Chapter 9

Ariana

9

Guilt is a dangerous feeling.

Most therapists advise against holding on to it, yet I can't seem to shake it. Then again, I can't shake any negative emotions while I'm a prisoner in this place. And having slept with Sky isn't helping matters.

My thoughts keep rushing back and forth while I anxiously pace the room, waiting for another day to pass. It's still early, though, not even noon. My heart thuds frantically with every sound I hear coming from the hallway, but nobody comes in. It's a particularly quiet day.

I'm angry and frustrated and turned on whenever Sky comes to mind. Last night was better and more beautiful than I ever imagined it would be, yet I cannot reconcile the image of my kidnapper with the tender and passionate man who claimed me.

What's even worse, his friends keep lingering in my thoughts, too. I had a close call with Kendric that still makes my blood pressure spike. And Raylan's sunny smile and Southern charm do quite the number on my loins.

It's wrong on so many levels, and it's distracting me from my main goal—which is to regain my freedom by any means necessary.

Sky comes in just as I'm about to start working on the window bars again. I quickly hide the screw in my pocket and turn around to face him with a sour face. "What do you want?" I ask, my tone flat and snappy.

"Just checking in," he calmly replies.

Something is different about him. He's warmer, softer. His eyes keep searching my face while he is actively trying to keep himself cool and uncaring. His body seems stiff, but his gaze is annoyingly tender. He's making it incredibly hard for me to hate him or even be mad at him.

"I'm fine; you can leave me alone," I say, crossing my arms defiantly.

"Ariana, I think it's time that you and I had a serious talk about what's going on here," he says.

"Why? I mean, what's there to talk about? I'm your prisoner; you're using me to get back at my father, and last night shouldn't have happened. I'm well aware of the facts; don't worry."

"See, that's just it. There are nuances to this whole thing," Sky says and takes a step forward, but I give him a sharp look, and he knows to stay put. Frankly, I'm surprised to see him so eager to respect this boundary of mine. "Ariana, I don't regret what happened last night."

"Of course you don't," I scoff.

"I loved every fucking second of it, and I know you did, too. Your body doesn't lie," he says, and I'm already squirming by the window. Stupid body, so quick to betray me again. "But I won't touch you from here on out, not unless you want me to."

"Oh, what a relief."

He smiles subtly, his gaze scanning me from top to bottom again as if he's reading my very soul, and all I can do is stand motionless, secretly wishing for him just to come over and take me in his arms and consume me like he did last night. "We're not doing this for money," Sky says. "We didn't kidnap you for ransom or anything like that."

"Right."

"And I know words aren't enough to make you believe that there's actually a higher purpose to this. But if I show you, if I give you a chance to meet the rest of the club, I'm hoping that maybe you'll understand."

I give him a surprised look. "You're letting me out of this room?"

"Under strict conditions," he says. "One wrong move and you will spend the rest of your time here."

He's serious. That much I can always tell solely from his tone of voice. These are men I don't wish to cross. Regardless of their intentions, I'm still a prisoner, I'm still at their mercy, and they can still do the unthinkable in order to protect themselves and their mission. Spike has been pretty clear about that more than once in the days since I've been here. They're good men until they're not, is what he alluded to.

"Fine. How are we going to do this, then?" I ask, choosing the peaceful path.

I'll remain vigilant. I will analyze every single option while I'm out of this room. If I see an opportunity to flee, I will absolutely take it. But until then, I'll do as I'm told. I'll play nice and obey my captors if only to gather more information about what they're doing.

Maybe I'll get my hands on a better tool for these stupid bars, too. The screw isn't working fast enough, and I'm not sure how much time I've got left before something inadvertently goes sideways.

"You'll never leave my side," Sky says.

"Not even if I have to use the bathroom?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.

"I'll be right outside the stall."

"Talk about a breach of privacy," I mutter.

"It's either that or you can just stay in here. But I'd much rather you see for yourself the kind of people we are. Maybe then you'll understand a few things."

"What am I supposed to understand, exactly?" I shoot back. "You're violent, ruthless criminals. You broke into my home and abducted me. I already have all the information I need."

