by Amber Morgan
She’d wanted to be a pharmacist for as long as she could remember. Her dad’s career in neurology had fascinated her since she was a child, and hearing his passionate dinner-time rants about discoveries and advances in his field had fired her up. Pharmacy seemed like a chance to really help people, as well as be challenged and pushed, every day, and Freya couldn’t think of anything better for a life-long career choice. She’d put off the pre-pharm course for almost two years, working various jobs to put as much money together as possible ahead of starting. She’d wanted to rely on her parents as little as possible, and she’d scraped together just enough money to cover tuition costs when Kayden’s drug problems crashed catastrophically into her life.
There was a sick joke in there somewhere, she thought, unconsciously squeezing Slater tighter. She wanted to spend her life figuring out how drugs affected the human body. So did Kayden, except he wasn’t paying for it himself.
Except he was, a niggling voice whispered. Just … in a different way.
The approaching lights of Warren’s Mill blurred as tears filled her eyes. The nauseating mix of anger, guilt, and fear she’d been surfing on ever since she first found a battered metal pipe, messily wrapped in toilet paper and shoved into the bin of the bathroom they shared, surged up in her again. Her terror of losing her twin wrestled endlessly with her rage at him, and she felt like there was no escaping the maze of her feelings.
But here, now, on the back of Slater’s Harley, she could almost believe it was possible. And she was desperate to cling to that hope.
Warren’s Mill passed in a rush, and suddenly they were on the edge of the town, outside what looked like an old mill. The soft rush of running water echoed through the darkness. The grounds outside the mill were lined with bikes and a few trucks, and the smoldering remains of a fire pit glowed near the doors. The smell of charred wood and toasted marshmallows lingered in the air, suggesting the fire hadn’t been abandoned long. There was something inviting and homely about it, and part of Freya yearned for that. Slipping off the bike, she wavered on her heels, loose gravel setting her off-balance.
Slater steadied her with a hand on her elbow, his touch light but firm. She tried to give him a grateful smile as she pulled the helmet off but was mortified to just hear a glugging sob emerge from her mouth. She tore away from him, scrubbing at her eyes with her arm.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wondering what her upper limit for humiliation was. “It’s been a really shitty night.”
She jumped when he put his arms around her, then relaxed when he pulled her in tight against him, her back to his chest. On another night, she would have resisted, but not tonight. Tonight, she was tired and heartsick and angry, and she didn’t have the energy to question Slater’s motives any more.
“None of this is your fault,” he told her, his breath ruffling her ruined hair. “None of it. You did the right thing getting the hell away from Bello, and you should never have been in the Hot House in the first place.”
She did pull away then, needled by the righteous anger threading his voice. “Don’t hate Kayden,” she said, almost begging. “Addiction is horrible. It changes who you are. That guy, that isn’t my brother, not the real him.”
“I know about addiction,” he said. “And you still shouldn’t have been in there. If I’d know that kind of shit was going on…” He broke off, shaking his head. “Well, it’ll get sorted. Come on, let’s get you inside.”
He slung his arm around her shoulder, a gesture that felt surprisingly—and disappointingly—brotherly and led her around the back of the mill.
“We’re not going in the front?” she asked, craning her neck to look up at him.
He shook his head again. “Straight into the dragons’ den? Nah, I said I’d protect you, didn’t I?” He smiled and, even in the dark, she could see there was nothing brotherly about that.
Heat flushed through her as she remembered again watching him pleasure himself while she danced. She squirmed, wishing the memory didn’t move her so much. A big dick and a soulful pair of eyes meant nothing. She’d never based her relationships on looks alone. Even if she’d met Slater under wildly different circumstances, she wouldn’t have allowed her libido to make her calls, so she absolutely refused to do it now.
She slipped out from under his arm and stared at the ground, keeping an eye for any rocks that might send her flying. It was a convenient excuse for avoiding his gaze. “Is there somewhere inside I can clean up?” she asked.
