Page 11 of Ride Long
“Twenty-four,” she replied. “My mom always said I had a baby face. I always get carded when I go to the liquor store, so I just hand it to them with the cash. Saves them asking thequestion.”
I tilted my head to the side and dragged the comb through my hair. Seemed like little Sam was starved for attention if a little flower like her couldn’t answer a simple question without telling me her life story. Whoever her man was, he wasn’t treating her right. Not by a longshot.
“I’m a year older than you,” I said, my heart bleeding a few drops for her. “I suppose that’s why they ordered you to followme.”
“Followyou?”
I snorted. “I grew up here, Sam. I know how these thingswork.”
Dad had sent in the most vulnerable women in the entire place and put her under my nose in an attempt to soften me. It wasn’t her fault, and I’d help her if I could but not at the expense of losing my freedom…or what little of it Ihad.
“Harleysaid—”
“Harley?” I scoffed and shook my head, tossing the comb onto the desk. “That explains alot.”
“He said you needed someone to help you out,” Sam muttered. “You were here alone and needed someone to talkto.”
Sam wasn’t very bright, but I didn’t have it in me to pity her let alone roll my eyes. She was trapped in a hopeless situation just like many other women before her. I didn’t know shit about her, so who was I to judge? There were plenty of reasons she could be at Fortitude. Few of them were good,though.
“All I want to know, is where’s the food? I’m not permitted to leave, so you know.” I waved my hand at my stomach, which growled oncue.
“I can help you with that,” Sam declared, her eyes brightening. “I likecooking.”
Shrugging, I followed her from my room and through thecompound.
It was quiet today. Everyone seemed to be someplace else, selling their drugs, laundering money, bullying poor fuckers who owed them money…essentially, out doing my father’s bidding. Hopefully, one of those tasks was tracking down the Hollow Men and doing something about them. Or shoring up security now I was in the building. I was here for my supposed protection, afterall.
The kitchen had been updated since I was last here, but it was still in the same place with the same configuration. A large table that could easily seat twenty ran the length of the room while the walls were lined with cupboards, two refrigerators, an industrial-sized oven and range, a giant double sink, and two microwaves. I was rather surprised to see a posh Nespresso coffee maker on the bench. I didn’t think bikers were refined enough to want a macchiato with their Frenchtoast.
“What do you like?” Sam asked. “Pancakes?”
“Pancakes?” Ifrowned.
“Sure. Leave it tome.”
I sat at the table as she busied herself with making the batter from scratch. No shake ’n’ bake packets or anything. It was all proper eggs, flour, and milk. It was rather…homelyand threw me off balance. I was in an alternatereality.
It seemed Sam’s forte was looking after people like a mother hen. She was small, weak, and lacked confidence, but give her a lost soul to care for, and she was all in. She was the kind of woman destined to have lots of babies or be a sweet kindergarten teacher who wore floral dresses and baked cookies. Fortitude was the last place I’d expected to find someone like her. I wondered what her storywas.
“Hey, what’s this? Sam’s cooking,” a booming voicedeclared.
“Pay dirt!” someone elseadded.
Boots thumped on the floor behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder as three men filed into the kitchen. First in line was one of the more handsome men I’d seen in this place. Tall, muscled, tattooed up to the eyeballs, complete with a hipster beard and warm eyes. The second wasn’t as alluring. He was scrappy, bald, and had beady little eyes. The third was built, tattooed, and had a mean curve to hismouth.
“Just in time,” Sam said. “Have aseat.”
“Pancakes!” the tattooed man exclaimed. “Best.”
The men busied themselves getting out syrup, jelly, and butter, then tossing cutlery and plates onto the table. Sam beamed and dished up pancakes as soon as they’d cooked. Straight from the frying pan and onto everyone’splates.
The tattooed man with the beard sat across from me and piled butter and syrup on his stack. “You’renew.”
“Kind of,” I replied as a pancake appeared on myplate.
“I’m Ratchet,” he said, glancing at me. “That’s Rocket andSpike.”
I recognized Rocket from last night. He’d carried Chaser into the compound with some other guy. I wanted to ask about him, but I bit my lip. If Chaser were dead, it would be the main topic ofdiscussion.