"You'll see," Sky replies with a half-smile.

Ten minutes later, we're walking down the stairs.

It's the first time that I get to actually see the clubhouse with its sprawling bar and leather seats, dining booths, vintage jukebox, dart boards, and pool tables. It's actually kind of nice and homey.

From what I understand, the Steel Knights MC is relatively new on the motorcycle scene, with about ten or twelve years of activity—a lot of it illegal—according to my father and the press. But this looks like a legitimate place of business, with biker memorabilia and famous memoirs occupying every single decorative space.

It's also pretty busy, and there's an inviting smell wafting from the kitchen. Servers are bringing out all sorts of wonderful-looking plates and baskets for their customers, including burgers and fries, pecan or cherry pie, pizza, and pasta.

Speaking of their customers, they strike me as an interesting mixed bag.

There are the Knights themselves, easily distinguished by their ragged jeans, black shirts, and black leather vests with the appropriate insignia. They hang in groups and occasionally exchange banter between one table and another. Some of them are busy around the pool tables.

Then there are the locals. I'm guessing they're from the edges and outskirts of Everton, most of them working folks who tend to the gas stations, the production plants, and the factories nearby. There are also a few barflies, and judging by their skimpy outfits and the way they giggle with the bartenders, they're regulars looking to bag themselves a biker so they never have to work a stripper pole again.

It's the usual recipe for any clubhouse, or so I've been told.

"There she is," Spike exclaims from behind the bar as soon as he sees me, a wide smile brightening up his face. "How are you doing, honey?"

"Just peachy," I bluntly reply.

Rule number one, according to Sky, is that I stay in his line of sight at all times. Fine, I can live with that. For now. Rule number two is that I have to wear a cap and an oversized plaid shirt while I'm down here to avoid being recognized.

Sky doesn't want anyone to know it's me, which makes sense and leads me to rule number three—don't talk to anyone. There's a voice in my head telling me to be grateful that I'm getting this much out of this wretched deal and to keep my big mouth shut, no pun intended.

"Remember rule number four," Sky says as we take a couple of seats at the bar.

"Don't try to escape or signal I'm in distress to anyone, including club members," I mutter, reciting the rules he insisted upon prior to leaving my room. "Yeah, I got it."

"I'm glad you brought her down here," Spike tells Sky.

"Limited time only," he replies. "I wanted Randy to meet some of the folks here."

Randy. That's rule number five. My name is Randy, if anybody asks. I give Spike a dry smirk. "While I'm visiting, he wants me to be nice and social," I say with a Southern twang, hoping to mock it enough to piss Sky off just a little bit.

"You're not going to make this any easier, huh?" Sky whispers my way.

"All these rules and no room for fun? Hell, no," I shoot back.

Spike chuckles softly and leans forward. "How about a beer, Randy? It's past noon."

"I am not legal yet," I say, loud enough for some of the customers to hear me. I know I'm pushing all of Sky's buttons with this one, but I'm entitled to emotional compensation, at least, and making him look bad feels oddly appropriate.

"Ginger ale for the kid," Sky plays along, then looks at me. "Have a look around. Tell me what you see."

I do just that, taking in everything and hoping there's a grain of salt for every detail that might make me like these people more than I should. I'm still a prisoner here, after all. I just don't want to spend the rest of my captivity locked up. "Club members," I mumble. "Do they know who I am?"

"Nope," Sky shakes his head, and I find myself genuinely surprised. "Only Kendric, Raylan, Spike, and Shiloh are aware of your presence here. To everyone else, you're my out-of-state friend, Randy."

"Friend," I can't help but giggle.

"The fewer people know, the better," Sky replies. "The club members wouldn't have a problem with what we're doing, to be honest. Hell, we got the idea from one of them. Chances are, some of the members will recognize you if they get close enough, but they know how to keep their mouths shut and their noses out of our business. These are tough times. They understand."

"Wow, sounds like quite the conspiracy," I say.

"It's not. It's just people trying to look out for other people, but we can't exactly do that while the mayor of Everton insists on vilifying us on a daily basis."