****
Slater let her pull away, although his body protested fiercely. The feeling of her against him on his bike, her breasts crushed to his back, her arms locked around him so tight, had sparked some very, very unsavory thoughts. He was determined to be a gentleman, given the shit she’d already been through tonight, but there was no denying how much he wanted to touch her. Everything about her made his blood hot and his dick throb, and being a gentleman had never been so fucking hard. Nor had his dick.
He stifled a groan at his chain of filthy thoughts, trying to shake them away. “Yeah, sure. We’ll head upstairs and grab a room. You can shower up there.”
He was putting off seeing Nash, but he appreciated that Freya wouldn’t want to face a bar full of bikers in her stripper gear, with her face smeared with make-up. His sisters would take turns punching him in the balls if he subjected her to that. The thought was an instant erection-killer, which was probably for the best. Never mind that he didn't want any of his brothers seeing her in her stripper gear to start with.
He did take her hand as he guided her through the storeroom at the back of the mill. The only working light in there was flickering madly, and he made a mental note to come change the bulb before one of the patched brothers complained. The floor was scattered with sawdust, the mellow scent of it thick in the air, and the room was stacked high with crates of beer and old advertising signs, rusted and chipped. He liked it back here, but Freya's impractical shoes made it a death trap.
She slipped her hand free as soon as they were in the corridor beyond. He heard music coming from the bar, and clanking in the kitchen, along with the rich scents of garlic and melting cheese. One of the girls was probably cooking pizzas. Past the kitchen, a stairway led upstairs, where officers and patched brothers all had their own rooms, as did the handful of girls who lived here. They could come and go as they pleased. Some guys lived here full-time. Judge and Roxy had, and now Roxy did alone. Nash was here more often than not, although Slater knew he had a house in town too.
For prospects, there were spare rooms, but they were on a first-come, first-served basis. If nothing was free, tough shit. Still, it was comparatively early in the night for guys to be crashing out, so Slater guessed he'd find a room free.
He took Freya to end of the hall and tried a door, relieved to find the room empty. It wouldn't be the first time he'd walked in on one of his brothers balls-deep in a club girl or two. He still had flashbacks to finding Taylor handcuffed to the headboard while Punk... Nope. Don't go there, he chided himself.
The room was clean and sparsely equipped with a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. Basic, but decent.
“It's like student digs,” Freya said, sitting on the bed. She ran her hand over the freshly-washed bed sheets, looking mildly impressed.
“I guess it is, really,” he said. “Prospects are kinda students. Look.” He tapped the door. “This locks, okay? I'm going to see if I can find you some clean clothes from one of the girls. If you feel better locking the door, that's fine.”
He saw her consider it, a mixture of emotions flitting over her face. But she shook her head, giving him a careful but warm smile. “If you say I'm safe, I'm safe.”
He was surprised at how pleased her words made him. After everything he'd learned about her tonight, her trust was a gift. It could be the start of something more between them.
Down boy, he told himself sternly. There was a lot more to do tonight before he could think about that. “I won't be long,” h
e told her, trying to give her a subtle once-over. She was about Tamsin's size, and Tamsin wouldn't mind lending her clothes. Closing the door behind him, he set off to find her. The sooner he got Freya comfortable, the sooner he could take her to Nash.
And that, he sensed, was where the real work would begin.
Chapter Sixteen
Freya kicked off her heels with a sigh and massaged her aching feet. She thought gloomily of the stuff she'd abandoned back at the Hot House. Her purse and cell phone were the most important, but she also had a change of clothes there, including a pair of exceptionally comfortable sneakers that she'd kill for right now. She wasn't sure how she felt about taking clothes from a club girl.
The door clicked open, making her jump. “That was fast—” she started, then faltered when a strange girl entered. The girl froze in the doorway, looking as surprised as Freya was.
“Oh, shit, sorry. Didn't expect anyone to be in here.” She gazed at Freya, eyes raking over her with naked curiosity. “You're new.”
