Cara

 

“What were you thinking?” I asked. “What made you think it was a good idea to bring one of your guys here?”

 

I was mad. Beyond mad. I couldn't believe that he had been presumptuous enough to bring one of his biker buddies into my home – knowing I wanted to keep that element out of my home, out of my life, and away from my son.

 

He stood in the kitchen, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor as I read him the riot act. He looked like Austin when I was calling him out for breaking the rules. Maybe that pouty, hung dog look was just a default setting of men the world over when they were in trouble. It would be adorable if I weren't so infuriated.

 

“Well?” I snapped. “Aren't you going to say anything?”

 

“I–I didn't expect you home that soon—”

 

“Oh, so that excuses you bringing your biker buddies into my home?”

 

He shook his head. “No, I should have asked fir—”

 

“Yeah, or maybe you could have called.” I was on fire. “You know I'm trying really hard to keep Austin away from—”

 

I wasn't sure how to finish that sentence without sounding like a total asshole. Maybe it wasn't possible. But then, I didn't really care. I mean, I felt bad – Damian, despite his rough exterior, was a decent enough guy. But I didn't want my house to become their next biker hangout. I was willing to keep him in my home until he was well enough to get back on his feet, but I wasn't going to have his biker buddies hanging out in my home.

 

“I know you are,” he said. “And I'm sorry. I understand where you're coming from. I do. I don't want to bring anything bad down on you and Austin. I really don't. I just needed to talk to Crank about a few things.”

 

“And you couldn't have just picked up the phone?”

 

He shook his head. “No, I didn't want to risk it on an open line.”

 

I looked at him and felt my mortification growing as fast as my anger. “You're not working some drug deal out of my living room, are you?”

 

“No, nothing like that, Cara. I wouldn't do anything illegal in your home. I'd never jam you and Austin up like that. I hope you can believe that.”

 

I sighed and crossed my arms over my chest. “I don't know what to believe, Damian. I really don't.”

 

He sighed and looked away. “I know it's asking a lot, but I'm asking you to trust me, Cara.”

 

“If you weren't working some illegal deal, what was he doing here? What was so urgent and secret that you were afraid to talk about it on the phone?”

 

He gave me a rueful grin. “I'm afraid that saying anything to you is going to put you in danger.”

 

I wanted to smack him across the face. “You mean more danger than letting you stay in my home? Because from where I'm standing, with those creeps looking to kill you, I'm already in a pretty vulnerable spot.”

 

He gave me a sheepish look. “Yeah, I guess I hadn't thought of it like that before. I'm sorry.”

 

“So? What is it then?”

 

He sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter, staring out the window toward the backyard. His face was conflicted – torn between wanting to be honest with me and trying to protect me. My heart softened a little bit. I did believe that he wouldn't be doing illegal club business in my house. I didn't think he was that big of an asshole. But the shock of coming home to find one of his biker buddies sitting on my couch was a little more than I could take. It made me angry, and I wanted answers. I deserved them.

 

“You sure you want to know?” he asked. “I don't want to pull you in any deeper than you already are.”

 

“That's right, I'm already in pretty deep,” I said. “What's a few more feet?”

 

Damian ran a hand over his face, the stubble on his jaw making a dry, scratchy sound. He finally sighed as if he'd come to a decision in his own mind – a decision he didn't particularly like.

 

“I don't even know if I'm right – Crank thinks I'm being paranoid...”

 

“But... ?” I asked.

 

“But I think Mills, my MC's president was lookin' to have me killed the night I got shot.”

 

I stared at him, dumbfounded. I knew nothing about motorcycle club politics or the relationships within, but I'd always assumed that the men in a gang like that were tight. I'd always heard they were like brothers. Family.

 

“Why would he do that?” I asked. “I mean, aren't you guys supposed to be like blood brothers or something?”

 

His laugh was dry and forced. “Yeah, that's what people tend to think. Honor among thieves and all that shit, right?”

 

I shrugged. “I can't pretend to know about the inner workings of a motorcycle gang.”

 

He smiled at me. “We're a club, first of all. Gangs are those shitheads that run around shooting up innocent people and all that. We don't do that.”

 

“Okay, club. I stand corrected. Sorry.”

