Page 47 of Twisted Steel

Chapter Seven

Enemy On The Table

Harper

I wake up to men arguing about murder.

Not loudly, and not directly outside my door.The Sons of Sin are too controlled for that.Their rage has structure, which somehow makes it worse.It moves through the clubhouse in low voices, heavy boots, slammed drawers, and the metallic click of weapons being checked and rechecked.

I lie still for ten full seconds, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember where I am.Then the memory hits me.The clubhouse.The phone.The threat.Steel sitting outside my door like a monster with a gun and a promise.

My stomach tightens.

I push myself upright, hair falling into my face, and listen.The hall is empty now, but my door is still cracked exactly the way I left it.Steel is gone, but I can feel the ghost of him there anyway.A ridiculous thought, but then again, my life has become ridiculous.

Two nights ago, my biggest problem was whether Milo had stolen my last good pen.Now a rival motorcycle club knows my name.

I get dressed in the cleanest clothes I packed, tie my hair up, and check my phone.Three missed messages from Milo.One from my supervisor asking if I can pick up extra hours tomorrow, because the universe has a sick sense of humor.

And one from Steel.

Steel:I’m in the war room.Stay inside and eat something.

I stare at the message before I type back.

Me:That’s three orders in one text.You need professional help.

His reply comes almost instantly.

Steel:Eat first.

I hate that my mouth twitches.I hate it so much I almost throw the phone.Instead, I shove it in my pocket and step into the hall.

The clubhouse feels different in daylight.Not safer.Just more exposed.The shadows are thinner, the stains more visible.There are dents in the walls, scratches in the floor, and bullet holes patched badly enough to be considered decorative.

Home sweet felony.

Mama M is in the kitchen when I walk in, flipping pancakes like the world has not recently threatened to bleed me out.

She looks me over once.“You sleep?”

“Badly.”

“Eat?”

“Is that a required greeting around here?”

“Yes.”

She slides a plate in front of me without asking.Pancakes.Bacon.Coffee black enough to qualify as a controlled substance.And I sit because I am learning quickly that arguing with Mama M is like arguing with a hurricane wearing an apron.