Freya's spine prickled and she wasn't sure why. The girl looked about her age, beautiful with a clear mix of Latin and African-American heritage. Her thick black hair framed a heart-shaped face, and brilliant gold eye shadow drew attention to her striking hazel eyes. Eyes that were super dilated, Freya realized. The girl rubbed her nose and sniffed constantly, and Freya suddenly understood her own apprehension.
“Slater brought me here,” Freya said, trying not to sound defensive. “I can go, though, if—”
“Oh no, no. It's cool. We'll find another room. There are always other rooms. We just usually use this one, 'cause it's the last one down the hall, so everyone else kind of ignores it, but it's cool. Don't worry. Are you a new club girl?”
She drummed her fingernails on the door, foot tapping.
High as a kite, Freya thought. She tried not to be annoyed. It wasn't her business, after all, but bringing Kayden to a place where coke was flowing freely was the worst possible move. A small spark of anger lit in her chest.
“No, I'm—” She hesitated, not sure what she was.
Luckily, she was saved from answering by a second-newcomer. A blond guy in a prospect's cut poked his head in, looking just as coked-up as the girl. “Shit,” he said. “Oh! Hey. It's Belladonna, right?”
Recognition clicked. He was one of the security guards, the one who'd nearly started a fight on his first night. She couldn't remember his name. “Yeah. Hey.”
“You come to give us a show?” he asked with a grin, slipping one arm around the girl's waist. “She does this great thing with her—”
“Zeke?” Slater's voice bounced down the hall, sending a flush of relief through Freya. “Room's taken, man.”
Zeke turned bright red and leapt away from the girl as if electrocuted. “I know! We're fine. We're moving on. Don't wanna cramp your style, man. C'mon, Elena.” He pulled out of the doorway and disappeared.
The girl, Elena, gave Freya a too-bright smile and vanished as well. Freya heard murmurs out in the hall as the two passed Slater, then heard another door open and close nearby.
Slater was frowning when he came in, carrying a pile of clothes.
Freya was sure her own frown matched his perfectly.
“What the fuck?” she demanded as he closed the door. The spark was slowly becoming a fire.
“Sorry,” he said. “Zeke's... He's a good kid, but—”
“He was high,” she said sharply. “So was she. I can't have Kayden in a place like this!”
Slater's frown became confusion. Then he looked stricken, as if she'd slapped him. “That little shit—” He twisted, as if he'd go after the pair, then turned back to Freya, clearly torn.
She watched his inner struggle, nursing her own anger until she decided exactly where to direct it. Obviously, Slater hadn't known Zeke was getting coked up, but the mere fact that he was meant drugs were available here, and Slater must have known that.
Finally, Slater handed her the clothes. He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “One thing at a time,” he said. “Get changed and we'll go check on Kayden, okay?”
Reluctantly, she banked the fires of her anger. As far as she knew, Kayden wasn't into coke, so she'd just have to hope that was all the MC had going around. But if she found him so much as blowing his nose in a way she didn't like, they were getting the fuck out of here, and she was stabbing Slater in the balls with her heels on the way out.
“Fine,” she said, failing to keep the bite from her voice. Why did he have to keep doing things to fuck with her opinion of him? She wanted to like him, wanted to lean on him so badly. “Do you mind waiting in the hall?”
She didn't miss the disappointment in his eyes, but he nodded and left her to change alone. Freya exhaled, blinking back fresh tears. She sorted through the clothes, pleased to find they were basic and inoffensive. A pair of black sweat pants and a zip-up hoodie in black and purple, along with a pair of socks. It was all just a little too small, but she wasn't going to complain. She discarded her skirt and fishnets in exchange for the pants, and zipped the hoodie up over her corset. The only thing missing was a pair of comfier shoes, but if she did decide to make a sharp exit, her heels would do.
“Okay,” she said, joining Slater in the hall. “Where's Kayden?”
He led her back downstairs in silence. She followed, carrying her shoes and drinking in the old mill as they went. It was a beautiful building, clearly well-cared for, which she hadn't expected. Biker gangs conjured images of grease and trash, with a heavy dose of sleaze. But everywhere was clean and smelled of wood polish, with just a faint tang of petrol.
