Once I’d been issued my marching orders, Doc had come to my rescue once again. He led me into the industrial style kitchen and pulled a big red book out from one of the lower cabinets. It was the Betty Crocker Cookbook; my mother had an earlier edition when I was growing up. This one only looked to be a few years old.

I blinked away the sudden tears that formed as I flipped through the binder of recipes. It was always the little things that got to me; things that reminded me of her.

“I found it a few years back; thought it might come in handy one of these days.”

I eyed Doc skeptically. “And you had it hidden because…” My voice still sounded as if I’d gargled with broken glass.

He looked completely sheepish as he answered, “Thought if Charm knew we had something like this in here, he’d expect one of us to cook. I got enough on my plate without playing housewife to a bunch of bikers—no offense.”

I laughed and continued turning pages when Doc stopped me, pointing at a recipe for chicken pot pie. “What about this? Seems easy enough—the recipe serves six. If we triple that, we should have enough food for nine people.” Seeing my confused expression, he continued. “We’re growing men; gotta keep our strength up.”

Once dinner was decided, Doc sent two of the guys out for supplies and showed me around while they were gone. The building was laid out like a hunting lodge—with wood paneled walls as far as the eye could see. The main living areas were situated in the middle of the lodge, on the lower level, with apartments upstairs. A large stone fireplace separated the living room from the dining room. It probably kept the entire place warm during the winter. As we walked, I found myself wondering if the building had been a hotel at one point. It was certainly large enough to have been.

We continued up the wooden stairs toward the apartments and I noted that each piece of wood appeared to have been hand carved. The upper level was open to below, which probably came in handy if anyone ever decided to break in. The men could probably just pick them off one by one without having to go downstairs. Judging by the rack of guns lining the wall, that was their exact plan.

Doc continued in his role as official tour guide and I pushed through the pain in my side in favor of learning more about the men who held me captive. Or rescued me. I guess it depended on who you asked. We came to a closed door at the end of the hall and Doc swiftly turned around, heading back to where we’d come from.

“Wait—what’s that room?”  I stopped and pointed.

“Charm’s room—we’re not going in there, unless you’ve got a death wish I don’t know about.”

I simply shook my head and followed him dutifully back downstairs. Our tour ended just as the men got back. I recognized Sneezy almost immediately.

Just like Rooster, Sneezy went by another name—PD. And he was identifiable from almost anywhere in the lodge; you just had to listen for the constant sniffling. It was a good thing he kept his wavy hair close-cropped or else it would’ve been covered in mucus. I cringed at the thought and looked away.

The other man had been a little more difficult. He came in and dumped several plastic bags onto the kitchen counter before digging through one and pulling out a small brown paper bag.

After a long drink from the bottle, he smiled over at me. “You had a hell of a lot of stuff on that list.” He tilted the bottle back again before continuing, “I’m just gonna go lay down for a bit—I’m not as young as I once was.” He’d only taken a couple of steps before he turned back and thrust out his hand. “Guardrail.”

I took it and amusedly replied, “Neve.”

In keeping with the distorted fantasy in my head, I decided to call him Sleepy—only because Drunky hadn’t been a character in the Disney movie.

I wanted nothing more than to lay down and surrender to oblivion for a few hours too as I unpacked groceries, but this meal would either earn me a safe-haven or send me back into the depths of Hell. It was do or die time.

I placed the bags of frozen vegetables into the sink to thaw, deciding at the last minute to run hot water over them as I still wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing.

Feeling as though I was being watched, I turned around to find a biker sitting on a stool, studying me as if I was hosting a show on Food Network. I would learn later that this was the indelible Joker, but for the time being, he was my silent sous chef.

His hair was shaved on the sides, much different from the other men, leaving only an inch or two of light brown hair on top. He had a small freckle below his right eye—eyes that could only be described as Caribbean blue. Not that I would know personally, but his eyes looked like the resort advertisements I’d seen in magazines.

The stubble that lined his face was a mixture of blond and light brown, giving it an almost silver appearance in the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the upper windows.

I grabbed the plastic packages of chicken and a cutting board while the biker watched me intently. I was just coming to the conclusion that he’d been sent to babysit me when he tapped four fingers against his chin twice. It took a minute for my brain to catch up and determine that it was sign language for ‘talk.’

Every year, my mother signed me up for summer camp. A list was posted in the mess hall with various activities and, for whatever reason, I always chose sign language as one of mine. I guess I thought it’d come in handy in the future—at that point in my life, I’d still planned on becoming a doctor.

Instead, here I was, using my skill to communicate with a silent biker while playing cook to a bunch of outlaws.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Thinking of camp dredged up thoughts of my mother, so I did the only thing I could; I talked about her with my quiet companion.

“My mom would make chicken pot pie a lot growing up. I would watch her, but I never really got the hang of cooking, you know?” He nodded, never breaking eye contact with me and I realized that I’d just admitted I had no idea what I was doing. “It took me a lot longer to get it down.”

I looked down to make a few more cuts to the chicken and when I lifted my head up again, I noticed his head was cocked to the side, watching me curiously. His expression was one of open interest, but he was so quiet that I decided to call him Bashful.

