Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

GWEN

The dive bar looms ahead, a neon sign flickering like a beacon of bad decisions. It's the kind of place nice girls don't visit. I kill the engine and slide out of the truck. A Harley pulls up beside me, and it is Justice.

"Watch yourself," Justice warns, eyes scanning for trouble.

"Always do," I shoot back with a wink. I'm nervous, sure. But I can't let that show.

The door groans, protesting my entrance. Inside, it's a haze of cigarette smoke and desperation. I spot Feral immediately and stroll over to stand near him.

"Hey, doll." He leers, his gaze crawling over me.

I resist the urge to scrub at my skin.

"You're Feral?" I slide onto the stool beside him. "I need info."

He chuckles like I've told a good joke and takes a swig of his beer. "And what's in it for me?"

"Knowing you helped keep your ass safe," I retort.

His eyes narrow as if he's considering, weighing his sleazy desires against self-preservation.

"Fine. What do you wanna know?" He leans in, his breath reeking of alcohol and neglect.

"Who ordered the hit on your brothers?"

Feral runs a hand through greasy locks, thinking. "That's the million-dollar question."

"Do you know?" I press, my voice low, urgent.

"Maybe." He grins, a smile full of malice and bad intentions. "Could be for a little somethin' somethin', I might get talkative."

"Thanks, Feral," I say, sliding off the stool. "But I'm not interested in that with you." His hand snakes out, catching my wrist.

"Be careful, Gwen," he says, and there's a glimmer of something almost like concern in his bloodshot eyes.

"Always am," I reply, yanking free.

He laughs, and I tilt my head to the side. "How do you know my name?"

Winchester comes out of the shadows. "You blew it, Feral."

"Shit. Sorry, man." Feral dips his chin and walks away from us.

"This was another test?"

"Yeah, you did better this time." He points a thumb over his shoulder at Feral. "Although he would do anything for a bit of skin on skin. You never know what you might have learned."

A shiver runs up my spine, and I shake my head. "He doesn't know anything. He was only looking to get laid."

"How did you know?"

"He's one of you. He wears the cut. His loyalty isn't in question."

Winchester nods. "Yeah, but someone ratted us out." I frown at him. "One of the men who was hit was standing in front of me. They were trying to take out the leadership."

"And they nearly succeeded with Creed."

"Yep." Winchester picks up a beer bottle and takes a sip.

"Yeah, but it wasn't one of the Royal Bastards… maybe someone within your circle but not one of you."

Winchester looks thoughtful and taps his chin. "Yeah, I thought that too."

Justice stands next to me. "What are you two up to?"

"Come on, let's take a ride. See who's getting a shipment down by the docks." Winchester smiles. "You can ride with Highway."

"He's here?"

"Yeah, you didn't check your surroundings." Winchester nods to a lone figure in the corner of the bar.

Shit, I didn't even look to see if there were any threats in the bar.

Some investigative journalist I am.

Highway stands and crosses the room. One side of his mouth kicks up, but he looks anything but pleased to see me.

"Gwen's with you. We're going to check out the docks. If this is what we think it is, maybe they'll show their hand."

"We're supposed to have a pickup tonight?" asks Highway.

"Yeah, but with everything that's happened, Creed had me move the pickup, but only he and I know that. If someone was after our shipment, maybe they thought taking us out would make it easy pickings."

Highway crosses his arms across his chest. "And you're only telling us this now?"

Winchester chuckles. "Need to know, and you didn't need to know, but now you do." He raises his chin at Justice. "You got the walkies and binoculars?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Let's roll then."

***

The darkness envelops us like a thick cloak as we hunker down outside the warehouse. I'm pressed against the cold, unforgiving metal of a shipping container, the stench of rust and decay thick in my nostrils. Highway crouches beside me, all coiled power and dark intensity. His presence is both a comfort and a spark in the tinderbox of my adrenaline.

"Movement," Winchester murmurs into the comms, his voice a ghost in the static.

I peer through the binoculars, catching sight of shadowy figures moving crates with methodical haste. They're oblivious to our watchful eyes, cockroaches scuttling in the open unaware.

"Got it," Justice confirms from his perch high above on a decrepit fire escape. His silhouette merges with the darkness.

"Fuckers," Feral spits beside me, his disdain palpable even in the scant light. "They think they can steal from us?"

"Focus," I snap, my finger itching on my camera's trigger. "Need clear shots." Click after click, I document their sins.

"Easy there, ace," Highway whispers, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my bones. He reaches out, steadying my hand.

"Thanks," I breathe out, surprised by the flutter in my chest. It's ridiculous—this isn't the time for whatever electric current is arcing between us. But damn, if it doesn't make me feel alive.

"Anytime," he replies, a corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that's all danger and promise.

We sit in silence, watching them load crates into the backs of several trucks.

"Who are they?" I ask.

Highway glances at Winchester, who nods. "Crimson Wheelers MC. They're new to Jacksonville."

"No, they fucking ain't. They've been here for a year," loud whispers Feral. "Creed said we should have moved them on, and now look at what they've done."

Highway scowls at him. "They're big in New Orleans. Lately, they've been expanding."

My gaze drifts back to the MC members, oblivious to their impending downfall, a spiderweb of deceit they can't see. And the Royal Bastards are the spiders, patient and deadly.