I offer a mildly uninterested shrug, not wanting Sky to know that I'm actually enjoying my time out of the cage.

"See that guy over there?" Spike asks, nodding at an older gentleman in club attire while pouring my ginger ale into a tall glass. "That's Harry. His father was mayor in the early 60s. He works at the local DMV branch. He loves building model planes. Kendric actually orders these super-rare, special-edition plane models from Europe for the old guy every month, just to bring a smile to his face."

I stare at the guy for a while, wondering how my brain is able to switch its perception so quickly. At first glance, Harry struck me as a big, burly, and likely dangerous man with sleeve tattoos and a penchant for violence. With Spike's information added, however, I can absolutely see this man in a pale blue shirt, stamping forms at the DMV every day, then spending his weekends in the shed behind his house, building a new coffee table for his old lady.

"Okay," I murmur, trying to wrap my brain around this information until I spot another club member whom I would absolutely consider calling the cops on if he so much as looked in my direction. "What about him?" I nod his way.

He's tall, lanky, and covered in tattoos and piercings. Even half of his face is inked up, and a clump of shaggy black hair hangs over his forehead while he bends over the pool table to hit the eight ball. His friends cheer him on while his opponent glowers at the kid, waiting for the shot.

"That's Elmo," Spike says, "one of Kendric's distant cousins. We picked him out of a county jail a couple of years back. The kid was a mess, but the club turned his life around. He was a prospect until last autumn, when we made him a full-fledged member. He earned his tresses and then some."

"What does he do for a living, then? Florist? Cashier at a bank?" I snort a dry chuckle.

Sky gives me a hard look. "He works at the Everton Community Center down on LaSalle," he says. "A government employee, I might add. Deals with at-risk kids, doing his best to place them in better foster homes while their parents go through the legal system for various wrongdoings."

"Oh." I feel like an asshole.

Something tells me that my privilege is starting to show. I've only ever had my father's version of events, along with whatever the media said about the Steel Knights. What if my father hasn't been entirely truthful about the club? Or maybe he's just gotten it all wrong all this time?

I could blame the media. Easily.

"Your father knows," Sky says, as if reading my mind."He knows who we are and what we do. He also knows what we had to do, at least in the beginning, just to get the club off the ground and gain access to the more dangerous territories in Everton."

"You have no idea what the city was like before we came up," Spike adds with a furrowed brow. "You were just a kid, Randy."

"Oh, I remember the news," I reply.

"But you weren't out in the streets," Sky says. "You had a silver spoon in your mouth and didn't give a shit about anyone else. Besides, the media isn't always truthful, often reporting what they feel will make the best story, not what actually happened."

It's hurtful to hear that. True, but still hurtful. I retort with the only thing I've got. "At least I don't go around kidnapping women."

"We're doing whatever we can to turn the tide back in favor of the people," Spike says. "Your father has only been serving his own interests, not the community's. And in the process—"

"He's been slinging mud at our name over and over," Sky says, then points at a couple sitting in one of the booths. Both of them are elderly and clearly in love after plenty of years while they share a milkshake and a large basket of sweet potato fries. "See those two over there?"

I nod once.

Spike can't stop himself from smiling warmly whenever he glances their way. "They used to own this place," he says. "It was a rundown diner. The whole area was deserted. Just dust rolling up, dirt gathering in every corner, and cars driving by while the Waverlys were struggling to cover the mortgage."

"So, you saved them," I reply.

"We gave them another shot at a peaceful retirement," Sky says. "Their pension fund is a joke after all their years of hard work. It didn't seem fair, and we needed a safe place to call home. So, we bought the entire property from Ben and Martha fifteen years ago. They were able to keep their house behind this place, and they get to eat and drink here as often as they want for free."

"They're good people," Spike adds. "And generous tippers."

"Ever since we took over and renovated the diner and made it into our clubhouse, it's rejuvenated the entire area. People from all parts of Everton come in for our beer and burgers, for the weekend games on TV, and for the occasional poker tournament," Sky says.

"Yet for all your generosity and nobility, you still resorted to kidnapping me to get your point across to the big, bad mayor, right?"

