Page 76 of Blood Revealed

“Why would a nice girl like you want to know about those kinds of men?” she asks me instead of answering.

“I have my reasons.”

“Well, you might try the bar across the street. They might be able to help. I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to the likes of that.”

“Thanks,” I say, running to find Carmen in the small store. She’s deciding between a couple brands of feminine products when I walk up on her. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m running across the street to the bar. I need to find out about any bike clubs close by. I need to know if they’re friends of the Lords or not.”

“Right,” she replies. “Let me get these and—”

“No.” I grip her shoulder to get her to not only look at me, butgetme. “I need you to stay here in the store with the cashier. She might look old, but I noticed a big ass shotgun under the counter. I’ll come collect you when I’m finished.”

It sucks being the person left behind when we all want out of this hell, but even though she’s brave, she hasn’t lived the life. One thing I know about bars and bikers is it takes an experienced hand to deal with them and not get taken.

Leaving her in the aisle, I jog from the store kitty-corner across the street to a bar they call Halfway to Hell. Cigarette smoke billows out through the door when I open it. Apparently, these Marlboro Men haven’t gotten the memo that smoking is bad. There are probably twelve heads inside the dark space lit only by the orangish ambient ceiling lights and the neon signs hung around the room on every wall. All twelve of those heads, including the bartender, look to me when I walk inside.

I order a soda. The rugged barkeep seriously has the biggest Texas hair I’ve seen in my life and a tank top stretching across her ample bosom withHalfway to Hellscrawled in a macho script. I’ve always thought my tits are big. She has me beat by at least a cup and a half. As she uses the hose to spray my coke into the glass of ice, I lean in to ask, “Any info on biker clubs in this area?”

She raises an eyebrow at me because in this outfit, I seriously don’t look like a woman who associates with bikers. I rephrase the question. “Are we close to the Devil’s Outcasts or Rogue Players?” The Players aren’t as close to the Lords as the Outcasts, but they could get in contact.

“Why you lookin’ for the Outcasts, little lady?” This cowboy in a big brimmed hat and snakeskin cowboy boots saunters up to the bar to rest next to me. He postures himself one foot up on the rail of the barstool and he leans heavily on his bent knee.

“I need to find them,” I answer. “My business is my own.”

“Whelp.” He pushes up on the brim of his hat. “It’s funny you should mention them.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, pulling a breath in through my nose as I’m starting to get irritated by this guy. My throat hurts. They can’t pretend they don’t see the bruising all over my neck. My voice still sounds likeIsmoke three packs a day.

“Got me a ranch,” he says. “About twenty miles out. Been seein’ a lot of those boys swarmin’ the area. Pretty much any Texan knows the Outcasts. Though they ain’t been alone.”

“No?” I lean in, my interest piqued.

He shakes his head. “They been ridin’ with other guys. Flamin’ devil head on the back of their jackets. Red letters. What’d the patch say?” He scratches his chin.

I mentally cross my fingers and ask, “Brimstone Lords, by any chance?”

The cowboy snaps his fingers and points at me. “That’s it. Brimstone Lords. Been seein’ them around.”

This feels impossible. I almost break down in a mess of happy tears right there. Instead, I punch in Raif’s number, happy and thankful that he’s had the same number for years and that I’ve managed to remember it.

The phone rings two times when the most beautiful voice in the world fills my ears. “Who’s this?” he barks into the line.

“Raif?” I whisper, choking back more tears wanting to spill.

“Baby?” he sort of whisper-shouts. It’s a thing. “Where the fuck are you? You okay? How’d you get away? Why does your voice sound fucked up?Fuck,” he finishes.

“I’m in Halfway—”

“Get us to Halfway,” he shouts at someone.

“No!”

“What do you meanno? Baby, you better start making sense.”

I walk to the far corner of the bar in order not to be heard. “There’s a safehouse close by,” I whisper. “We can’t have the Lords rolling into town. It could compromise the location of these other women.”

“How many women we talking about?” he asks.

“Including me, twenty-eight.”

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