"Got enough?" Highway asks, his hand resting lightly on my back, grounding me.

"Enough to bury them," I confirm, feeling the weight of responsibility tighten around my shoulders.

"Then let's get the hell out of here."

We fade back into the shadows, a seamless retreat. There's work to do, a club to protect, and my personal feelings have to wait.

"Good work tonight," Highway says once we're a safe distance away, his gaze meeting mine in the moonlight. "But next time you want answers, you ask me. You don't go off on your own."

"I'm really sorry. It's just you all have this man code, and I didn't think you'd share anything with me, but I can help. Hell, I have helped." I hold up the camera. "These images again prove it's the Crimson Wheelers. But who is giving them the orders?"

"If it's not the Khans, that only leaves one other cartel who would oppose us."

"Who?"

Highway looks up at the dark sky and then back at me. "Between you and me and not to go any further?"

"Yes," I reply without hesitation.

"Has to be the Diablos. They're the only ones big enough to strike at us. We have a long history with them, but lately, it's been strained. They could be using the Wheelers to push us out."

Surprised at his confession, I say, "I didn't think you'd tell me."

"A wise man said if I trust you, I need to let you in, but make it clear you can't discuss it with anyone."

"I won't."

Highway smiles down at me. "I know."

The Royal Bastards are a unit, stronger together. And somehow, I've breached their walls, and I'm in the inner circle.

All of us go back to where we left the bikes.

Highway gets on his Harley and holds his hand out to me. With a quick motion, I climb on and wrap my arms around his waist.

"Where to?"

Highway places a hand over my own. "Back to the clubhouse. We show Creed your photos and plan our next move."

***

My heart hammers in my chest as I walk into the dimly lit clubhouse, the heavy door slamming shut behind me. The others are already here—Winchester, Justice, Creed, and Reaper—all fierce eyes and clenched jaws.

"What was in the crates that the Crimson Wheelers took?" I ask.

Creed grins. "Powdered sugar, mostly." His arm is in a sling, and he winces as he shifts in his seat. "You've got pictures?"

"Yeah."

"Good." His gaze lands on Winchester. "Anything else?"

"We've got a rat."

Creed cocks his head to the side, his features a mask of anger. "One of us?"

Winchester shakes his head. "I don't think so, but someone we trust."

"For fuck's sake, Winchester, who do you think?" demands Creed.

"It has to be someone who goes unnoticed, but we feel comfortable talking in front of them."

All eyes come to me.

I hold up my hands. "Not me. I would never betray the club."

"Not you, but a female?" Creed's gaze sharpens as he redirects his attention back to Winchester.

"Yeah, it's what I'm thinking or a prospect, but that's unlikely." Winchester screws up his face in a scowl. "Or a brother's family member who overheard them talk about the rally and the delivery."

The men go quiet, each lost in their thoughts.

Highway points at me. "You could find out."

"Me? How?"

"You're new, and if Winchester is right, you'd be in a better position to find out who helped them. Make friends with the women, find out their secrets." Highway looks at Creed, who nods. "I can feel out the prospects, and maybe Reaper and Winchester might see if there's anyone linked to our members who's disgruntled."

Creed chuckles and looks at me. "You keep sticking your nose in where it's not wanted. We could let the club know you're housebound until we decide what to do with you. This could make the rat befriend you."

"Creed, how many women are around the club?" I ask.

"A lot. We don't talk business in front of them, but…" he points at Reaper before he says, "… if someone is having his dick sucked, he might let something slip."

Reaper stands. "The only person sucking my dick is Lucy, and she wouldn't tell anyone anything." Spittle flies from his lips, and his eyes blaze with anger.

"Calm down, Reap."

"You're making accusations about my woman. How would you feel if I implied it was Devil?"

Creed's lips turn down, and he tilts his head. "You have a point."

Winchester interjects, "It's not going to be an Ol' Lady."

"How do you know?" Creed asks.

"I don't for sure, but unless someone…" he smirks at Reaper, "… is letting someone other than their Ol' Lady suck their dick, they're loyal. Gotta be a club whore or a hanger-on. It's where Gwen should start."

Reaper smiles. "Can't call her Gwen. She needs a name." He quirks an eyebrow at Highway. "Lyric?"

"What? No. What's wrong with Gwen?" I ask.

"I like it. Lyric is all about the words," says Highway.

"How does that make sense?" The men all ignore me as they nod in agreement with Reaper. "Gwen is shorter. I like being called Gwen."

Creed stands. "Lyric, welcome to the clubhouse. Be careful, and from here on out, you belong to Highway."

"Wait!" Justice stands. "Why him?"

Creed smirks. "If you have to ask, you haven't been paying attention." He points at Highway. "Keep her safe. I need rest. Painkillers are wearing off, and this hurts like a bitch."

"Hold on a minute. Do I get a say in all of this?"

The men exchange a glance before Creed says, "You could have gotten yourself killed by following the Khans. We saved your life, and because you are so eager to help, we're going to let you."

"No, it's not that. I don't mind helping, but why do I belong to Highway?"

Reaper laughs. "Maybe it's not just Justice who hasn't been paying attention." He quirks an eyebrow at Highway. "You got this?"

He nods. "Yeah, I've got this."