As Spike pulls away to serve other customers, I see the frustrated twitch in his jaw. I'm not making it any easier on anybody. Maybe I should dial it down a smidge. My injured ego is getting the better of me.

"We didn't have a choice," Sky says, a heavy sigh rolling out from the bottom of his broad chest. "Hang around here for a while, Randy. You'll see for yourself."

And I do. To my unspoken shame, I do. As the hours go by, I get to eat and drink and watch people come in and out of the clubhouse. I'm relegated to a corner booth with Sky while he works on his laptop and deals with all sorts of paperwork. Hell, if I didn't know any better, I'd think it's just another day at the office for him. Eventually, Kendric and Raylan join us as the evening falls over the clubhouse.

It's not as crowded at this hour, but according to Sky, it's because it's a weeknight. It gets busier from Thursday on as people get giddier about the weekend. The clubhouse is an escape for most. A place to sit back, relax, and have a good meal, a place to meet with friends, play pool or darts, and watch a game on the massive TV. I see no signs of illegal activity anywhere, and it's making me feel worse with each passing minute.

"How are you coming along?" Kendric asks me at one point.

I sit in my corner by the window, struggling to finish an otherwise delicious slice of pecan pie. Even the Coke won't go down right, but that's because I'm actually starting to see these people with my own eyes. I may have been a victim of manipulation, and there's no getting away from that kind of sentiment. I need to let it go through me in order to lose the sensation altogether.

"I'm great; what can I say?" I reply in a sarcastic tone. "Still a prisoner, in case you were wondering."

"And still snappy," he chuckles.

But his focus is more on Raylan tonight, as is Sky's. Raylan is quieter than usual. Not smiling at all. "Are you okay?" I hear myself asking. Why the hell am I worried about him?

"Not really, but thank you for asking," Raylan says without so much as looking at me.

Why does that bother me? He's usually the sunny one, always looking to take the edge off everything. So why do I feel the need to make him feel better, knowing he's not okay? Oh, God, I think the Stockholm Syndrome is starting to kick in.

"Any word on Manny?" Sky asks him.

Raylan shakes his head.

"He'll turn up," Kendric says. "I've asked the prospects to scour the whole neighborhood until they find him. He couldn't have gone far in his condition."

"Who's Manny?" I wonder aloud.

No one answers my question. Instead, Raylan shocks the shit out of me by suggesting a trip outside of the clubhouse. Kendric clears his throat. "You must've lost your goddamn mind on your way back here. Her face is plastered all over the news; we can't exactly take her out on the town."

"Why not?" I interject. "I'm Randy with this ballcap on. I'd be wearing a helmet if you take me out on your bikes."

Sky snickers. "You're always looking for ways to escape, aren't you?"

"No, I'm genuinely curious," I reply with a shrug. "Okay, I'll admit, I'm not entirely convincing, but you can still show me whatever Raylan wants me to see. Where's the harm?"

"All right, then," Sky declares, finishing his beer before turning his laptop off and putting it away. "You should go upstairs and get some sleep. We'll have to be up and early if we're going to do this."

I'm quiet and obedient as Raylan escorts me upstairs. There's a pang in my heart over leaving the people downstairs behind. The atmosphere is pleasant and warm, welcoming and quaint, certainly not the den of Everton's most dangerous and reviled criminals.

The more I think about it, the more ridiculous the whole story seems. It's not like they were all putting on a good show for me. It doesn't work like that.

"Who's Manny?" I ask Raylan again as we make our way down the dark, narrow hallway. My room is at the very end, a bookcase blocking my view of it from this angle. I'm pretty sure they use it to mask my door in case anybody comes upstairs looking for me.

"This kid I tried to look after, one of many. It's a long story," he sighs, keeping his gaze down in what I can only interpret as quiet defeat.

There's pain in his eyes, and it plucks at my heartstrings, which is ridiculous because he's still one of my kidnappers. But sympathy be damned, I guess we're doing this. "Wanna tell me about it?" I ask.

He opens the door to my room, and I go in. He lingers in the doorway, his arms crossed as he watches me intently.

