Page 18 of Vows & Violence
I suck in a breath and finish strapping the holster to my thigh. I load a fresh mag and check the safety. I still believe in safety, just not the kind you can feel.
“We leave in ten,” I tell him.
He nods. But his eyes say more.You’re scared.
And mine says back:I have a right to be.
Because if I am the lock and Ghost is the key... Then someone orsomethingis already turning us.
And what waits behind that door? God help us if we find out.
We leave the Shotgun Shack with the smell of cordite still in our lungs and the echo of gunfire stuck behind our ribs.
The night swallows us whole. Me on my bike, Ghost is on his. He’s riding right next to me, offering me comfort in the unknown. Viper, bringing up the rear. We ride without speaking, shadows trailing behind us like regrets we didn’t have time to feel.
The highway bleeds out ahead in a line of pale gold under a cloud-stained moon. No traffic. Just the hum of engines and the drumbeat of rain starting to fall in fat, slow drops. I don’t mind it. Rain has a way of washing the wrong things off, just not deep enough to touch the rot underneath.
It takes us an hour to reach the safehouse. Long enough for my shoulder to start throbbing again, long enough for the spiral under my skin to feel like it’s humming in tune with the engine.
The place is a forgotten rancher on the edge of nowhere. One road in, trees on all sides, no neighbors, no lights except what we bring with us. The kind of place people drive past and never wonder about.
Ghost pulls in first, kicking up gravel. I kill my engine a beat after, letting the silence wrap around us again. I pulled my helmet off and let the cool air bite my cheeks. No words are exchanged. Not yet.
We don’t go inside. Instead, we wait.
Headlights break the dark like a blade, then another, and another. Six in total, rolling in with thunder and attitude.
The Non Cras had arrived.
Front and center is Poison. Chrome-and-black Dyna, matte skull on the gas tank, a queen without a crown but with a presence that can gut you. She’s wearing a sleeveless cut that shows off her ink. Ink that tells stories no man has survived long enough to read. Eyes sharp and unreadable. Her red hair is braided back in a war rope.
To her right, riding tandem on his own beast, is Kitty. Poison’s Knightmare. He’s skinny like a swimmer and quiet. The kind of man who moves only when needed, but when he does, it matters. His presence isn’t loud, but it grounds Poison like a loaded anchor. His cut bores the title with quiet pride:Property of Poison. No one dares question it.
Behind them is Scissors, the Vice President, long-legged and sharp-eyed, her dark curly hair is tight against her head in braids, making her look twice as mean and half as patient as anyone else on the road. Her girl, Sissy, rides with her, bright lipstick, a cracked-knuckles kind of beauty. Sissy blows me a kiss and wink like we hadn’t just come out of a bloodbath. She’s like that. Soft chaos wrapped in denim.
Next comes Wendigo, all leather and Native American, the club’s sergeant-at-arms. Her presence is more threat than a promise. She doesn’t wave or nod. She scans the trees like they owe her something. Her bike has a wolf’s jaw bolted under the headlight made of real bone.
Then Gypsy, with beads in her braids and mismatched gloves, her eyes are always moving, always clocking the world like a code she’s waiting to crack. The bike under her is lean, fast, made for slipping through shadows.
Tabs comes in behind Gypsy. She’s quiet, average-looking if you didn’t know better. I do. She’s the one you underestimated. The one who’ll kill you with a smile and never raise her voice.
They park in a staggered line, boots hitting gravel like a percussion section from hell. The door to the safehouse opens behind me. I don’t turn.
Poison is the first to speak. “You’re bleeding again,” she says, voice calm but cut-glass.
Ghost shifts beside me, but I don’t move. I square my shoulders to meet each of my sister’s head on, with Viper standing tall behind me.
Kitty steps forward, his voice low, almost kind. “Phoenix. You look like hell.”
I almost laugh. Instead, I nod.
I follow the club inside, blood dripping from my shoulder, the spiral burning beneath my skin like it’s waking up. Behind me, Ghost hesitates at the threshold.
I don’t turn. Just say over my shoulder, “You’re in it now, Ghost. All the way.”
Then the door shuts behind him, and the real war begins. The kitchen smells like burnt coffee and blood. Most of it is mine.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, bandage clinging half-assed to my shoulder and side while Ghost hovers like I’m going to fall over. I won’t. I’ve bled worse for less.
