-Hailey-
The silence was a physical force.
It didn’t just hang in the air. It was dirt, and I was being buried alive.
I stared into my whiskey, watching the light from the TV behind the bar dance on the surface
Abby’s hand found mine again, and her fingers were ice–cold. She didn’t say anything… she just held on.
Across the room, Scarlett was methodically cleaning a shotgun. Ruby chain–smoked, staring off into space. Kayla and Becky sat together on a couch. No one was talking.
At the far end of the bar, Talon and Laura sat with bottles of beer, not really drinking them. Their postures were almost identical elbows on the wood, shoulders slumped forward. Except Talon had his hand on her
—
lower back, silently stroking his thumb over the fabric of her shirt.
Aside from a few, the rest of the Warriors were in the garage, or the shooting range, or upstairs in the apartments. I couldn’t blame them for not wanting to be buried alive in the silence.
The TV played some reality show with the volume turned down low. Nobody was watching it. We were all lost in our own private movies of worst–case scenarios.
My own featured Logan’s bike going down in a spray of bullets and blood, over and over again.
The crunch of gravel outside made every head snap toward the door. A prospect by the window twitched the curtain aside, then shook his head once.
Just the wind, or an animal.
The collective breath we’d been holding seeped out of the room. The tension didn’t break, it just reset tighter. “Fuck this,” Ruby said suddenly, her voice raspy from smoke. She stubbed her cigarette out dramatically.
“I’m starving. Anyone else starving? I feel like we should be eating. It’s what you do. You wait for the menfolk to come back from the damn war, you make a casserole. But fuck making a casserole. My stomach’s eating itself. Let’s order some fucking pizza.”
The suggestion was so utterly mundane, it seemed to short–circuit everyone. Then a low chuckle rumbled from the end of the bar.
Talon didn’t look up from his beer. “Yeah, fuck it. My treat. Call and order a bunch of pies. I’m starving too.”
It was like a spell broke. Tension bled out. A few of the other guys nodded. The simple, primal need for food.
Ruby grabbed her phone, smirking. “Frankie’s? The usual? Twenty larges, half pepperoni, half sausage?” She was already dialing, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the bar.
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We all listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. Finally, a voice answered. “Frankie’s.”
“Hey, Frankie, it’s Ruby. Need to place a monster order for delivery to the clubhouse. Twenty larges, the usual split.”
There was a long pause on the other end. We could hear kitchen noise, the sizzle of a grill, someone yelling in the background. “Uh… Ruby. Hey. Listen. We’re, uh… we’re not doing deliveries tonight.”
Ruby’s smirk vanished. “The hell you aren’t. You always deliver.”
Another pause, thicker this time. “I know. We just… I was down to one driver, and he just went home sick. I don’t know what it is. Sorry. Pick–up only.”
“What the fuck?” Ruby said, brows furrowed. “We can’t really pick ‘em up, Frank.”
“Sorry,” he sighed. “Wish I could help ya.”
The line went dead.
The silence that followed was different from before. It was prickly.
“What the fuck was that?” Scarlett asked, setting her shotgun down with a heavy thud.
“That was utter nonsense,” Ruby muttered, snatching her phone back. “Where else delivers out this way?”
A debate erupted. Mario’s was too greasy. Giovanni’s was expensive and their driver was a creep. The chain place was cardboard with ketchup.
It was the most animated any of us had been in hours. We were arguing about pepperoni sizes, about the price of extra cheese.
Finally, a decision was made. A place called Bella Napoli. A newer spot a few towns over that was supposed to have a wood–fired oven. Ruby called again.
“Yeah, hi. I need to place a massive order for delivery… Yeah, to the Warriors MC clubhouse on County 22… Um, twenty larges. Ten pepperoni, ten sausage… Yeah. Cash. Thanks, sweetheart. You’re a lifesaver.”
She ended the call and slapped the phone down on the bar triumphantly. “Done. Pizza’s on its way.”
……………………..
– Interlude
………………….
-Leo-
My breath fogged in the cold air. I shifted my weight from one freezing foot to the other. Guard duty was ninety–nine percent boredom and one percent sheer, pants–shitting terror.
So far, tonight was all in the ninety–nine percent.
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Chris, the other prospect on this thrilling shift, leaned against the inside of the gate trying to look casual. He was failing.
Every set of headlights that appeared way down the road made him straighten up and his hand drift toward the piece in his waistband. Mine did the same thing.
We were a couple of jumpy kids playing soldier, and we both knew it.
“Think they’re gonna be okay?” Chris asked. He meant Logan’s team. The A–team. The ones who got to actually *do* something.
“They’re always okay,” I said, trying to sound like I believed it.
Headlights. Again. This time, they didn’t just flash past. They turned in, slowing as they approached the gate. A beat–up Honda Civic, not a black sedan. My heart still did a stupid little flip. Chris pushed off the wall.
The car stopped. The dome light came on as the driver got out.
It was a kid. Couldn’t be any older than me. He was wearing a red shirt with a Bella Napoli logo on the chest. He had a tower of pizza bags in his arms, and he had to walk sideways to see around them.
Shit. I forgot they ordered pizza.
“Pizza delivery,” he called out warily.
“Alright, man, come on,” I said, working the heavy chain and padlock on the gate. I pulled it open just wide enough for him to hand the pizzas through. Up close, I got a proper look at him.
His hands were shaking so bad the pizza bags were trembling. His face was pale and shiny under the streetlight, and his eyes were red. He’d been crying. Recently.
“You alright, man?” I asked, my own guard coming back up as he opened the bags.
“Yeah. Fine. Just… long day,” he stammered, not meeting my eyes. He thrust the stack of pizzas at Chris, who fumbled to take them.
I reached in my pocket, pulling out the wad of cash Talon had given me. “How much do we owe-”
“I’m…” the kid blurted out, cutting me off. His voice cracked. “I’m… I’m supposed to give you a message.”
His hand dove into the pocket of his jeans. I thought he was going for a receipt. My brain was still on pizza. On the money in my hand.
He didn’t pull out a receipt.
The switchblade clicked open. He didn’t lunge. He just… pushed. Like he was handing me something. It went into my gut, just under my ribs.
There was a pressure. A coldness. Then a heat. I looked down and the handle was sticking out of me. A stupid, cheap–looking thing with fake pearl.
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I didn’t feel any pain. I felt a weird sense of surprise. “This? This is what it is?*
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The kid’s eyes were wide. Pure terror. He let go of the knife and his hands flew up to his mouth. “I’m so sorry!” he sobbed. “He said he would kill my mom if I didn’t do it!”
Then he turned and ran. He scrambled back to his car and dove in. The engine screamed to life.
The world snapped back into focus with a roar in my ears. Chris dropped the pizzas. He pulled his gun and fired off two shots at the ground next to the kid’s door.
“You ever come back here,” Chris screamed, “your mom’ll be the one buryin‘ YOU!”
The Civic’s tires spun, peeling out, and then it fishtailed onto the main road and was gone.
I looked down at the knife handle again. “Fuck,” I murmured. It seemed like the only thing to say.
G
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
