Page 12 of Baja
“Don’t give me that look. If your friends don’t call you out on your bullshit, then who will?” She picks up her turkey sandwich and takes a bite.
I glare at my friend, which only makes her smirk.
She’s right, though. I’m trying to pretend that the other night meant nothing, but in reality, it meanteverything. The real problem is I’m terrified. I’m completely and utterly scared shitless because no man has ever made me feel the way Baja does, and I’m still trying to figure out what to do with that.
Am I even capable of opening my heart to another man?The last time I let a man into my life, he destroyed it.
The safe bet would be to ignore my feelings for Baja and protect my heart, right?
6
BAJA
After another long day of back-to-back appointments, I lock the shop and head home, dragging my feet and feeling like a zombie from the lack of sleep over the past few days. Usually, I would hop on my bike, head to the strip club, and enjoy a few beers with my brothers, but tonight, I’m not in the mood. No matter how hard I try, Alice lingers in my thoughts, a constant presence I can’t shake off. She’s deeply embedded in my mind, stirring feelings I can’t quite describe.
When I unlock my apartment door, I find Ozzy waiting like a fluffy overlord. He lets out a long, dramatic meow, scolding me as if to say,‘Took you long enough, human! I’m hungry.’
“I’m only ten minutes late, dude.” I fumble with my keys before finally slinging them onto the wall hook. Ozzy struts his way into the kitchen, taking his post on the counter, his piercing yellow eyes locking onto me as I prepare his dinner.
As Ozzy devours his food, I stride to the fridge, yank open the door, and grab a cold beer. With a flick of my wrist, I pop the cap and chug down half of it as I make my way to the bedroom. Just as I’m about to kick off my boots, my phone buzzes. I exhalea frustrated sigh, pull the phone from my pocket, and swipe the screen. “What’s up, brother?”
“We’re needed at the clubhouse. Prez is expecting company,” Mystic informs me.
“On my way.”
Not long later, I roll up to our clubhouse, a weathered stone church standing amidst a sprawling, ancient cemetery. The gravestones, staggered about the property, are marred by time. The air is thick and heavy with the musty scent of moss and damp soil. Everywhere you look, there’s a constant reminder of the death surrounding us. Most would shudder at the sight, feeling a cold dread creep along their spine. But for the Fallen Ravens, this hallowed ground is our sanctuary.
My bike growls beneath me as I cut the engine. I notice my brothers are already here, and I’m the last to arrive, so I head inside, pushing through the heavy wooden doors that used to open for people seeking refuge and salvation.
I find no one lingering inside the main room, so I head toward the back of the clubhouse to the meeting room, located beneath the church in the cellar, looking for my brothers.
As I step down the damp stone steps, the earthy smell hits me—a mix of wet dirt, aged wood, and a whisper of something rotten lurking in the background. The air feels thick with mustiness. The lone light that hangs from the overhead rafter sways, casting shaky shadows on the worn walls.
In the center of the cellar, Salem reclines in his chair, arms resting casually across his chest. The dim light struggles against the shadows where Mystic, Laredo, and Juneau stand. I stride over and join them. Moments later, the quiet is broken by the sound of boots striking the stone steps.
With Harlem behind him, our guest walks into the dim light, his steps heavy like he’s dragging a weight behind him. His sharp, tailored suit screams wealth. He looks like he walked offWall Street and stumbled into the wrong part of town, and he has. At his side, he has a death grip on a black briefcase. You can sense he’s debating every move that brought him to this point.
Salem’s gaze pins the man in place. “Sit.”
The guy wavers, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. With a nod from Salem, Harlem slaps a hand down on the man’s shoulder, pushing him into the vacant chair. The wood creaks under his weight as the man sinks, glancing nervously around the room.
“Why are you here?” Salem asks, wanting the man to speak the ugly truth because there is only one reason men like him seek us out.
The man swallows, his throat bobbing. “Because I know your club works in… the shadows. I’ve heard… I’ve heard you help people when they need it, even if it’s not legal.” His attention drifts around the room, feeling the weight of all our eyes on him.
Harlem lets out a low, menacing chuckle. “That’s one way to put it.” His tone is mocking, but there’s a dark edge to it.
We’ve all heard sob stories before. Most of the time, we deal with people who don’t have many choices. This guy… he’s desperate in the same way.
Salem leans in, elbows propped on the table, his eyes boring into the stranger. “What price are you ready to shell out for your sin?” The air buzzes with tension as his question hangs.
“My sin?” the man stammers, but there’s a fire burning behind his eyes.
“You walked in here on your own two feet, asking for a debt to be settled, didn’t you?” Salem’s voice is icy.
“I did.” Our guest’s back straightens.
“And what’s this debt you’re so hell-bent on collecting?”
