Page 15 of Property of Chux

That voice. The biker. Chux.

Why is he so wrapped up in everything that goes wrong for me?

Before I can even process what that means, there’s a heavy knock at my back door.

A shiver races down my spine.

I turn slowly, pulse pounding, and through the back window, I see a man standing there—tall, broad, wearing a leather vest with a front patch saying Riot.

His features are similar to Chux, but he has a rounder face. I don’t know if they are related or my brain is so muddled I’m envisioning all of the bikers looking the same.

I don’t know him, but everything about him screams I’m in danger.

My grip on the phone tightens. "There’s someone here," I whisper.

Chux’s voice comes through the line this time, sharp, decisive, and very firm.

"Go with him, Ally."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"It’s not a request." His voice is unyielding. "Your grandfather is in a meeting with me right now. If you want to make sure nothing happens to him, you’ll get in the damn car and come with Riot."

Cold fear spikes through me. “What the hell is going on?”

A low sigh comes through the receiver. "You got caught in something that wasn’t meant for you. But now it’s at your door, and that means you need to come in."

I turn back to the window. Riot is still standing there, arms crossed, looking like he has all the time in the world—but I know better.

The Kings don’t wait.

And if Chux is telling me to go? I have a feeling I really don’t have a choice.

I end the call and grip the edge of the counter, trying to calm my nerves. My body wants to run, every instinct screaming at me that this is bad, terrible even, but my mind won’t let me.

Because I know the truth deep inside my soul. This isn’t about me anymore. Hell, it wasn’t ever about me in thebeginning. Chux is right about that, I am caught in something not meant for me. I’m here though. This is about my grandfather—and I’d do anything and everything for him.

Even if it means walking out of this door into the hands of the very people I swore I’d never get involved with.

I swallow my fear, give a nod to Riot who exits my shop, but turning around to watch me. I move around securing things, putting up items I had taken out before locking my shop and stepping outside.

Riot doesn’t say a word. He just nods toward the bike.

And ungracefully I get on behind him.

No helmet, unknown destination, and no clue what I’m doing, I ride. My front pressed to his back, I cling to the stranger in front of me as if my life depends on it because in some ways it does. The ride is long. Longer than I expected. What I expected though, I really don’t know. To me, it seems like we keep going and going with no final destination ahead.

Riot doesn’t say much—not that I was expecting a warm, chatty conversation from a man wearing a Kings of Anarchy vest. The only words out of his mouth since I climbed onto the back of his bike have been a gruff,hang on and don’t fall off.

Hold on I do.

We ride for what feels like forever, leaving town behind, moving past the open highway and deeper into the unknown. The air grows thicker, the trees taller, and when Riot finally slows the bike to a stop, I realize I have not the first idea of where I am.

The clearing is empty, except for a single shipping container sitting in the middle of the woods like a misplaced relic from the port. While the container is an odd burned rust color, the porch on the front looks cozy as if this mental box has been converted.

Something inside me turns ice cold.

Riot swings his leg off the bike and looks at me over his shoulder. "Come on, girl."

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