Page 37 of Property of Quake

The older woman studies the three of us before moving toward the door. “I’ll help you two pack your bags,” she says and then disappears out of the office.

“Did she say bags?” Whitney asks.

“Yep.”

“So we might stay more than one night?” Melissa asks, hope in her tone.

“I guess so.”

I might not have come up with the idea, but I’m fucking glad Sister Beatrice did because the more I think about it, the more right it feels. Until we know what happened to Melissa, who hurt her, she’s not safe here.

Doesn’t hurt that the pretty nun is along for the ride.

I pull my truck keys out of my pocket and usher them into the entrance hall.

“I’ll go warm up the truck while you pack.”

12

WHITNEY

Ispend the entire drive questioning every decision that has led me to this moment: a child asleep in the backseat of a biker’s pickup truck, me beside him, and we’re headed to a motorcycle clubhouse in the middle of the night.

Okay, not quite the middle of the night, but it might as well be for as nervous I am.

If someone had described this scenario to me a week ago, I would have suggested they go to the hospital to get their head checked.

Melissa falls asleep fifteen minutes into the drive, the whole ordeal catching up to her and manifesting as exhaustion. When we first started to pull away from Sacred Haven, she was clutching my hand. Now she’s curled up with her head in my lap, and I’m absently running my fingers through her hair.

Before I know it, we’re pulling into a parking lot in the middle of nowhere, and a spike of fear tingles my spine.

“I thought we were going to your clubhouse,” I say.

“Relax,” Quake encourages. “This is the clubhouse. It’s an old airplane hangar.”

“Oh.”

“You were expecting a house,” he says matter-of-factly, and I nod. “Trust me, this is way better.”

Trust me.

It’s a simple enough statement, and I suppose I do trust him. Why else would I have agreed to this ridiculous plan?

Quake parks his truck at the end of a long row of motorcycles, and the moment he opens his door, music from inside the clubhouse filters to my ears. It’s loud, as are the voices coming with it.

“Stay there,” he says. “I’ll get her.”

He shuts his door, not letting it slam so he doesn’t wake her. A moment later, he’s pulling open the passenger door.

“You don’t have to get her,” I say.

His expression tells me just how stupid he thinks my statement is. “I know. But I will anyway.”

He gently lifts Melissa into his arms, and she barely stirs other than to rest her head against his chest.

What I wouldn’t give to be there right now.

And it’s that kind of thinking that makes this a terrible idea.