Page 12 of Ravaged and Ruined
I stand, already reaching for the handle on the closet door. Hesitantly, Emery pushes off the bed and tosses me one last look of warning that I catch in the mirror in front of me. “Promise me if anything feels off, anything at all, you tell me.”
I turn to face her, taking both her hands in mine, “You worry too much but if it makes you feel better, I promise.”
“Fine.” She relents and drops my hands, “We’ll talk when you get back.”
“Absolutely.” I tell her, my voice clipped and turn away as she lets herself out. I don't watch her leave. I can't. If I do, the crack forming inside me might split wide open.
The door clicks shut, and I thumb through the closet shoving aside soft cotton sundresses like they personally offend me. I don't wantsweet. I don't wantsafe.I want armor.
My hand closes around a hanger holding the perfect black dress. Sleek, professional. Not too much but enough to remind myself, and everyone else, that I’m not to be underestimated. I yank it free, stripping down and slipping into it, smoothing the fabric down my hips like slipping a blade into a sheath.
I pin my hair up with fast, practiced movements, not caring if a few strands fall loose. They’ll work in my favor. I swipe just enough color onto my lips to remind myself that I still know how to play the game. And win it.
Thirty minutes later, I walk out of the clubhouse with my head held high and my heels clicking against the concrete like a battle drum.
I’m a survivor. Always have been. And I’m damn good at it.
Chapter Five
Aero
The engine of my Harley growls steady under me, the low, brutal thrum syncing with the blood pumping through my veins. The matte-black beast bucks slightly under my grip, the wide apes flexing against the strain of the wind. There’s a particular kind of peace you only find riding a machine like this, the way the asphalt unrolls beneath you like a living thing, the way the air slaps at your skin like it’s trying to beat the sins clean off you. It’s a feeling that never gets old. It’s a feeling I fucking need right now.
We roll in tight formation down Atlantic Avenue, ten deep, our cuts flashing like battle flags under the hard Jersey sun. The roar of our engines, especially mine, with the shorty pipes barking louder than the rest, turns heads on the sidewalks. Pedestrians freeze. They know better than to stare too long. They might not knowwhowe are, but they knowwhatwe are.
I let the tension bleed out of my shoulders, settling deeper into the custom seat molded to my frame. The Harley’s weight is a solid, snarling thing between my legs, the ghosted skulls inthe black paint catching flashes of sunlight like warnings. Every twist of the throttle, every lean into the lane, is instinct, muscle memory, second nature. Up here, riding this steel monster I built to my own specifications, I don’t have to think, I don’t have to feel, I can justbe.
As we roll deeper into the city, the towers of steel and neon loom higher. The rumble of our engines shatters the Atlantic City boardwalk noise as we push deeper into the Strip. The breeze off the ocean carries the sharp tang of salt water mixing with the acrid bite of gasoline that sticks in the back of my throat. Neon signs blink in the haze even though it’s broad daylight. For a second, the world around me feels paper-thin, like if I just punched hard enough, it’d tear wide open.
We ride pastll Ritorno, Ricci’s glittering new casino, rising clean and smug over the wreckage of the old one like it never burned down. Fucker rebuilt it faster than should’ve been possible. But then, when you’re washing your dirty blood money through a shiny, legitimate front, miracles happen overnight.
I shift down a gear as Grizzly pulls up alongside me, his heavy Dyna bobbing under him like a warhorse. Its chrome teeth bared, engine snarling low, ready to tear into anything that crosses its path.
“You see that shit?” he calls over the roar of engines, jerking his chin atRitorno.
I grunt. “Yeah. I see it.”
My jaw locks tight enough to ache. I keep my gaze forward, but I see it out of the corner of my eye. Fresh glass gleaming under the sun like a fucking middle finger to the rest of us. The thought coils hot in my gut. I know, better than anyone, just how dangerous a man like that can be when he feels like he’s got something to prove.
Memories I’ve buried deep try to claw their way back up but I shove them down.We’re not here to pick a fight. Not yet. We’ve got our own empire to build first.
Crank flicks his chin toward the next turn, and we peel off the main drag, away from the glitter of the strip. The buildings start to sag the farther we go, abandoned shops, boarded-up windows, graffiti bleeding down cracked brick. This part of Atlantic City doesn’t make it onto the postcards. This is where real work gets done.
We ride another few blocks before pulling up outside the warehouse. It's a squat, ugly bastard of a building with concrete walls, rusted loading docks, and the faint stink of piss hanging in the air. Half the windows are busted out, the others clouded over with grime thick enough to write your last words in.
I cut the throttle, pulling into the gravel lot with the rest of the crew fanning out behind me. The second I kill the engine, the silence hits harder than the roar of the ride. Just the faint whisper of the ocean in the distance and the creak of the rusted chain-link gate swinging on its hinge.
“This the spot?” I remove my helmet and rake a hand through my hair while scanning the building. Corrugated steel, high windows, big open floor plan.
“Yeah.” Grizzly confirms, cracking his knuckles like he’s ready to punch a hole through a wall.
I swing off the bike, the creak of leather and the clink of chains familiar as breathing. She’s a heavy bitch but she’s mine. Every bolt and weld a piece of me. My boots hit the cracked asphalt with a solid thud. Grizzly, Surge, Backdraft, Crank, Padre, Rancor, Tango, Pike, and Hashtag circle up tight, eyes scanning the perimeter.
Surge yanks his helmet off, scanning the lot like he’s expecting a sniper on the roof. "Place is a fuckin' ghost town."
"Good," I say, "Means we'll have privacy."
We move like we’ve done a dozen times, a wall of black cuts and muscle. It doesn't matter if it's a warehouse or a damn war zone, the formation stays the same.
