Broken Songbird (Vicious Games #2)

4. Chapter 4

“ S car, where are you—”

Del’s question cuts off as I walk down the aisle toward the exit of St. John’s Church. Rage and sorrow boil my blood as the tequila I chugged right before service churns in my gut.

Enzo’s cold words echo in my head in an endless loop. “No one can know Teo is gone. Our enemies will make our lives more volatile than it is already if anyone finds out.”

Stupid fucking mafiosos. I get it, I do, but bottling this grief, not having somewhere to visit Teo, nowhere to go to talk to him…

I swipe at the tears wetting my cheeks as I rush down the marble stairs and out of the front gates. It’s been a week since the hospital, and the pain isn’t any less. Today definitely made it worse.

I fumble with my phone, trying to order a rideshare car as I move further away from the church. I turn into the next street and halt in my escape as I almost run into a leather-clad back.

The patches on the leather—the top half of a skull with a pair of white, burnt and ravaged wings wrapped around it—tell me exactly who this is. Savage Wings.

The biker turns, and a warm smile greets me. “Scarlett.”

“Hawk,” I croak out and give him a weak smile. I peek around him; Phantom stands a few steps away with two other bikers next to a line of parked Harleys.

“Are you okay?” Hawk asks, concern in those soft, brown eyes.

“Peachy,” I force out. “Are you waiting for Creed and Ink?”

“Yeah. Has it…finished?”

I nod and drop my eyes down to my phone. “I’m meeting my ride a few doors down.”

My phone is plucked from my hand—I look up, expecting it to be Hawk, but it’s Phantom holding my phone. He taps a couple times on the screen and passes it back. I’m struck for a moment by his eyes—they’re an incredible blend of dusky-blue bleeding into a ring of bronze around the pupil. They match his handsome, almost ethereal features. His face is perfectly proportional, except for…

My attention moves to his scars. The pale pink tone of the lines indicates that he’s has this scarring for quite some time. It’s healed fairly neat with no puncture marks around the edges, which means someone took the time to stitch it carefully instead of using staples.

Being this close, I now see there’s thicker scarring on his neck as well. Realisation dawns on me. Seeing it all and the direction of the scarring… I think somebody tried to slit his throat and he moved, which sliced up his face.

I’m aware I’ve been staring at him for a weird amount of time, so I drop my eyes to my phone. He cancelled my ride.

I frown back at him, but his stoic expression doesn’t change his face. Before I can voice my annoyance, footsteps approaching behind me grab my attention.

Creed and Ink step around the corner; Ink walks straight to a motorbike, which triggers the other two bikers to do the same. The rumble of the engines makes my heart tumble in my chest.

Hawk sweeps his hand out to the bikes. “Where do you need to go?”

I open my mouth to say ‘home’, but then I remember the pending lecture my mother has for me about associating with criminals, so I turn to Creed. “You got any good tequila?”

Honey-brown eyes search my face before Creed nods once and leads me to one of the remaining bikes. He pulls off his cut and hooded sweatshirt, leaving him in nothing but a white T-shirt, and holds sweatshirt out to me. “It’s clean, I promise.”

“Why do I need this?” I ask, taking the warm fabric as he puts his cut back on. I’m dressed in black jeans, a silk button-up blouse, a wool cardigan and low-heeled chunky boots for the cooler November day.

“The wind is a bitch,” is all he says as he swings onto the bike.

“And what about you?” I ask.

Creed smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes as he pulls the helmet hanging off the handle and holds it out to me. “I’m used to it.”

I don’t want to hold the sweater while we ride, so I slide it on and roll up the long sleeves. The fabric falls just shy of my knees, and it smells heavenly—like worn leather and something smoky, but a touch sweet.

I take the helmet and clip it under my chin, leaving my long hair trapped in the sweatshirt so it doesn’t fly around. Creed pulls the bike straight, kicks the stand, and starts up the engine. Using Creed’s shoulder for support, I find the foot perch and swing onto the back of his bike, fit myself flush to his hard body, and wrap my arms around his chest.

Creed turns his head slightly to look at me. “You’ve done this before?”

“Once,” I say over the engine. That one time was with a guy from school after a party. The experience was as exhilarating as it was terrifying, but only terrifying because he had been drinking and I was in this ridiculously short dress, heels, and didn’t have a helmet.

Creed taps my calf. “I lean, you lean.”

I squeeze my arms in acknowledgement as he pulls away from the curb. Unlike the other guy, Creed rides with ease, sticking to the speed limit and doing minimal weaving in and out of traffic.

I’m expecting him to take us to the bar I first met him, but we travel out of the city and into an industrial area tucked away in the inner western suburbs.

We turn into a street lined with huge warehouses, going all the way to the dead-end, stopping at high steel gates. There’s an intercom with a camera and a keypad on the right, with a small nondescript sign that has ‘S.W. Industries’ engraved on it.

The gate slides open before Creed has to use the keypad—clearly someone’s watching the camera—and he drives into the quiet lot.

We veer to the left side of a warehouse, revealing another warehouse behind it as we ride down the wide driveway. We approach another gate at the end of the first building with another keypad and intercom, which Creed doesn’t need to use again, as it’s already sliding open.

We turn right as soon as we pass through the gate, riding between the two huge buildings. A variety of cars line the back of the first warehouse, and huge roller doors are open to a mechanic’s dream set-up, with more cars on hoists in various stages of dismantlement, and engines pulled apart nearby.

The second warehouse from this side is free of any doors but hosts two rows of large windows built too high for a view, likely only to let light into the building.

