Silence descends and I’m sure he’s thinking over what action to take to get the answers we need when he’s out.

“How’s everything else?”

I huff out a long exhaustive breath. I open my mouth, about to say, Lil’ Bird got you somethin’. A little welcome home gift from the club, but for some reason the words don’t come out.

“That good?”

“Fuck. Where to start? I got it under control for now, but this ain’t my gig, bro. You know that.”

“Yeah. So you say. Not sure it’s mine either.”

“Better you than me, man.”

He laughs and says, “Thanks a whole hell of a lot. What’s up with my cousin? D still got his head up his ass? He still won’t step up?”

“Yeah. And he won’t say why. Just that he can’t.”

He doesn’t say anything after that for a minute. I’m sure he’s at a loss for words. A lot like Cap was when Dozer stepped down.

“Hey, listen. Think this is my last call.”

“Okay. Good. Sick of you wakin’ my ass up at the crack of dawn.”

He laughs again.

Then I tell him, “I’ll see you on the other side then, brother.”

“Yeah . . . see you on the other side.”

I hang up the phone and then roll over. Rub my hands over my face. The dream still lingers in my mind. I don’t dare close my eyes for fear it will be right there when I do. More vivid than it is now with my eyes open.

I look down at myself, for the first time, I see that I passed out still dressed. Well . . . at least I took my cut off. From here I can see the worn leather vest is hanging over the La-Z-Boy in the corner of my room. How it got there, I have no fucking idea.

My head throbs, but so does my hand. I peer down at it. It’s bruised. Two of my knuckles are swollen as hell and bleeding. When I flex my hand, the cuts open a bit and the throbbing gets worse. I glance around the room until I locate the damage I did to the wall in last night’s drunken rage. There’s a hole the size of a basketball, which means I planted my fist through it more than once.

Fuuucck . . . Good one, Mav.

I’ll have to patch that shit up later.

I sit up and throw my legs over the side of the bed. My head feels like it’s being crushed by a compactor, and the world becomes blurry for a minute and I swallow back the rising nausea.

The black bag is sitting there in the middle of the floor. Its contents are spread around the room. I reach for them and quickly shove it all back in the bag. Seal it away, and kick my past back under the bed. Out of sight. Where it belongs.

Actually, I should burn that shit. I’ve tried to a number of times. Maybe I’ll be successful at it today.

At my dresser, I pull off my shirt and take off my jeans, change into workout shorts so I can get rid of some of this pent up anger, arousal, and edginess. Whatever in the fuck that’s making me think and feel too damn much.

EMBER

I wake slowly. It takes me a minute to orient myself, figure out where I am. The first things I see are white sheets, the beige comforter, and the bare off-white walls. The smell is familiar. A lot like my childhood home. But I haven’t lived there in years so it throws me off.

Slowly, last night comes back to me and I recognize my surroundings for what they are. Dozer’s room. Right. I’m in the clubhouse.

As the thought snakes its way through my brain, I’m tempted to close my eyes, click my heels three times, and see if I’ll somehow be magically transported home, to Sundown and Will.

God . . . if only that were possible.

Sighing, I think . . . stop being negative. Is this really how you want to start the day?

No, it’s not. So I take a deep, cleansing breath and start over. Today will be whatever you make of it. So be brave and make it good.

Honestly, being here, although it’s not paradise by any stretch of the imagination, especially after what went down with Mav yesterday, isn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.

For a minute there last night, I actually found myself having fun chatting, and laughing with Lily who gets silly as all get out when she’s drunk. I sipped on a drink, played pool, and innocently flirted with a good-looking guy. Something I haven’t done for . . . I don’t even know how long.

I almost felt normal. Like maybe, my life wasn’t one giant mess. Like I was just a regular girl, in a regular place, and I didn’t have a big cloud hanging over my head.

Of course, I had to ignore the whoring going on around me. And it twisted my stomach to see girls treating themselves so cheaply. But I was also thankful, thankful it wasn’t me, and that I’m hands off for now, and thankful because it was clear every one of those girls wanted to be there, doing what they were doing. They weren’t being forced. They weren’t being held captive.

I hear a faint sound to my left. Startled, I snap my head in that direction.

What the . . . ?

A shock of panic zips through me and I’m instantly wide awake. I scramble backward until I sit with my back to the headboard and yank up the sheet, needing a barrier between us even if it’s only a flimsy piece of cotton.

My heart starts beating overtime because there’s a half-naked man sitting four feet away from me on the black leather couch. He’s the big guy with the tattoos on one side of his face. With his shirt off, I can see his dark body art running down his neck and continuing all the way south to his black leather pants. His pants are partially unbuttoned. And I’m thinking his graphic tats don’t stop at his waistline.

He’s not looking at me. He’s messing with some black objects on the small coffee table in front of him.

I search the room quickly. Did I fall asleep in the wrong room? My mind scrolls through the last events of last night. Dozer walking me to the door. Him winking at me a second before he closed it and locked it. “Ummm. I’m sorry. Dozer said I could sleep here. Is this not his room?”

When a few seconds go by without him acknowledging me or looking over, I try again, “Hello?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Can you not hear me?” I wave my hand. Nothing. Whatsoever. Though I do get the sense he can hear me just fine.

“What are you doing?”

His hair is brown, short on the sides, longer on the top and down the middle of the back. He has a couple of days’ worth of stubble, and a patch of facial hair below his bottom lip. His eyes are what I find most disconcerting. They’re so dark they appear black. And he’s ripped with muscles everywhere, and it’s obvious he could do some real damage to me if that’s what he’s here to do.

Thick black leather bands circle his wrists, and his hands are colorfully tatted and adorned with bulky rings. After further inspecting, what he’s tinkering with—little black pieces of metal that lay on a small white cloth—I make out what it is.

I cinch my fingers more tightly around the sheet, pull it up to my neck, and slowly draw my legs up to my chest. Like that would protect me if he decides to use what’s in his hands.

He’s cleaning a gun.

Lined up on the far side of the cloth, are gold bullets and a magazine.

As if to punctuate my thoughts, he starts assembling it. Sliding pieces together with sharp, yet fluid movements, I hear click . . . click . . . click . . . click, as it becomes a lethal weapon in his hands.

My heart rate accelerates with each click.

Once all the pieces look to be in place, he sets it down on the towel, picks up the magazine, and then thumbs the bullets in one by one. Slow. Precise movements.

My eyes fly to the door. Closed. I sharply look over to the window. I know I opened both of them late last night.

Oh, god. A prickle of fear skates down my spine.

Suddenly, my breath becomes short and hurried. His presence has somehow sucked out all the air out of the room.