Hero (The VII Knights MC)

“Well, thank you for the ride. Goodnight.” She tucks a hair behind her ear and waves a cute goodbye before walking over to a bunch of parked cars.

“You hit that?” I look over my shoulder. Bellamy stands against the brick wall with a joint. Looks like he’s okay.

“Nah,” I reply, looking back at Monet. “Not yet anyway.”

“Tye’s inside. Wanna have some fun with her?”

The only chick I know who would be down to fuck two blood brothers would be Tye, and I’ve been away from kinky pussy for far too long. Tye is exactly the kind of girl I can be near. I feel nothing being close to her. None of this I want to hold you, make you mine, but hurt you at the same time shit. Nah, Tye is as good as a fuck doll.

“Good idea, brother.”

12

Monet

I pull into the lot of an old hotel and rest my head on the steering wheel, letting out a sigh. I’m so over dirty, rundown motels. I just want a place I can call my own—a place I can start over in. Even if it’s just as shitty, at least it will be mine. Climbing out of my car, I pop the trunk, grab my Victoria Secret duffle bag, and head to the lobby. Cars ranging from older to newer models take up spaces, licenses plates from all over. Probably tourists here to check out Death Valley. They want in, I want out.

Swinging the door open, a waft of cold air rushes down my body. I stand there for a second, taking it in, inhaling the smell of coffee and laundry, just like the last motel I stayed in. A woman stands behind the desk, playing on her phone, chomping on gum. I walk up, and she sets her phone down, looking at her computer with squinted eyes. “Checking in?”

“Yes, under Monet,” I reply. The strap to my duffle bag slides through my hand, falling to the floor with a thud.

“Single, double?” she asks, clicking away.

“The cheapest.” I’d take the lobby couch if I could get away with it for free.

“I have one king bed in room thirteen.” She grabs a piece of paper, circling an area on the map of the motel, the red pen indicating where my room is located. “One night is sixty-four dollars and forty-three cents. How will you be paying?” She doesn’t even look up as she talks.

Bending down to get my wallet out of my bag, I say, “Card.” I’m pretty sure I have a couple hundred left on there. If not, I’ll keep swiping until it’s declined.

Handing over the card, I rest my elbows on the counter.

“All right. Here’s your key. Check out is at ten.” She slides a key over with a rubber keychain attached to it, the number thirteen printed on it.

Taking the keys from her, I pick up my bag and head toward my room. Shoving the key in the lock, I push the door open and quickly close and lock it. Dropping my bag, I head to the only window in the room and shut the blue curtains. I let out a deep sigh. I hate being in sketchy motels by myself.

Turning around, there’s a big king bed with white sheets and a red folded up throw at the end of the bed. A dresser with a TV that has a crack on the screen, and across the room is a vanity with a mirror, sink, and the counter displaying little soaps and hand towels. Shoving my bag out of my way with my foot, I go to the vanity, the water spotted mirror showing my reflection. I’m losing too much weight. My cheek bones are more prominent than I’d like. And the bags under my eyes scream out how exhausted I am. I find it hard to sleep at nights anymore. I went from sleeping next to someone to being alone, and I have no security. I’m always in a new, unfamiliar place. I blow out a breath and check out the bathroom to see what kind of condition it’s in. Clear curtain. A bathtub and shower head. A toilet. Nothing fancy but practical. Flicking the light off, I go to the bed and pull out my phone to call Damian. Butterflies swarm in my stomach, hoping what I have is good enough and he lets me go.

He picks up on the third ring.

“What do you have?” he clips in greeting.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Um…I found a list of things he’s supposed to do to get the gavel.”

“A list, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

Scratching my head, a sudden dread fills my chest. The image of Godric’s eyes and the way his hair falls flashes behind my eyelids when I blink. I feel like a rat. I hate this. Godric just lost his father and I’m about to hand the club over to his enemy. But if I don’t, I’ll be Damian’s little mule for God knows how long.