"Do you really want to know, Ariana?"

Up here, it's my real name again. I nod with confidence as I sit on the windowsill, screw still in my pocket. "I do, yes."

He steps into the room, taking a deep breath before speaking. "Until a few years ago, I helped the Sweet Mother of Mercy orphanage as well as I could. Some of it in the way of donations, money, food drives and charity events, that kind of stuff," Raylan says. "I came up in the system, so I knew what those kids were going through, and I cared about them. I wanted them to have a better shot at life, to know that they weren't forgotten. People don't exactly line up to adopt children over the age of five."

"They don't?"

He shakes his head once. "Most couples want their adopted children to be as young as possible so they can raise them properly so that they can mold their habits and personalities. The trouble with older kids is that they come with vivid trauma responses: PTSD, uncontrolled rage, attitude, you get the point. Anyway, I looked after them and the nuns in charge of the place as best I could. One day, a town councilman came along to let the sisters know that the orphanage would be closing down."

"Oh no …"

"Yeah. Guess who that councilman was?"

"Oh."

Perhaps I should be more surprised. I knew about some of his back-door deals, the hands he shook, and the people he accepted money from—people who would raise eyebrows if the public ever got wind of it. But I never gave it too much thought. As long as he got elected, I believed that he would use the office to do good. Once my father took office, he'd work for the people. That was the original idea, anyway.

Apparently, he'd lied to me as much as he'd lied to his constituents.

"He promised he'd get the city to invest in a community center in lieu of the orphanage. The building was old, condemned, yadda, yadda. They had reason to tear it down, I guess," Raylan continues, and I listen in absolute silence as he tells me all about how my father—the almighty and self-righteous Henry David—lied through his teeth in order to get as little resistance as possible while he snatched that property from under the church's feet. "I don't know how he did it in the first place, but the city bought back the land."

"And they never built the community center that my father promised."

"No, they did not."

Then he goes on to tell me about how he tried his best to keep an eye on the kids after the orphanage was shut down. They all went to different foster homes. They vanished into the system and slipped through the cracks. Many of them were never to be seen or heard from again, except a handful who remained in Everton after they came of age.

"Manny is the sole survivor," Raylan says. "The rest of them died over the past couple of years. One died today. Manny's friend. He overdosed."

"I'm so sorry," I say, my voice trembling with emotion.

I understand now. I can almost feel his pain coursing through my veins, and I'd give anything to be able to touch him. As if summoned, my brain shuts down, and my feet carry me away from the window. Alarms flare up in my head, but I can't do anything about it. Raylan gives me a surprised look when he sees me coming over, yet he doesn't move an inch.

Instead, he holds his breath as I put my arms around his waist. What in God's green earth am I doing, hugging my kidnapper? It doesn't matter. It feels too good to let go, and I feel him instantly relaxing as he responds to my embrace. His arms come around me like the loving branches of a tree, his warmth filling me to the brim as I quietly breathe him in.

He shudders ever so slightly, his cheek pressed against mine.

Heat spreads through my core, my heart expanding as I realize I actually feel at peace with Raylan around. To be perfectly honest with myself, I don't feel scared when I'm with Sky or Kendric, either. Despite the circumstances, I find my heart jumping for completely different reasons whenever I'm close to them.

"I'm genuinely sorry," I say to Raylan.

He exhales sharply and pulls back to look at me. The hazel pools of his eyes twinkle with an eerie, sweet familiarity as he cups my face. Before I can stop him, he kisses me, and I lose my senses altogether. I lose my mind and my ability to reason. I can only welcome his lips onto mine, taste him fully, and absorb as much of his grief as I possibly can through this simple yet profound gesture.

It's not a hungry kiss. It's not an aggressive kiss.

It's strangely tender and all-encompassing as if our lips have met before in other lifetimes, in eras long gone. His tongue swirls and plays with mine, and it feels natural, it feels logical. But Raylan soon comes to his senses and puts an end to it just as my pulse is about to go on the maddest of races.

I'm left standing in front of the door as he mutters an apology and leaves.