Back downstairs, he took her past a big kitchen and paused at a set of double doors. She'd heard music coming from here on the way up, and it still pounded now, a throbbing beat that rocked her even with the doors muffling it. Slater's hesitation sent a nervous pulse through her.
“Is this the dragons' den?” She tried to make a joke of it, but honestly, after encountering Zeke and Elena, she was genuinely worried about what was waiting on the other side of the doors.
“Yeah,” he said, one hand on the door handle. “Look, don't say anything about Zeke and Elena, okay? One thing at a time.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “If Kayden—”
“Kayden will be fine,” he said dismissively. “Just ... be aware that Wild Blood business isn't your business, okay?”
He said it gently, but with just enough of an edge to make her roll her eyes. “Just take me to my brother.”
He nodded and pushed the door open.
Freya wasn't completely sure what she'd been expecting, but the spacious room with its original wooden flooring and ceiling beams was much better. A bar ran along one side of the room, bottles gleaming under the spotlights. A couple of pool tables and a plasma TV occupied one corner, and there were plenty of tables filling the rest of the floor space. Men and women played pool, lounged on the sofas, and propped up the bar.
Most of the women were scantily-clad, she noticed, although there was nothing like the outfits she'd worn or seen at the Hot House. While she could see a few couples making out—some more enthusiastically than others—there was no evidence of an orgy about to break out. Freya rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed at how relieved she was. She hated to admit that the idea of Slater surrounded by willing love slaves was galling.
She scanned the room and saw Kayden sat around a table with Punk and a couple of other people. Heart lifting with another burst of relief, she rushed over. “Kayden!” She flung her arms around him and he hugged her back hard.
“Where'd you guys get to?” Punk asked, shooting Slater a leer. “Or maybe we shouldn't ask. Kayden's probably suffered enough without hearing—”
“Punk,” Slater said, cutting him off. He grabbed a chair from a neighboring table for Freya.
She squeezed the chair between Kayden and Punk, taking in the other people at the table.
One was a broad-shouldered, dark-hai
red guy, with a smile she instinctively trusted. He had one arm wrapped around the shoulders of the woman next to him. She was also dark-haired and dressed far more conservatively than any other woman Freya could see. Something about that was oddly reassuring. The woman had a phone in front of her on the table, and she checked it constantly, fingers dancing nervously over the touch screen.
“This is Tanner and his Old Lady, Beth,” Slater said. There was no chair for him, so he stood behind Freya. Like a sentinel, she thought. On guard. “Guys, this is Freya.”
Feeling awkward, Freya mumbled a hello and reached for Kayden's hand.
“Where's Nash?” Slater asked.
“In his office,” Tanner said. He cleared his throat. “Busy.”
“What about Rattler, then?”
“Out with Rigs.” Punk slapped Kayden's knee. “Getting a fix for our boy here.”
Rage exploded in Freya's chest, but before she could throw herself at Punk and scratch his eyes out, Kayden squeezed her hand.
“They're getting me methadone, Freya. It's cool. Everything's fine.”
He sounded like he truly believed that. She turned to glare at him, taking in how pale and drawn he was, the slight shiver running through him. “Methadone?”
He shrugged wearily. “It was the tall guy's idea.”
“Nash,” Punk supplied. “So you two can just relax for a while. Get a drink.” He tapped his own empty glass. “Get several.”
Relaxing with Punk was an oxymoron if ever Freya had heard one. “I don't want a drink,” she said, her rage threatening to turn to tears again. “I want—”
She broke off, not actually sure what she wanted. What did they do now? They couldn't stay here. Was going home safe? Sammy knew where they lived. Cold sweat trickled down her back, and suddenly a drink seemed like a good idea.
“I want a plan,” she said finally, turning to Kayden. “We can't do this. I can't do this. We have to figure something out to get rid of them.”
He gave her a hopeless look. “How?”