Or—how would this work out in a movie? Is it some sort of test? Watching me to see if they can trust me, just to catch me at the last moment? I wince at the thought of spending the rest of my stay handcuffed to my cot or something.
It doesn't matter. I need to get out of here before something terrible happens. I try the front door, and to my amazement, it opens. No alarm or anything.
The night is cool, making me wish for more than Wild Child's T-shirt and a pair of boxers. Can't wait to explain to Dad why there's a naked woman on my shirt when I get home.
In the darkness, the compound is a fortress of shadows. The walls surrounding it are tall and jagged with coils of barbed wire. At the far end stands a collection of houses, and a couple of lights keep the gate lit, where three bikers on watch are playing cards around a fold-out table. The clubhouse is a converted warehouse, and a two story tall Screaming Eagles logo on its wall is lit up by a spotlight.
I hurry down the stairs and slip into the shadows so the guards at the gate won't spot me.
I've made it out of the building, but I have no idea where to go next. The walls are too tall to be climbed, at least by me, and there's only the one gate that I can see. It's shut for the night and what am I supposed to do about the guards? Fight my way past them? I'm not some crazy action heroine, and my self-defense lessons didn't cover assaulting three men, all of whom are twice my size.
I keep to the darkness, sneaking as quietly as I can and biting my tongue when the gravel digs into the bottoms of my bare feet. Maybe there's a way I can convince them to let me have shoes if this fails.
Who am I kidding? They'll keep me naked instead.
Now that's a thought I don't need right now.
What'll Dad do if I do make it home? He'll probably chew me out for ruining his sympathy play for the gallery, then send me back. My abduction is the best thing that ever happened to his campaign. At least Mom will be happy, even if she doesn't understand me.
But where else would I go? Most days I wish I was born into a more normal family. I hear loving families are normal, but I wouldn't know.
Engines growl in the night, coming closer and startling me into paying attention. What am I doing, losing myself out here? If I get caught now, I deserve it.
A bunch of empty barrels near the gate give me cover. Something digs into my foot, making me wince, but I can't look now. If there are bikes coming in, maybe there'll be a chance for me to get out.
“Open the fucking gate!” yells a voice over the rumble of the motorcycles. It sounds like Viking. “Quickshot's hurt.”
The guys at the gate explode into action. I don't recognize them, but there are so many members, and from what I've learned, the prospects—the guys hoping to join the club—get a lot of the grunt work outside of the clubhouse, not being allowed in there until they're blooded.
Six bikes come rolling in, with Viking and Bear at the lead. In the middle of the group, protected by the rest, is the young biker with the blond curls who spoke up for King, Hero and Wild Child at church, slumped over his bike now that they've stopped. His face is pale and his hands grip the handlebars like they're the only things keeping him from collapsing.
“He's been shot,” yells Bear as two of the other bikers grab Quickshot's bike and steady him so he doesn't fall. “Where's Doc?”
“Not here tonight. I'll give him a call.” One of the bloodeds—Hawk?—pulls out his phone and taps it.
“What happened?” Eagle-eye appears in the doorway to the clubhouse, holding a barely awake puppy on his arm. Even in boxers and a T-shirt, his imperious glare makes it obvious that he's no less the president. “Who the fuck shot him?”
“Cops.” Viking spits. Even on their midnight ride, he's shirtless, other than his cut. “We weren't doing shit. Just cruising, running a patrol. Someone's got to keep the monsters at bay.”
Eagle-eye nods.
“A cop car tore out from around a corner and threw on the lights. We stopped. Nothing to hide and weren't doing anything. One of them aggroed right from the start and whipped his piece out like we had a situation. Young, probably had something to prove.”
A couple of the others have helped Quickshot off the bike and are pulling off his cut. The side of it is caked in blood.
“The other cop got tense, said they'd take us in. I asked what for, and he didn't have an answer. With nothing to pin on us, we said fuck this and got on our bikes. If they didn't have anything to bring, there was no reason for us to stay. And then one of the fuckers fired. Put a bullet in Quickshot's side. We tore out of there, and props to Quickshot for keeping on his bike. The boy's got grit.”