casual. More normal. More like the woman I was when no one was expecting me to be professional, polished, or careful.
I could get used to that. Which was dangerous, because I couldn’t get used to any of this.
I grabbed my phone, shoved it into my back pocket, and headed downstairs.
The chaos hit me before I reached the bottom step.
Cord and Plug were sweeping the floor near the bar, both of them moving with the dead-eyed misery of men who had been given a job they didn’t want but knew better than to argue about.
Tempi stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, looking at Twister like he had personally offended her. “I said I can sweep,” she snapped.
Twister sat at the table with one arm stretched across the back of his chair and a cup of coffee in front of him. He looked calm. Too calm. Which probably meant Tempi was losing this argument. “You made some of the mess,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“And they’re prospects.”
Cord kept sweeping.
Plug swept harder.
Neither one looked up.
“They will do what I tell them to do,” Twister continued. “And I told them to sweep.”
Tempi narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like standing here while they clean up after me.”
Twister leaned back. “Then don’t stand there.”
Her mouth dropped open.