Chapter Five

Chapter Five

GWEN

Sitting in Winchester's truck, the key is cold and heavy in my hand. It fits snugly into the ignition, but I don't turn it. Instead, I'm parked here, wrestling with my thoughts, my gaze locked on the clubhouse's entrance. I'm desperate for Highway to step out and beckon me into his secretive world.

As if on cue, the door swings open, and there they are, Highway and Winchester, deep in conversation as they stride toward their bikes. My heart sinks a bit. It's clear Highway prefers to keep me out of the club's inner workings. Yet, nobody ever said I couldn't keep a watchful eye from afar. With a smirk, I fire up the engine and pull out, trailing them at a safe distance.

The neon lights of a strip club soon come into view. I'm sure they would cast a lurid red shadow across the pavement at night, but they look tacky in the harsh light of the day. The sign, a seductive outline of a woman, flickers intermittently. I park up the street close enough to keep them in sight. The bouncer greets them with hearty laughter, a camaraderie I can almost feel from my vantage point. My camera lens catches the moment, snap after snap—the casual exchange, the unguarded smiles.

A few more patrons slip inside, nondescript and hardly worth a second glance. But then, three suited men arrive, their demeanor setting off silent alarms in my mind. There's a confidence in their stride, a rehearsed casualness. They parade in front of the bouncer, jackets open, a slow pirouette to show they're unarmed. Unimpressed, the bouncer blocks their path with a raised hand and murmurs into his walkie-talkie. Denied entry initially, they linger until a woman, all charm and smiles, appears and ushers them inside with a practiced grace.

As the day drags on, I keep my lens busy, capturing the comings, goings, and fleeting exchanges. Hours later, Winchester, Highway, and the suited trio emerge. Their laughter spills into the air, easy and genuine. They shake hands and point at some shared joke, their camaraderie thick. Then, as quickly as they had arrived, Highway and Winchester roar off on their bikes, leaving with a final wave to them.

The three men linger until the bikes are mere echoes in the distance. Then, with a signal, a sleek black Escalade glides to the curb. They slip inside with a final scan of the quiet street, and I start the truck and follow them.

They weave in and out of the traffic, and I try to keep my distance. Eventually, they turn into a driveway bordered by imposing six-foot fences—a fortress of solitude deep in the countryside. As I drive past, one of the men steps out of the Escalade, his hand covertly slipping under his jacket.

Shit.

I've been made.

My foot slams down on the accelerator, the engine roaring in protest as I speed away. I glance anxiously in the rearview mirror. Thankfully, no one appears to be in pursuit. Once I'm sure I've lost them, I ease off the gas. Jacksonville's back roads are a maze to my unfamiliar eyes. I pull over to the side of the road, the gravel crunching under the tires, and grab my cell phone to pull up Google Maps, squinting at the screen as I try to orient myself and plan my next move.

A knock sounds on my window, and I jump, dropping my cell phone on the truck's floor.

"Hey, darlin'," a man in a black suit drawls from the other side of the closed window. "Playing with the big boys now?"

"I'm lost," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Listen, sweetheart," he grunts as he taps the window. "The boss would like to talk to you."

"I'm good," I retort, my chin held high.

His lips twitch in a smirk that doesn't reach his cold eyes. He shakes his head and chuckles, dark and menacing. "Doesn't work that way." A car pulls up in front of the old truck. "You can either follow us, or we can help you into the car. Your choice."

"I'll follow."

He chuckles once more, nods, then strolls back to the car parked behind me. I lean over, my fingers brushing against the cold, familiar plastic of my cell phone as I pluck it from the floor. Hastily, I dial my sister while shifting the truck into drive, turning around to tail them back toward the estate.

"Hey, Gwen, what's up?" Lucy mumbles, her voice heavy with sleep.

"Sorry, Sis, but is Reaper there?" I ask, ignoring her grogginess.

"Are you okay?" she responds, her voice sharpening with concern.

"Yes," I answer, but my pitch is a tad too high, the waver in my tone betraying my nervousness.

There's a moment of muffled talking on the other end.

"Gwen?" It's a deeper voice this time—Reaper's.

"Reaper, I may have fucked up," I confess, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

"Where are you?" His voice is calm but edged with urgency.

"I have no idea, but I'm being escorted to an estate on the outskirts of Jacksonville. It has large fences, and the number on the gate is 1515."

"Who is doing the escorting?"

I hesitate, my stomach twisting. "Don't be mad. But I followed Highway and Winchester to a strip club where they met these guys, and now…" My voice trails off, leaving the gravity of the situation to hang in the air.

"Fucking hell." He exhales sharply, the line crackling with his frustration.

As the gates to the estate swing open, I follow the car until it stops in front of an imposing mansion. Armed men patrol the grounds with an unsettling ease, their eyes scanning the area, yet none spare me even a fleeting glance. The same man who approached me on the roadside taps on my window, motioning for me to get out.