When we reach the next end, we turn left, riding toward a row of parked motorbikes lining the second warehouse and stop in front of a huge undercover area. It has clusters of outdoor seating, with a long bar lining the warehouse wall with closed windows.

Creed taps my knee for me to climb off, and I unclip the helmet as I watch him walk the bike back into position in the row of bikes and switch off the engine.

“I take it this is your club headquarters?” I ask as I pull my hair out of the sweatshirt neckline, finger combing the tangles.

He takes the helmet and hangs it on the handlebar of his bike, then gestures at the building. “Welcome to Savage Wings Motorcycle Club.”

He leads me to a large glass door next to the bar, stepping aside to let me pass through first. I’m not sure what I expected the inside to look like, but it wasn’t this.

Half the warehouse floor is completely open, with multiple seating zones, tables, a massive industrial-sized kitchen off to one side, and a full bar directly to my right.

Light pours in from the double row of windows, the rafters creating striped patterns through the whole space. There’s a staircase tucked away in the back that leads to a landing with a high railing that runs the entire length of the warehouse and has two hallways running off it.

“This place is incredible,” I whisper, walking further into the warehouse.

Creed steps behind the bar, gesturing over to the far-right end of the space. “The two doors without keypads are bathrooms.”

There are two more doors along that wall that do in fact have keypads, and then another two on the wall under the second-storey landing. “What about the ones with keypads?”

He smirks, pulling out two glasses from under the bar. “Storage, weapons, office, and club room.”

I nod. “Off-limits?”

“For now,” he says, turning to rummage under the other bar. The windows must open to the covered area outside.

“And upstairs?” I ask, ignoring the urge to know what ‘for now’ means.

“Bedrooms,” he answers, turning around with two different bottles of tequila and a bottle of gin.

I pull the more expensive tequila toward me and swig straight from the bottle before Creed can slide me a glass.

“I like your style,” he comments as he drinks his gin straight from the bottle as well.

The buzzing in my head dampens slightly as the tequila burns hot in my gut. I should probably eat something.

“Is there anyone else here?” I ask, kicking off my shoes and taking the bottle with me as I meander over to the kitchen, heading straight for the industrial-sized fridge.

“There’s always multiple someones here,” Creed comments over from the bar.

“Where are they?” I ask as I rummage through the fridge.

“Out of our way.”

I pull out a bag of shredded mozzarella cheese and an apple, then take my drink and snacks to the massive island bench and hoist myself on to the top.

Creed appears at my side with an amused expression as I pull out a pinch of shredded cheese and shove it into my mouth.

“Not expecting the rich girl to eat cheese?” I ask between mouthfuls, swinging my legs off the edge of the bench. A light buzz from the alcohol heats my body.

Those damn dimples are out again. “I thought you’d be more of a Fromage de Meaux kind of girl.”

I smile. “I didn’t expect you to know your cheeses.”

He shrugs, his hand diving into the cheese bag. “I’m full of surprises, princess.”

Come for me, princess.

My cheeks heat as that memory floods my system. I pick up the tequila bottle and take another swig, eyeing Creed as he takes a drink from his own bottle. I can hear the soft clink of his piercings on the glass in the quiet space.

“Have you always been a gin guy?” I ask absently, enjoying the way his throat works as he swallows.

He shakes his head. “Matteo converted me.”

Reality comes crashing around me at the mention of his name, the moment popping, and guilt lancing through my chest. I put the tequila bottle down and pick up the apple.

“Do you live here?” I ask before taking a huge bite out of the fruit.

Creed puts the gin bottle down and regards me for a moment. Those eyes simmer with an endless curiosity, like he needs to pull apart and examine whatever he’s seeing on my face—it makes me want to flee. I try not to squirm under his gaze, forcing myself to chew the apple normally before I choke on it.

“I’m here a lot of the time,” he replies eventually.

I swallow, the apple going down hard. “But you have somewhere else you call home?”

He nods. “You can say that.”

“Are you always so cryptic?”

“Do you always avoid hard topics of conversation?”

I frown. “What?”

He nudges the gin bottle next to him. “I mentioned Ma—”

“Don’t,” I croak, closing my eyes. “Please.”

The air shifts and a warm touch on my elbow startles my eyes open. Creed stands in front of me, close enough I can feel his body heat radiating on my legs, his expression soft, understanding. “Just because we can’t acknowledge he’s gone publicly doesn’t mean we can’t grieve him.”

“We shouldn’t be grieving him,” I whisper, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Holding that shit in isn’t healthy,” Creed warns softly.

“Neither is pretending he’s still here, but that’s what Enzo wants us to do, isn’t it?” I snap. My head spins, fuelled by festering anger and tequila.

“You’re angry,” Creed points out.

“Of course I’m fucking angry . Matteo is dead. He was taken from us, and his brother wants me to act like none of this is happening.” Creed opens his mouth to say something, but I cover it with my hand. “I know it’s for safety, but I’m still so…angry.”

Creed wraps his fingers around my wrist and pulls it from his mouth. “I get it.”

“You’re so calm.”

“Did you expect the big, bad biker to be throwing shit around and acting out?”

I search those liquid honey eyes. “Do you want to?”

“I learned to curb that behaviour a long time ago.”

“But do you?”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose, his thumb stroking the pulse point in my wrist absently. “Yes.”

His answer should trigger alarms blaring in my mind, but all it does is stoke a wickedly ravenous flame that burns hotter when it’s fed decadent depravity.

Matteo fuelled that fire as easily as breathing.

His absence creeps into me again, making my heart ache as I pull away from Creed’s hold, averting my gaze, and picking up the tequila bottle.

“Let’s drink,” I say, bringing the bottle to my mouth and drown the frivolous, flickering flames in my gut with peppery poison.