Fuck, that hurt.

 

Griffin didn’t move, as he heard the clatter of the Los Diablos as they gathered up what they could and left. There had been a few more gunshots, most likely for any remaining Lost Disciples survivors that Griffin had brought on the raid. However, he knew he shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. Griffin could feel the blood as it poured out of his body, and the only thing he could truly focus on was the beating of his heart. It was everything to him at that moment, and it was getting weaker, but he knew that if he moved while they were still there, they probably would just shoot him again, and this time it would probably stick.

 

He could still feel Damon’ gaze on his skull in the minutes after he had pulled the trigger. Griffin had made as much eye contact with the bastard as possible before closing his eyes, hoping that he would make a convincing dead man, at least convincing enough not to warrant that second shot.

 

With his eyes closed, he could hear Damon walk over to him. He could feel the closeness of his former leader, could feel the metal of the gun as it pressed against his forehead. It was still hot from the original shot he had taken, and Griffin could almost hear the small sizzle of the heat against his flesh. It took all of his will not to flinch in that moment, and he prayed that Damon didn’t notice.

 

So here it was, the end of the line. In spite of everything he had been through, he couldn’t stop thinking about Natasha. It felt as though he had failed her somehow. If he died in this moment, he wouldn’t be able to protect her anymore. Sure, she could handle herself well enough, but she wasn’t as seasoned as the guys he knew, and if Damon was in the pocket of the Los Diablos, who knows how many Disciples were? Those guys weren’t amateurs, Griffin knew that, and Natasha definitely didn’t.

 

The moment only lasted for a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. It felt so long that Griffin almost couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t sitting there with a Damon’ gun pressed against his head and when the wait for death was completely eternal. Soon he heard Damon give a little sigh and take the gun away from Griffin’s head. It was a struggle not to sigh in relief, but Griffin managed to do it. There was absolutely no way he was going to give this asshole the satisfaction of actually killing him right then and there. If he was going to die, he’d do it on his own damn terms and no one else’s. He didn’t care if he dropped dead the minute after Damon left the room, but he would be damned if he allowed this asshole to watch his last breath.

 

“Boss!” Griffin heard someone call from outside of the building. “You done yet?”

 

Griffin could hear Damon’ breathing as he thought, and he wished he had the strength to take a gun and shoot him. Griffin knew that it definitely wasn’t possible; he had been stripped of his weapons when the group had been attacked, and he couldn’t stand, let alone lunge for anything that might be nearby. The futility of that, mixed with the knowledge that most of his men were dead, made everything look so incredibly bleak.

 

Focus on your heartbeat, he thought wildly. If you forget that your heart is beating, you’re going to die.

 

“Did you finish everything up out there?”

 

“I got most of them, but I think we’re missing a guy.”

 

“I took care of Griffin in here,” Damon explained, and Griffin felt a rush of annoyance at his smugness.

 

“No, not that, boss,” the man said. “Looks like one of them got away.”

 

Yes! Griffin thought, excitement rushing through him. It had to be Julian; it definitely had to be. The thought of his friend out there—still alive—gave him some hope. He knew that Julian wasn’t the kind of guy who would have been easily taken out by just a raid. He knew that Julian didn’t like talking about his time in the service, but sometimes he could see it. As long as Julian survived, they were going to be okay.

 

Damon gave another sigh. Griffin could hear him take a step back, and he decided it was a good thing. Griffin had already been forgotten, which was probably the best place he could be at this point. Another eternity passed until Damon finally walked away, and Griffin stayed as still as possible since he could hear the voices talking outside. Although his life felt as though it was draining out, he kept as quiet as he could in the hopes that he would be able to overhear what their next plan was.

 

“Okay, we got these guys, but there are probably a few stragglers back at the Disciples’ clubhouse who won’t be on our side.” Damon’ voice took on an authoritative tone that made Griffin want to scream about how much of a fake he was.

 

The man whom Damon was talking to gave a chuckle. “You know, we were always jealous of your pool table,” the Los Diablos member admitted.

 

“Well, once we clear it out, that can be the next Los Diablos clubhouse.”

 

“Really?” The note of hope in the other man’s voice almost made Griffin vomit.

 

“Yeah, we’re going to need a new one soon, aren’t we?”

 

That was when Griffin first heard the sound of pouring liquid and could smell the gasoline.

 

Shit. Shit shit shit. This was bad. Griffin was sitting there with his life bleeding out, and pretty soon, the clubhouse was going to be on fire.

 

It was then that his phone began to vibrate in the breast pocket of his leather jacket. His weak heart began to speed up, as he realized that it was either Julian or Natasha. For obvious reasons, he desperately hoped that it was Natasha, because at least then he would know if she was okay. He opened his eyes and saw no sign of Damon or any of his newfound friends, which for a moment worked for him. He slumped to the side as though death had made him boneless and eased his phone out of his pocket. Natasha’s name flashed on the screen and he almost cried with relief.

 

Griffin held his breath for a moment before he heard the sound of a few motorcycle engines kicking to life and could smell smoke. While the clubhouse wasn’t that big, he knew it would take a little while for the place to burn, and if he tried hard enough, he would probably be able to make it out okay. Moving slowly, just in case someone had stuck around to make sure he didn’t get out, he brought the phone to his ear and clicked “accept.”

 

“Natasha?” his voice sounded weak, and it squeaked out of him from what felt like far away. God, how am I going to get out of here?

 

“Griffin?!” She sounded as though she were about to cry from relief. “Thank God, I thought something terrible had happened.”

 

Sitting in a room pockmarked by bullets—knowing that ninety-nine percent of the people who had come with him were dead and the president of the motorcycle club that he had pledged his loyalty to had not only betrayed him but also pretty much murdered the last president—a lot of terrible things had happened. However, as he listened to the voice of what was unmistakably his woman, completely alive in spite of Damon’ claims that he had sent someone to kill her, had given him more strength than anything else possibly could. He wanted to cry; he wanted to tell her that he loved her. However, the only thing that came to him was two simple words.

 

“Help me.”

 

“Are you okay?” Natasha asked. “Where are you?”

 

Griffin heard another motorcycle engine roar to life and heard the sound of the final Los Diablos member leaving. The fire must have reached the house.

 

“Fire,” he whispered to her.

 

“Fire!? What? Oh my god, I see smoke.”

 

That was the great thing about Brazos; it was small enough to see nearly clear across town.

 

“I’ll be right there,” she told him. “Hang in there.”

 

“Natasha…” There was a lot more he wanted to say, but at that point in time, it seemed like the best place to leave things.