I finished chopping up the chicken and placed it into a large bowl before reading over the recipe again. When I chuckled, Bashful held his hands out while shrugging his shoulders, as if asking what I found funny.

I pointed at the recipe. “My dad loved it when my mom made this, but every time he’d apologize to her for all the time and effort that went into making it. She’d brush it off, but tell him he could make it up to her by rubbing her feet once he was done with the dishes.”

The memory caused my throat to tighten up, and I was forced to pause as I regained control over my emotions. “It was Bisquick—she cheated and made the crust from a baking mix. We never caught on.”

I didn’t talk after that.

Cooking was no different than chemistry—I was simply taking a set list of ingredients in specific doses and recreating the experiment in a different lab. At least, that was what I told myself.

Once the chicken was cooked, I added everything to two large casserole dishes and popped them into the large oven before setting the timer.

“Well, well, well—you must be feeling better.” Rooster poked his head around the corner.

I shrugged. “I guess as good as I’m going to get.”

Not like your boss cares…

He looked me over, and I realized that Bashful had disappeared on me at some point. “You get a room yet?”

I shook my head and continued wiping down the countertops, trying not to give anything away. A room meant permanence, right?

Rooster excused himself and came back a few minutes later with a bag under his arm. “Come with me. One of the guys can take the shit out when the timer goes off.”

“It’s not shit—it’s good food,” I protested.

“My apologies. One of the other dickheads around here can take the deliciousness out for you,” he joked as he led me upstairs and towards one of the apartments. His earlier comments about me being a club whore came back full force and I stopped walking, my body stiffening in response. It had been one thing to offer my body when I was still high, but now that I was sober, I didn’t want to be anyone’s plaything.

He put a key in the door and then looked back over his shoulder. “You comin’?”

I shook my head and took a step back. “I’m not—I can’t do that—”

He laughed. “Darlin’, I don’t want a thing from you—but the truth is, you need a shower. Badly.” He held the bag up. “I found some girly shit you might like too. You’re safe with me, Scout’s Honor.”

I took a tentative step forward. “You were a Boy Scout?”

He pushed the door open and walked in. “Me? Oh, fuck no.” Seeing my eyes widen, he amended. “I won’t lay a hand on you, Biker’s honor.”

I took the bag from his hand. “Didn’t think bikers had any honor.”

He laughed again, as if my words were of no consequence. “You got a point there, Darlin’. How about this? I like my partners willing and able-bodied. And you’re neither. No offense.”

“None taken.” I studied the words on the back of his leather vest as he moved through the small apartment, gathering up armfuls of clothes.

Scarred Savages MC.

A skull with flames exploding from the eye sockets grinned back at me and I winced before looking away. Biker gangs were meant to be feared, so it’s not like there would’ve been a kitten riding a Harley on the back—although that would’ve been adorable.

The one percent emblem was proudly displayed to the right of the skull, opposite the MC logo. As if there was any mistaking what these men were.

At the bottom of his vest was the word Kasselhessen. I was even further from Boulder than I’d previously thought if I’d ended up in the mountain town of Kasselhessen. I didn’t know much about the town, other than it was founded by German immigrants in the late 1800s—well, that, and it was obviously home to these outlaw bikers.

“Bathroom’s that way. Clean towels are in the cabinet. I’m going to try and scrounge up some more clothes for you.” Rooster gestured toward a closed door, dismissing me.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the bathroom was relatively clean. He had an extensive array of shampoos and soaps and I took my time sampling a little from each one. I doubted that he’d even notice and, judging by the river of red coming off of me, I needed it. I managed to avoid my bandages, washing around them as best I could.

I let the hot water run over my body until I began to worry that Rooster was going to break the door down to ensure that I was still breathing.

As I used my towel to wipe the steam from the mirror, I tried to avoid looking at the bones protruding from my chest as I carefully dried myself off. I failed and actually jumped back in fright, certain that a ghost was in the room with me. I looked like a dead girl—my eyes were sunken in, a necklace of bruising visible around my neck. I had bruises almost everywhere I looked.

Charm had been right—I did look like an animal that needed to be put down.

There was a light knock at the door and I rewrapped the towel tightly around my body before opening the door about an inch.

“Found you some clothes.” Rooster’s face peered at me through the crack. I pulled the door open just enough for him to pass me the clothes before shutting and locking it again. The clothes were extra small, but still hung off of my frame. I cinched the cotton pants as tight as they would go before pulling my damp hair up into a ponytail.

The bag he’d given me contained lip balm, deodorant, lotion, a tube of toothpaste, and a toothbrush. After using them, I felt almost human again.

Almost.

I pulled on the oven mitts and carefully removed the casserole dishes from the oven. It looked even better than the picture in the cookbook.

“Damn, Neve. Why didn’t you get lost in the woods sooner?” Rooster grinned over my shoulder before stabbing a bite of steaming chicken pot pie with his fork.

The silent biker nodded earnestly, as if he was seconding Rooster’s comments.

“It must be somethin’ if it’s got Joker piping up.” The man I recognized as the voice of Grumpy said, rolling his eyes on his way out of the kitchen.

