“Okay,” she replies, her grip tight.
We’re in this together—a biker and a beauty bound by blood and loyalty. What lies ahead will test us and push us to the brink. But as I look into Gwen’s eyes, I know one thing is for sure—we’re going to come out the other side. And when we do, nothing will ever break this bond we are forging.
ChapterThree
GWEN
The air feels thick with tension, and the field before me is a mess of tire marks, scattered debris, and blood. I stand there, fists clenched, heart pounding. Creed is on the ground, blood blooming across his chest and running down one arm. The gauze that covers it looks like a macabre flower.
I scan the chaos, my resolve steeling. Maybe this is why I’m here? I’ve been floating through life, trying to find my purpose for a while now. Perhaps if I find out who’s gunning for the Royal Bastards and sell my story, I’ll cement myself as a real reporter, or maybe I’ll simply find a place to call home here with this club.
Blue and red lights flash, sirens wailing as the cops pour onto the field like ants.
“Step back!” one cop barks, his hand hovering near his gun. Another kneels by Creed, his radio crackling with the urgency of life and death. “Dispatch, this is Officer Murphy. We have a gunshot victim at the Pumpkin Hill Creek Reserve. Requesting immediate medical assistance, please send an ambulance, over.”
Questions fly hard and fast. “What happened here?”
“Who did this?”
The club members exchange glances. Silence hangs heavy, but survival trumps pride. For once, they are not at odds with the badges.
“Drive-by,” Highway grumbles, his voice sounding like gravel mixed with frustration. “Didn’t see who.”
“Never saw it coming,” Justice adds, his gaze locked on Creed’s prone form.
“Unknown assailants,” I offer, meeting the officer’s probing eyes. There’s no room for half-truths when blood is spilled.
“Stay put. We’re gonna need to take your statements,” the cop insists, flipping open a notebook.
As another officer approaches, it’s evident he commands authority, and everyone instinctively clears a path for him. He leans over Creed, his expression turning to a frown when he scrutinizes him closely. Then, his gaze shifts, methodically meeting the eyes of each of us in turn.
“Is this a gang thing or a cartel thing?”
Reaper crosses his arms over his chest and looks the man up and down. “We don’t know. We came out here to party. This isn’t on us.”
“Yeah, I saw your permit cross my desk. Didn’t think you all would be stupid enough to open fire on each other.”
Reaper’s arms drop to his sides, and he leans forward, eyes blazing at the officer. “Thiswasn’tus. We don’t shoot our own.”
The man glances down at Creed and drags one shoulder up to his ear. “Make no difference to me if you kill each other.”
“Excuse me.” I hold my camera up and snap a picture of the man. “Gwen Fullerton forNational Geographic. I was out here doing a piece on the Royal Bastards. Am I to assume the Jacksonville PD isn’t going to pursue those responsible, Officer…” I let my question hang there, waiting for this arrogant man to answer.
“Youwork forNational Geographic?”
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a card and hand it to him. He scans my business card, puts one hand on his hip, and makes a tut-tutting noise.
“Are you trying to tell me…” he waves my card around and grins at me, “… that you’re not one of these club whores but a genuine reporter?”
“You can read, can’t you?”
Highway’s hand rubs the small of my back. I know it’s meant to calm me down, but this police officer is beyond rude.
Both hands go to his hips, and he leans forward. “I’m Sheriff Roy Baker. And just what isNational Geographicdoing with bikers?”
“I’m doing a piece about the urban rebel, the life of those who live outside the norm, of those who are free and unencumbered by the laws forced upon them by society.” I smile warmly at the man, and he looks a little uncertain as the lies fall easily from my lips.
“You get any photos of this altercation?”
