Two hours ago, she was waking up in a mansion, a dream home where even a girl like her could pretend that she was the lady of the house, and “normal” for just a little while. Now suddenly she was surrounded by Harleys and men in jeans and leather. A lot of Harleys and a lot of men. Dax and about five of the Skulls had shown up at the mansion. He and Chopper had spoken aside from everyone else for a few moments and then she had followed Chopper into a customized black van with the shiniest wheels she’d ever seen, and they were being driven to Schenectady, to an MC club that housed a crew who called themselves the Demonios. It meant “demon” in Spanish, that much Chelsea understood. What she wasn’t sure about was why they were there, because not even Chopper was talking to her.

This club wasn’t like the ranch the Skulls lived on. Chelsea had never been on the “compound” or seen the clubhouse, but she’d heard a lot about it. It was surrounded by gates and those gates were monitored with cameras and armed men. This one simply sat behind an auto shop and a bar inside a nondescript concrete building. Chelsea held tightly to Chopper’s hand as they stood behind Dax and a few of the other guys at the door of the clubhouse. There was a huge man at the door. He was Hispanic, bald, and tattooed with his affiliation across his round skull and down the side of his neck. He didn’t have a gun in his hand, but something told Chelsea there was one on him…somewhere.

“Weapons,” he growled at Dax. Chelsea watched the Skulls president’s face. Dax didn’t even blink as he said:

“Go fuck yourself.” She automatically looked at Chopper. He didn’t flinch either, but he did let go of her hand. It was the first time she wondered whether or not he was carrying a weapon. Of course he was. He was a biker, and she’d just been living in fantasyland for the past two days. Somehow, even sober and trying to walk the line, she always seemed to end up in a place like this…scared and confused.

Chelsea was surprised and relieved when the big guy at the door threw his head back and laughed. “Same old fucking arrogant cracker.”

“Once again, Hector, go fuck yourself. Jesus is expecting us.” Hector stepped out of the way, but he and Dax kept their eyes on each other until Dax was inside. The big guy stared the rest of them down, and Chopper once again took Chelsea’s hand and held it tightly. She wasn’t sure, but she thought there might have been some dissension among the group of Skulls who showed up at the house that morning, about her going along. Chopper got pretty heated, explaining to them that he believed the man who took his chopper was intent on hurting her, and he wasn’t leaving her alone. Apparently, the rest of the women, the “old ladies,” were still at whatever base the guys had been at in Ohio when Chopper called them. The guys had left them there and driven all night to get back to New York. Now that they were surrounded by what seemed to be a fairly hostile group of bikers, she wondered if staying behind might have been the smarter thing to do. Alcohol and drugs weren’t the only thing that gave her PTSD. Sometimes men did it as well.

Dax had stopped again, and the guys seemed to automatically fan out behind him when he did. He was facing a much smaller man now. This one was very dark-skinned with black hair that was slicked back from his forehead with what looked like heavy oil. He had an ugly, jagged scar puckering one side of his face, and he was holding a gun. Dax kept his eyes on the guy’s face, but Chelsea looked at Chopper and saw that his, and the rest of the crew’s eyes, were on the gun.

“Jesus says let you in,” the man said in a heavily accented voice. “The rest of them wait out here.”

“No.” That was the man standing to Dax’s right. His kutte said “Cody,” and he hadn’t spoken more than a few words all day. He was big, with short blond hair and really intense eyes that he had focused on the shorter man’s face now.

The Hispanic man kept his eyes on Dax as he said, “Your boys talk for you?”

“This is one of my sergeants at arms, Cody Miller,” Dax said. “His job is to protect me and the rest of this club. I respect his instincts and opinions. If he says I’m not leaving them out here, then that’s the way it is.”

The little man smiled. “You Skulls, always so fucking arrogant. I’ll pass your message to Jesus. Have a drink while you wait, on us. But don’t jump on the furniture or run in the house,” he said, laughing at his own joke as he walked away. He was the only one. None of the guys moved until Dax did. When he walked over to one of the tables, the guys followed. Everyone sat down including Chopper and Chelsea, except Cody, who stood like a sentry at the edge of the table. He had his hand on the front of his vest the entire time. Chelsea wondered if that was where his gun was, or if maybe she was just letting her imagination get away from her. She was still looking at Cody’s hand when she heard Dax say:

“So, you know absolutely nothing about this guy who has been chasing you?” It took her a second to process that he was talking to her. When she did, she looked at his face, directly looking him in the eyes for the first time. Growing up where she did, she had heard a lot about Dax Marshall. She’d even caught a glimpse or two of him riding by, or standing outside one of the businesses in town. But now that his incredibly serious, intense blue gaze was on her face, she felt like she could almost see the legendary power in them that people on the Southside whispered about.

“No,” she said, trying to control the quiver in her voice. “Night before last down by the harbor was the first time I’d ever seen him. At least that I remember seeing him. He was creepy, and he knew my name…”

“Could you describe him to someone well enough for them to draw a picture?” he asked her.