 

“And like any social group, there are always gonna be factions and cliques,” he said. “Mills and I don't see eye to eye on a lot of shit. He's got his backers, and I've got mine. He doesn't get to decide what business the club gets into all on his own. It's not a unilateral decision. And that pisses him off.”

 

I shook my head and offered him a weak smile. I was getting quite the education about motorcycle clubs. Not that I had ever particularly wanted it, but there was some part of me that found it fascinating. Sort of like discovering a new species of animal or an alien life form. I'd dealt with some really unsavory people in my life – mostly thanks to my mother – but this was so foreign from anything I'd ever experienced before.

 

“I guess I'd always thought the leader of your gan – club – made all the decisions.”

 

He shook his head. “Nope. We're a democracy, believe it or not. All big things come up for a vote among the members.”

 

“Huh. Interesting. But why do you think he'd want to have you killed? I mean, that sounds pretty extreme.”

 

“It's just a feeling and nothing I can prove. At least, not yet,” he replied. “I just got the idea that he's looking to… expand the business the Kings are in. The Fantasmas are in the way of that, and having somebody in our leadership killed might pave the way for a war and opening up new business opportunities.”

 

I leaned back against the counter and thought about what he said. On the surface, it made sense. But it also sounded like something more out of fiction than fact.

 

“It almost sounds like the plot of a movie or a TV show or something,” I said.

 

He nodded. “That was sort of the impression Crank gave me of what he thought about it too.”

 

Damian looked down at the ground, almost as if he were upset that I didn't believe him. But the truth of the matter was that I didn't know enough to believe or not believe. I had zero clue about things like that. And I'd worked hard to build my life in a way that I wouldn't.

 

And yet, like a gravitational pull I couldn't escape, I felt like I was being drawn right into the middle of it all. Still, it wasn't all Damian's fault. Truth be told, it wasn't his fault at all. He hadn't asked to be shot. He hadn't planned on being wheeled into my hospital – or anything that came after. As much as I wanted to blame him, be angry with him, and lash out at him, I couldn't.

 

It was nothing more than a series of unplanned and unfortunate events.

 

I looked at him and could see him isolating himself. Building up the walls around himself. I knew he was drawing inward, feeling like he was alone and that nobody would listen to him. I had the feeling that he was thinking it was just him against the world. And I worried what he might do if backed into a corner like that – or more specifically, what would happen to him.

 

“Hey,” I said. “Just because I'm ignorant about all of these things doesn't mean it's not true. You very well may be right. But you probably need to get a little proof first. Something you can take to your club. Then, you can make people listen.”

 

He nodded and his face brightened – slightly. “I know. You're right. I just don't know how to go about getting that proof yet.”

 

“We'll figure it out. We're going to get you clear of all of this. Both of us.”

 

I immediately regretted my words and wished I could take them back. But Damian looked at me with something like hope in his eyes, and I knew that I couldn't. Despite who he was, I couldn't abandon him. I couldn't simply leave him to his fate on his own. Against my better judgment, I'd taken him into my home and promised to care for him. And because of that, I felt responsible for him.

 

“Hey.” I shrugged. “You saved my life. I kind of feel like I owe you one.”

 

He gave me a small smile. “You owe me nothing, Cara.”

 

He was right, I didn't. But I just felt like I did. He'd come for me when he didn't have to. It's not like we had a relationship or I was anything to him other than some chick he used to want to screw back in high school. But he'd put himself in danger. For me. He'd gotten me home to my little boy when he didn't have to.

 

“Maybe not,” I said. “But I'm not going to let you do this alone.”

 

“Could be dangerous.”

 

I shrugged again. “You can take the bullets if it comes to that. You're apparently impossible to kill anyway.”

 

“I'll do that,” he said and smiled. “Hopefully, it doesn't come to that though.”

 

“Here's hoping. I don't want you living on my couch forever.”

 

We shared a laugh and then a moment of awkward silence descended between us. He looked up at me as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him.

 

“Hey, do any of your neighbors drive a black Escalade?”

 

I thought about it a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, I think the guy a few doors down drives one. Why?”

 

He gave me another sheepish grin. “No reason. Just being a little paranoid again, apparently.”

 

We laughed it off, but I couldn't stop that small worm of paranoia from crawling into my own mind. What if Mendoza and his guys had figured out who I was and where I lived?