"I've gotta go," I murmur into the phone.

"Wait!" Reaper's voice barks from the other end. "Give the phone to someone in charge and do it now."

Obediently, I wind down the window and hand the phone to the man. "He wants to talk to you," I tell him.

With a reluctant sigh, he takes the cell phone from my hand and presses it to his ear. "Yes?" He steps away, pacing as he talks to Reaper, nodding several times. "She's a reporter?" he says into the phone, then his gaze snaps to mine, assessing. "Boss wants to meet her." He shakes his head in response to whatever Reaper is saying on the other end. "No can do. The boss wants a meet, so she gets to meet him." He ends the call and hands me back my phone with a terse, "Let's go, princess."

He opens my door, and I slide out, standing awkwardly on the paved driveway.

"You don't look like a club whore," he remarks offhandedly.

"And what does a club whore look like?" I retort, my curiosity piqued despite the tension.

"Not like you." He gestures toward the mansion. "Go inside, turn left, and take a seat in the study. Someone will be with you soon."

Driven by habit, I clutch my camera a little tighter to my side and follow his instructions, stepping into the mansion's cool, shadowy interior. My heart races as I navigate through the luxurious yet foreboding space. The moment I step into the room, the sheer size of the wooden desk commands attention while the chair positioned behind it seems pulled straight from a set designer's dream, its ornate design reminiscent of scenes from a James Bond film. In stark contrast, the guest seat, crafted from the same material, appears almost humble in size.

Raising my camera, I capture the scene before me and swiftly upload the images to the cloud. A soft sound interrupts my focus, and I turn to find a man standing before me, a warm smile gracing his lips.

"Please, take a seat," he gestures gracefully.

As he settles into his oversized throne-like chair, a grin tugs at my lips at the comical sight of him, engulfed by its grandeur.

"What's amusing?" he asks, his brow furrowing slightly.

Unable to contain my amusement, a laugh escapes me. "Isn't it a bit… extravagant?" I remark, motioning toward the elaborate chair. "You look rather… theatrical."

His expression darkens. "Why were you trailing my associates?"

"I wasn't," I protest, my voice tinged with earnestness. "I'm new in Jacksonville, simply finding my bearings."

"A likely story," he retorts, skepticism evident in his tone. "Do you often consort with bikers?"

"I told you, I'm still settling in," I explain, my words tinged with exasperation. "Trying to build connections."

"Yet you find yourself tailing members of the Royal Bastards," he observes sharply. "We may be friendly with certain circles, but you… you're an unknown entity."

I clutch my camera with a sense of urgency, hoping its presence will lend credibility to my explanation. "I'm a journalist," I reveal, my voice steady. "I've been researching a piece on the Royal Bastards. When your men met with them at the strip club, I saw an opportunity to delve deeper into the story."

"So, you admit to trailing my associates?" he presses, his gaze unwavering.

"Yes," I concede, meeting his gaze with resolve. "In pursuit of the truth."

"Pursuit of what truth, exactly?"

Shifting uneasily in my seat, I clear my throat before speaking, "There's been a declaration of war against them, an attempt on their president's life, and a few of their members have been killed. I thought perhaps when they met with your men, there might be some sort of involvement."

He rises from his chair, a fluid motion that exudes authority, and circles around the desk, extending his hand expectantly for my camera. With a sense of reluctance, I surrender it to him. He deftly navigates its controls, scrutinizing the footage with a furrowed brow before returning it to me.

"We had no part in those events. None whatsoever. Do you understand?"

"Then why the rendezvous with the Royal Bastards?" I press, unable to shake my curiosity.

"This …" he gestures between us, his demeanor resolute, "… is not an interview. You will delete your pictures." He looks over my head and nods at someone. Turning, I see the back of a man as he walks away. "It seems the Royal Bastards like you. Two of them are at my gates."

"Only two?"

He barks out a laugh. "You were expecting more?"

"Hoping, more like it."

"Delete the pictures. Now," he commands as he retreats behind the enormous desk. "And then you can be on your way."

Having already uploaded to the cloud, I do as he says and stand. "Who are you?"

"I'm a businessman, nothing more." He smiles widely at me. "And, Miss Fullerton, the next time you decide to chase a story, it better not have anything to do with me." He waves a hand at me dismissively. "You may go."

Not needing to be told twice, I hustle out to the truck, where a man holds open the door, and as I slide into it, he takes my camera.

"Hey!"

He gives me a bored look as he flicks through my photographs, then hands it back. "Have a nice day."

Turning over the ignition, the truck roars to life, and I speed down the driveway and onto the street where Highway and Winchester are waiting.

Highway motions for me to wind down my window. "Follow us." His tone and expression tell me all I need to know.

He's pissed.