“I can draw one if you get me a pencil and paper,” she said. She felt Chopper’s eyes on her and she looked at him and said, “I’m an artist. I sold your tattoo guy most of the designs on his walls, the ones you guys pick from when you go in to see him.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Chopper said. It wasn’t like a curse, but more just an expression of surprise. Dax looked up at Cody, who walked over to the bar and seconds later was back with a pencil and a roll of cash register tape. He handed it to Chelsea and then went back to the bar and got a pitcher of beer and glasses. Chelsea didn’t look up while the beer was being poured and passed around, and even though she heard Chopper say something to Cody, she was too focused on what she was doing to process it. When she finished her drawing and looked up, the first thing she saw was the mug of ice water in front of her. She looked at Chopper and smiled, squeezing his leg under the table, and then with a shaky hand she gave the drawing to Dax.

“It’s a little crude because of the materials, but that’s him.”

Dax looked at the picture and then passed it around. None of the guys seemed to recognize him, but Chelsea was learning quickly that they were all really good at keeping impassive faces. When the picture got back to Dax he took out his phone and took a photo of the picture and as he was texting, Chelsea leaned close to Chopper and said, “Who is he sending it to?”

“Our guys out ahead of us,” he said. “It’s unlikely he’s still here so if he didn’t go back, he’s moving forward. He’ll text it to the guys back at the ranch too.”

“If they find him, what will they do with him?” she asked.

“That’ll depend on him,” Chopper said. Before Chelsea could ask for clarification of that, the little dark man was back. He didn’t look as amused as he had earlier when he told Dax:

“Jesus says you’re all welcome in our house of worship.”

Dax’s face didn’t change again, but Cody snorted and rolled his eyes. The little man, still holding his gun, looked up at the sergeant of arms and they glared at each other as Dax and the rest of them got up from the table. Again, Dax led the pack, and they all filed into a smaller room where a heavy-set Mexican man sat at the head of the table. He was clean-cut with short black hair, nicely styled, and no visible tattoos on his neck or the parts of his arms and hands that were showing. The man next to him was younger, also clean-cut, but with a tattoo of a black demon, or maybe it was the Grim Reaper, on his neck, and black and green tattoos all over his arms that looked either years old, or like they’d been done in prison.

The table was round and there was an outline of the demon they wore as a logo on their kuttes, painted in the center of it. The man at the head of the table, who Chelsea assumed was “Jesus,” sat with his hands folded and to Dax he said, “Welcome to our house of worship. Please, all of you, have a seat.”

Dax gave a slight nod to the others, and they all sat down this time, even Cody. There were two other guys in the room. One stood in one corner and the other directly parallel to him. They both stared straight ahead, as stone-faced as soldiers, and their guns were visibly tucked into the front of their jeans just underneath their kuttes. Cody’s eyes were on them as Dax said:

“I’m sorry to just pop in on you like this, Jesus. It’s been a long time.”

Jesus narrowed his eyes slightly but otherwise there was no change in his expression when he said, “Not long enough. The last time we saw each other, you were still a pup and your father had me beat down. I have to ask myself how a man could be so arrogant as to expect a welcome into my home after all of that.”

“It’s a legitimate question,” Dax said. “I’m not my father.”

Jesus waited a few beats and when Dax didn’t say anything else he chuckled and said, “That’s it?”

Dax shrugged and said, “Should be all you need to know. I’m not Doc, therefore you and I don’t really have anything between us.”

The big Hispanic man shook his head but smiled slightly like he wasn’t sure whether he should be pissed or impressed. Finally, he said, “What is it that you want from me, Dax Marshall?”

Dax took out the picture that Chelsea had drawn and handed it across the table. Jesus took it and Dax said, “You know this guy?”

Jesus stared at it for several seconds and then said, “And if I do?”

“He stole one of our custom choppers.”

“You chased him all the way to New York?”

“No. He stole it here, last night. But before that, he was seen stalking a member of my club.” Chelsea tried to keep her face impassive. Dax was obviously trying to keep her out of it. “I want the chopper back and I want to know what it is he wants from my club.”

Jesus handed the picture to the man next to him. His brown eyes were more expressive, and he looked to Chelsea like he knew who the man was. He handed it back to his president and gave a slight nod. Jesus then said, “His name is Manuel Guzman. He’s a half-breed. He’s also an assassin.”

“An assassin? Who does he work for?”

“Whoever has the most money,” Jesus said.

“He’s not very good at his job. He’s been following them for two days and the only attempt he made fell way short.”

“Oh, he’s good. He’s the best, actually. People who hire Manuel don’t want your typical hit. They want the hit to look like the person died in a terrible accident, or of natural causes. It might take him a month to find just the right time and place, but he will, and once he’s finished no one will ever be able to pin the death on him, or whoever hired him.”

Dax kept his eyes on Jesus, but Chelsea felt a few of the other guys’ eyes on her. They were wondering who she was all of a sudden. Who she had pissed off that was rich or powerful enough to put a hit on her. She looked at Chopper. He was looking at her as well. His opinion was the only one that mattered to her. She leaned in so her mouth was right over his ear and she whispered, “I really have no idea.”

He reached down under the table and squeezed her thigh. His eyes were back on his president, but the almost imperceptible nod he gave was for her, and just knowing that he still trusted her meant more than it probably should.