Page 28 of Debt of My Soul

I fidget with my two rubber bands, fiddling with the need to pull at them. To gather some control back, snap it back into place. Adam thankfully doesn’t notice my ministrations and moves to pick up the tipped-over chair.

The air in the room grows uncomfortable. I’m not quite sure how to put my finger on it, but fleeting tingles rattle my belly. Like someone is poking me over and over saying,trust your gut. Trust your gut.

The problem with that. I used to trust my gut. But my sixth sense obviously missed a few waving red flags if history is any indicator.

“I’m not sure I’m up for the fireworks tonight,” Adam says, reaching for my hand. He rubs his thumb over the back of it,smoothing over my knuckles. “Would you hate me if I went home for the night?”

“No. Not at all. I get it. I’m probably going to head home myself.”

He leans down, feathering his thumb across my cheek. “Happy Fourth, Fleur.”

“Bye,” I whisper back as he leaves the room.

I end up walking myself back to the car. Dusk settles in with a delicious golden hour, the bright sky turning into warm hues. Perfect weather for today. Cool air whips through the dwindling cars, and having left my fruit salad bowl behind, my hands feel empty.

The sound of several cars rolling down the dirt road captures my attention, and I turn to see two black sedans pulling off the side of the road near the house. Three motorcycles pull out of the driveway, and I recognize the one bike from the bed-and-breakfast.

Liam.

The back window in the first black car rolls down, while Liam pulls his bike up to the side. Grass tickles my ankles as I continue to my car, every few seconds looking over my shoulder at this little meet.

“It’s not like that.”Adam’s words from earlier ring in my head.

It sure looks like that. How did Liam get mixed up with this crowd? His family seems loving and Adam determined to keep away—it has questions bubbling up to the surface.

I reach my car and unlock it. Soaking in the last of the dipping sun, my eyes flit to the revving engines across the field one last time. Both cars make a U-turn and trail off back down the road, while two bikes flank their side. Liam’s bike idles, and squinting, I can see him stare down into his helmet. His headswivels around, looking straight at me. My breath hitches, and I wrestle with the door handle, yank it open, and jump in.

Cool leather meets my skin as I rest my forehead on the steering wheel.

This town will be the ruin of me.

Chapter 13

Liam

The drive to the compound is shit. Traffic from the party makes the ride three times as long. Then add having to watch out for drunken assholes, even more so since I’m on my bike.

I’m not worried about something happening to me. I’m more worried about my Harley. Cost me more than I’d ever admit. I let the town think it’s bought and paid for by Darrin and his operation, but I purchased it myself.

I ease onto the compound, which is accessible from a dirt road off the Natchez Trace. A long scenic travel corridor that stretches from Mississippi to Tennessee.

The back road winds around through the woods enough that tourists or passersby would simply think it was a road that leads nowhere.

But nestled back here—well, more like concealed—is the compound entrance. It’s a rugged place with several ruined buildings housing many of the workers strung out or using. Darrin doesn’t put too much effort into those living quarters. The clubhouse and the trusted circle, however, are a different story.

I snort at the term clubhouse. Darrin hates being referred to as a motorcycle club, but with half the men riding hogs and an organizational structure like one—it’s damn close.

The large oak and pine trees surrounding the gated entrance cloak the moon. Brilliant bursts of colors occasionally pop into view above the towering branches from those still celebrating the Fourth. And I wish it would end.

Pulling past the gate, I guide my bike to the clubhouse. Darrin requested I swing by before returning to my cabin for the night.

The clubhouse is a large two-story building that serves as the hub for our operations, meetings, and eating. Honestly, the whole place smells like drugs and engine oil. The communal firepit sits off the back porch of the clubhouse, although while some may think it is a nice bonfire for bonding, it’s far from the case. Darrin has a sick obsession with branding people.

The horseshoe seared on the side of my ribs burns with the memory.

Luckily, my assigned cabin sits a good distance from the clubhouse, and I do my best to stay away from this place as much as possible.

A buzz in my back pocket tickles my ass as I pull my bike into park and swing off.

---