Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
The guards would take them during contraband checks sometimes. But they never gave them back. Probably sold them to the feds thinking I was stupid enough to write down club business or confessions.
But there was never anything about Badlands in there. Nothing about deals, or names, or territory.
Just... thoughts. Questions. The kind of shit that keeps you awake when you're alone with nothing but your heartbeat for company.
I didn't write about me. Didn't write about my time. Didn't write about the other guys, or crime.
I wrote about life, and the lessons learned. Just tryin’ to make sense of why this place even exists.
Why.
Why.
Why?
I click the pen. Unclick it. Click it again.
Then I open the spiral notebook to the first blank page and start to write…
Life don’t hand out answers, it just keeps throwing shit at the wall to see what breaks first. Maybe it’s your body, maybe it’s your will, maybe it’s your damn sense of what’s fair. People talk like there’s meaning tucked somewhere deep in the grind, like if you suffer long enough you earn some kind of prize. But all I ever saw was pain stacking up on pain, like bricks in a wall you end up building around yourself just to breathe. Maybe the point isn’t to break out. Maybe it’s to learn the shape of the cell. Figure out who you are when no one’s watching, when there’s no applause, no woman in your bed, no gun in your hand, just you and the dark, and the quiet, and the question you keep asking even though you already know the answer: what the hell am I doing this for?
CHAPTER 4
I wander the clubhouse, looking for Legion. But apparently, he’s a ghost. Because he’s definitely not here. Inside the bar it’s just Brandy, and Lord help me, if I have to talk about those pictures right now I might actually scream.
“Have you seen Legion?”
That’s all I say. That’s all I care about.
But of course she turns around with her whole face braced for war. “It wasn’t me.”
I blink. “What?”
“The videos. Everyone’s saying I leaked ‘em.” She sets down a bottle. “I didn’t. I’d never do that to the club.”
I let out a breath and wave a hand because no. Just… no. “I don’t care, Brandy.” I mean it. “Have you seen Legion or not?”
“Nope.” Then she turns back around like we never spoke.
And that’s it. That’s the end of that conversation.
I continue my aimless searching and find myself in a hallway I’ve never seen before, which, honestly, could describe this whole damn place.
The doors don’t have signs. The lights flicker like they’re just as tired as I am. And of course I have no idea where I came from. Directionally challenged in an outlaw compound. Super smart.
But whatever. I’ll grid search the place if I have to. Room by room. Building by building. How hard can it be to find one six-foot-two tattooed man in a place where everyone is six-foot-something and tattooed?
When I come to a door, I push it open without knocking. The room is bright, sterile. Chains is hunched over someone’s arm, needle buzzing like a fly trapped in a jar. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even pause.
There’s a woman sitting near the wall. She sees me. Immediately. Like she was waiting for me to walk in.
And yeah—I remember her. The ceremony. The bullet.
“Thanks,” I say, fingers brushing the necklace she gave me like it means something. Like I’ve figured it out.
She shrugs. “Time to let go.”
Cool. Vague wisdom from the woman with the haunted eyes. Great.
“I’m Savannah,” I say, because I don’t know what else to do. “You know that already, but—”
“You want my name.”
“Well, that’s usually how it works.”
She almost smiles. Not quite. “Haven’t seen him.”
Flat. Final. No curiosity. No warmth. The needle buzzes. Chains doesn’t react.
I keep going anyway. “He’s not in the clubhouse.”
She shifts. Just slightly. Looks down at the ink. Watches the machine instead of me.
And I get it. That’s the answer.
I turn to go.
But then—behind me—“Lita.”
That’s all she says. Just the name. No explanation. No tone.
That’s all I get. But I smile anyway.
Not for her. For me.
Because I walked into that room still hoping someone might help. And I’m not making that mistake twice.
Outside, I let out a breath as I walk, wondering where else I could look. My new-to-me boots crunch on the gravel as I head toward the row of buildings near the fence line, no real plan in mind. Just walking like I’ve got somewhere to be. It’s either that or stand still and look confused, and I’m not handing that win to anyone.
One of the doors up ahead stands out—heavy, reinforced. I walk up to it, curious, and come face to face with a guy with a shaved head, the woman who gave me the handkerchief, and the very specific smell of gun oil and steel.