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A loud honk blasted expectantly, reminding her of the prospect waiting to drive her to the hospital. Climbing into the backseat of his tricked-out 1966 Chevy Chevelle, she shoved aside the idea of potentially being adopted by a stray cat in favor of texting Ryder.
Tiffany: How’s Darkness?
Ryder: He woke up for a bit. He was in a lot of pain, and they gave him something for it.
Tiffany: You’re still worried about him, aren’t you?
Ryder: Fuck no. He’s tough as nails.
Staring down at his response, Tiffany bit her bottom lip. Ryder was a complicated man. Since Darkness was his club president, he had a moral and professional obligation to see to the man’s safety. Being the Sargent at Arms ensured that issues relating to the safety and security of his club brothers landed squarely in his lap. Darkness was also one of his closest friends. She knew seeing the man get shot right in front of him had left Ryder all kinds of messed up about it.
The only real question was if he was marginalizing the situation to keep her from worrying or to enable himself to remain calm and get through the hospital piece without tracking the shooter down. Instead of pressuring him, she opted for just being supportive.
Tiffany: Want me to bring you a burger?
Ryder: Nah, I got something on the way over.
Tiffany: See you in a bit handsome.
Ryder: Wait. They need you at the clubhouse.
Tiffany: Did someone get hurt?
Ryder: Don’t freak out, I’m meeting you there.
Tiffany: What the heck is going on?
Ryder: Tell you when I get there. Just don’t freak out until I arrive.
Tiffany: Sure thing, babe.
Tiffany felt her blood pressure skyrocketing as she put her phone away. He had to know that telling her not to freak out would have the exact opposite effect. Attempting to do as he said, she tried some deep breathing techniques followed by counting to ten—repeatedly—before finally giving up.
Fine, she’d just freak now and get it over with. Before she could get her head around the situation and tell mister prospect Cork to take her to the clubhouse, his phone buzzed. His ringtone sounded like a mad hornet or bumble bee. It was all kinds of weird.
He answered it on the first buzz. “Yeah, boss, I’m hearing ya loud and clear.” He listened for a second, then flipped the phone off and slid it back into his pocket. “Change of plans, Miss Tiffany.”
“I know. We’re heading to the clubhouse. Any idea why?”
Glancing nervously in his rearview mirror, he pulled off the road and turned the vehicle around. “They told me to tell you not to freak.”
Of course they did. Sometimes she wondered if the brothers operated on a hive mentality.
Slumping back in the seat, she was glad that she’d thought to stow a good-quality, first-aid bag at the clubhouse. It must have been some kind of five-alarm emergency if it required her to be repeatedly told not to freak. Her head filled with images of multiple gunshot wounds. Surely, they’d take them to the hospital if that were the case, right? Maybe there had been an accident of some sort.
Cork got her there in record time, grabbed the first-aid kit, and took her straight down into the basement—the basement that she never knew was there. A cold chill crept down her spine as they descended the concrete steps.
After hitting the bottom step, she understood why. It was set up like some kind of old-fashioned jail. There were two large rooms on either side with metal floor-to-ceiling bars and doors that swung on old, rusted hinges. No windows or any furniture, other than cots and a chair sitting almost in front of the door. One of the brothers she barely recognized was sitting in the chair with his massive arms crossed over his chest. She thought his name was Knife or something like that. Long, stringy brown hair hung down both sides of his face, barely covering scars on his cheeks.
Cork tapped him out. “Go take a break, Knave. I’ve got this.”
The man stood, towering over them for a brief moment before stalking up the steps. There was only one other person present, and she was ensconced safely behind bars. Looking her over, Tiffany decided she was pretty tough. The woman had long, red hair braided down her back and the most beautiful green eyes. Though she appeared to be in her mid-thirties, her clothing of worn leather bore no club affiliations. She clutched the bars with both hands, jerking on them with all her might.
“Let me the hell out of here. This is kidnapping. You can’t keep me here.”
Slamming his hand against the bars, Cork barked, “Shut your pie hole, if you want the nice nurse to have a look at your shoulder.”
Stepping back so he could open the door, she glared at him. “I wouldn’t have that bullet hole if your guy hadn’t shot me in the first place.”
