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A loud moan from Poppy’s room drew my attention, and I glanced in to see her tossing restlessly in her sleep.
“I gotta go, man. Just keep me posted on the whole Faye thing if you guys find anything, and I’ll be back at the clubhouse tonight,” I said, preparing to end the call.
“You got it, Bossman,” Compass replied, his voice tinged with respect. “Take care of yourself.”
I ended the call and pocketed my phone, steeling myself for the challenges that lay ahead. As I stepped back into Poppy’s room, she seemed to settle at the sound of my presence. I brushed her hair from her face, feeling a pang of guilt for the role I had played in bringing this chaos upon her.
Poppy had brought a shitstorm down on the club, but deep down, I knew she wasn’t to blame.
Craig Gibbs and Boone Drake were to blame, and they were going to pay for what they had done.
Chapter Four
Poppy
My heart sank as I stepped into my trashed apartment. Every drawer in the kitchen had been emptied, their contents strewn across the floor like debris after a storm.
“Oh my god,” I gasped, unable to comprehend the destruction before me.
“Holy fuck,” Yarder grunted, his voice heavy with disbelief as he surveyed the chaos.
“Why?” I whispered, my voice barely above a whimper as I tried to make sense of it all.
Yarder kicked at a broken glass on the floor, his frustration evident. “Normally, when you toss a place, you’re looking for something,” he mused aloud, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I don’t have anything,” I insisted, feeling a sense of helplessness wash over me. “I barely have enough money to pay rent every month, let alone buy a bunch of things someone would want to steal.”
Yarder glanced at me, his expression darkening. “They weren’t looking to steal anything, babe. They were trying to send a point your way,” he suggested, his voice laced with bitterness.
“Point?” I echoed, my confusion obvious as I followed him into the kitchen.
Yarder seemed upset as he walked over to the counter and pulled out a knife that had been stabbed into the top. My hand flew to my mouth in shock as I read the words etched into the counter: “You failed. You die.”
“That would be the point they’re trying to get across, babe,” Yarder remarked grimly, tossing the knife onto the counter with a sense of finality. “Grab whatever shit you want, and let’s get back to the clubhouse,” he ordered, his voice clipped and authoritative.
I shook my head, panic rising within me. “They’re going to come after me, Yarder. I already sent them to you with my car. I can’t let you bring me to the clubhouse. They’re going to come there,” I protested, my voice trembling with fear. “I’ve already made such a mess of everything. Just leave me here.”
“That’s what I want, babe. You’re not leaving my sight,” Yarder replied, his tone low and firm. “Pack your shit. Now,” he ordered.
I didn’t argue. I headed to my bedroom, which was no better than the living room and kitchen, with clothes, books, and records scattered haphazardly as if a tornado had torn through the room. With trembling hands, I grabbed a bag from my closet and began picking through the clothes that had been carelessly strewn across the floor. There wasn’t much to begin with, but seeing it all in disarray only served to highlight the pitiful state of my life.
“What about your job, babe?” Yarder called from the kitchen, his voice a distant echo in the chaos.
I ducked into the bathroom to grab a toothbrush and hairbrush and zipped my bag shut. I made my way to the kitchen, my mind racing with worry. “I don’t work until tomorrow. I had yesterday and today off,” I explained, trying to focus on practical matters.
Yarder nodded, his expression unreadable. “You’re gonna have to call them and let them know you aren’t going to be in for a while.”
“What?” I protested, my voice rising in panic. “I need to work, Yarder. I need money to live.” Was he crazy to think that I could just not go to work for a while? He knew how much I struggled with money, especially now that my car was gone; things were going to be even harder.
He grabbed my bag and looked down at it, his expression inscrutable. “This is all you’re bringing with?” he asked, his voice softening slightly.
I nodded, feeling a pang of shame at my lack of possessions. “Some clothes and my toothbrush,” I admitted, feeling the weight of my poverty settle over me like a heavy blanket. “Do I need more than that?”
He shook his head, his eyes betraying a hint of sadness. “No, babe. Let’s go.”
He took my hand in his and led me out of the apartment, my heart heavy with worry and anxiety for what lay ahead.
The club had left a pickup truck for us at the hospital. Part of me had been disappointed when I saw it—I had hoped for Yarder’s bike, a familiar symbol of freedom and escape—but I couldn’t afford to be picky about transportation now. Hell, I didn’t even have a car anymore.
