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I nodded, trying to take comfort in his words, but the worry gnawed at me. I spent the remaining part of the night at the clubhouse, unable to sleep, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
The next morning, I was pacing the floor, unable to sit still. I had called Tank's phone a dozen times, but it went straight to voicemail. I was about to head out to search for her again when Riptide walked in with Brat.
"Any news?" Riptide asked, his expression serious.
I shook my head, frustration and fear mixing in my chest. "Nothing. It's like she disappeared."
Brat stepped forward, her eyes filled with concern. "Boiler, Tank is strong. She wouldn't just run off."
"Then where is she?" I demanded, my voice breaking. "I can't lose her, Brat. Not like this."
She placed a comforting hand on my arm. "We'll find her. Just give it some time. She might be dealing with something on her own."
Riptide nodded. "We'll all keep an eye out. If anyone hears anything, we'll let you know."
I nodded, grateful for their support, but the fear still gnawed at me. The longer it took, the more I felt like Tank was in trouble. My heart ached with worry, and the thought of her being hurt or in danger made me sick to my stomach.
The Roost was packed tonight. The truce had brought in more bikers than usual. I was leaning against the bar, nursing a whiskey, when Pixie and Razor joined me. Both of them had a way of commanding attention, but tonight, I wanted to know more about what made them tick. With everything going on, it felt like the right time to dig a little deeper into Tank’s friends.
Pixie slid a drink in front of me. The girl had a sucker in her mouth. "You look like you could use a refill."
I smirked, taking a sip. "Thanks, Pixie. Hey, I’ve been with Tank a while now, but I realized I don’t know much about how you got into the Hell on Heelz MC."
She arched an eyebrow, her face easing up. "Curious, are we? Well, it’s not exactly a fairy tale. My real name’s Sophia, but I’ve been Pixie for as long as I can remember. Growing up, I was always the smallest, the one everyone underestimated. My dad was a drunk, my mom left when I was ten. I had to fend for myself."
I listened, captivated by the vulnerability in her voice. Pixie was always so bubbly, it was easy to forget she had a past like the rest of us.
"I started running with a rough crowd early on, just trying to survive. Then I met Brat at a party. She saw something in me, took me under her wing. She taught me how to fight, how to stand up for myself. Joining the Hell on Heelz gave me a family, a purpose."
Razor, sitting beside her, inclined her head. "Pixie’s tougher than she looks. Don't let her size fool you."
Pixie laughed, a bright sound. "Damn right. What about you, Razor? Wanna tell Boiler your story?"
Razor took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Well, my story isn’t as cute. Name’s Rachel. Grew up in the foster system. Bounced around from home to home, never really fitting in anywhere. I was always angry, always fighting. Got in trouble more times than I can count."
She paused, her gaze distant as she remembered. "When I was sixteen, I got placed with this couple. They were into motorcycles, had their own little club. They taught me how to ride, how to fix bikes, gave me some stability. But it didn’t last. They split up, and I ended up back on the streets."
Razor’s voice grew softer, more reflective. "I met Rage at a bike rally. She saw me for what I was—a lost, angry kid with a lot of potential. She brought me into the Hell on Heelz, gave me a place to belong. They became my family."
I looked between the two of them, feeling a deep sense of respect and camaraderie.
Pixie raised her glass. "To the Hell on Heelz. Our family." Her expression invited me to join.
Just then, a commotion at the door caught our attention. A group of rowdy bikers stumbled in, clearly looking for trouble.
Razor stood up, her eyes narrowing. "Looks like we’ve got company."
Pixie cracked her knuckles, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Time to show them what happens when you mess with the Hell on Heelz."
The bikers swaggered in, their leader—a burly guy with a mean scowl—eyeing us with disdain. "This place is a dump," he sneered.
I recognized them, just a local Rider club who thought they could pick on these women.
"Hey, limp dick, you lost? This is Hell on Heelz territory," Pixie said.
He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "We’re just here for a drink. No need to get your panties in a twist."
Razor was beside me, her hand resting on the handle of her knife. "How about you get the fuck out. Or we can throw you out. Your choice."