I tried to determine if he was teasing or not—I hadn’t heard ‘Joker’ say a single word since I met him a few hours ago. He’d shaken my hand and bobbed his head before sitting down to watch me cook. That had been the extent of it.

“Gunner, it’s the shit!” Rooster talked through a mouthful of food, exhaling in an attempt to cool his mouth and I hid a small smile, staring down at the saucepan of broth in front of me.

Take that, Grumpy Gunner.

I didn’t think I’d seen the man do anything but scowl since I’d arrived; which was a real shame, because he had a beautiful face. He was a little taller than Doc and though no one had said it, it was apparent that he’d served in the military.

You know how some men just carry themselves a certain way? Well, that was Gunner. And his way screamed, “Back the eff off.” He wore his dark hair slicked back and his facial hair was trimmed so perfectly, that I’d bet my next meal he didn’t leave the bathroom until every hair on his head obeyed him.

I mostly just tried to stay out of his way.

Rooster abandoned his post at the oven when I told him he couldn’t have another bite. I’d been hidden away in the basement, but I didn’t remember the guys making so much noise. They must’ve just been looking forward to a home-cooked meal.

I tested the side of the casserole dish with the back of my hand and decided that it probably wasn’t too hot to carry before making my way into the dining area.

My mouth dropped open at the sight of cardboard boxes and the men shoveling slices of pizza into their mouths like savages.

My face burned with embarrassment as I stood frozen next to the table. “What is this?”

Charm looked over his shoulder at me as he grabbed himself a slice. “I gave you an opportunity to cook dinner. You took too long, so I improvised. You’re out.” He stalked down the hallway and I hurriedly set the dish down on the edge of the table before jogging after him, managing to corner him at the end of the hall.

“You didn't even give me a fair chance! You set me up to fail!”

He shrugged and tried to push the door closed, but I stuck my foot out and caught it before it slammed in my face. To say I was taken aback by the contents of the room would’ve been the understatement of the millennium. I wasn’t sure what I expected—perhaps a dungeon of some sort. “You have a desk!” It wasn’t a question, but an accusation. Bikers didn’t have offices. They had rape rooms and torture chambers, sure, but nothing that would lump them in with regular folks.

He sat down in a large brown leather chair and kicked his feet up onto it. “And?”

Why did he hate me?

It wasn’t as if I’d planned on getting stabbed and choked before being left for dead in the woods.

My chest tightened when I realized that it wasn’t hatred reflected on his face. It was indifference, which was so much worse. I took a deep breath, hoping the pain would subside. “I made a meal. That was the agreement.”

He took a bite of pizza, taking forever to chew. “What do you want—a trophy for making one lousing fucking meal? Sorry, Sweetheart, this ain’t youth soccer. We had a deal, it didn’t work out, and now I want you gone. Is that clear enough for ya?”

I rubbed at the base of my throat. “I—I’d like another chance. Please.” I was pleading, but I couldn’t let him kick me out. Thoughts of being alone in the wilderness again had me rubbing my throat furiously as the pain intensified.

Charm crossed one foot over the other and pointed behind me. “Door’s that way.”

I could’ve stayed and argued, but what was the point? He wanted me gone and nothing I said was going to change his mind. I ignored the stab of pain in my side and slammed the door shut behind me before marching upstairs to find my room. I’d barely made it to the top when a hand closed over my wrist, yanking me back down a step.

“You wanna slam doors like a fucking toddler? You can do it up here where no one can hear you, Sweetheart. I ain’t runnin’ a daycare.” Charm dragged me into a room that I assumed was going to be mine, but I wrenched myself from his grasp and stumbled back into the hallway.

“You just want to lock me up like some prisoner...holding me against my will.”

His eyes widened in shock. “Against your will? Let’s go.” He latched onto my bicep and pulled me back down the stairs. 

“Go to hell!” I forced through gritted teeth.

His jaw worked angrily as he replied, “Oh Sweetheart, look around you. I’m already there.”

It didn’t matter how hard I dug the rubber soles of my flip flops into the wooden stairs, Charm was a lot stronger. With hardly any effort on his part, he forced me through the living area and out the door. Several of the bikers raised their heads, but when they saw it was him, they immediately looked away.

“Here you are. Free as a fucking bird. Go. Run. Get high. Whatever the fuck you want to do. I ain’t stoppin’ you.” He deposited me onto the gravel and turned to go back into the lodge, but I snagged the edge of his leather vest, stopping him.

“Please, Charm. I’m—I’m—I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me here.” I kept a death grip on him and watched as his chest heaved up and down with each angry breath as he looked down at me.

He was going to beat the shit out of me and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t so sure that I didn’t deserve it. With that thought, I reluctantly let go and took a step back.

The intensity of his stare seared me, so I focused on the ground in front of me, expecting his fists.

After what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “I’ll give you tomorrow. That’s it. Think you can handle that?”

I nodded earnestly. “I can do it. I swear to you.”

His gaze softened for a fraction of a second before the glare fell back into place. “I won’t tolerate any more of the shit. We clear?”

I shakily nodded again before he walked back inside, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving me with the stars.