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Chapter 2

One-thousand, four-hundred and sixty days.

Two-hundred and nine weeks.

Forty-eight months.

Four years.

A lot of time to think. About my life, where I'd been and what I'd become. The more time I spent behind bars, the more I realized what a fucking statistic I was. Drake, the club, the family that had once been my lifeline had had me backed into a corner for years. And I'd just been standing there, hands up in surrender, tiptoeing around in an attempt to make each day as good as it could be.

Prison was no different than home. Women had been waiting just like I'd known they would be. No sooner did the guards show me my cell, a group appeared to give a taste of what was to come upon my release.

Three cracked ribs, two black eyes, one blessed day in the infirmary, and me. Hands up. Balled into a U-shape. No fight. Just a statistic. An abused animal too trained to bite the ones who beat her.

Drake visited every month. Each time to fuck with my head. To remind me. The lust in his eyes had nothing to do with sex. He'd do worse than the women had.

He couldn't wait to do worse.

Nowhere was safe, and I was tired. So unbelievably tired. Karma owed me something. She owed me at least some semblance of a life before I inevitably rotted in the ground.

But she wouldn't hand it to me.

It wouldn't fall into my lap.

I'd have to pry it from her cold, bitchy fingers.

I made a decision. A huge decision that would most likely end in my death, but I didn't care. It didn't matter. I'd rather die fighting my way out of the corner than spend my days cowering inside it, bowing my head. I was stronger than that, and Drake could fuck off.

I lied about my release date, dyed my hair black, and added a new tat to my temple. It was as good a disguise as I could manage, but the end result wouldn't help with my goals to have a normal life. It took away my only tool. My harmless college girl persona flew out the window to be replaced by someone worth a wallet check.

Still, I ran.

As far as the terms of my probation would allow, which wasn't very fucking far at all. Colorado was a deadly mistress in the winter, and as I trudged along the wet road, legs aching after ten hours of job search, head down and hair a curtain around my features, the October chill crept through my hoodie like an omen.

The law wasn't helping, not without a testimony. The shelters weren't an option. I had no family. I couldn't hightail it down to Florida without risking being locked back up, and I was one person hiding from a club with thousands of members.

Any one of them would snatch me up and hand me over to Drake in a second. For what? A pat on the back? A little golden star?

I didn't have a chance.

I had a fucking bridge. A bridge, a hoodie, and ten dollars of panhandled change.

I pushed forward as the familiar lights entered my distant peripheral. Bars lit the path down Main Street, heated, open and ready to service anyone with a buck to spend. They called to me like long lost friends, and the meager amount of money sat heavier inside my jean pocket. But walking into a bar would be like a mouse going for the trap. A death wish, and while the cheese had never been more tempting, the threat was far too great.

As I'd suspected, all three fiery cans were surrounded by lost and shivering souls. The older bums called them salamanders, but I usually just called them taken.

I dropped into my usual spot against the wall and pulled the folded cardboard from my pack. It wasn't much. Just big enough to cushion me from head to knees, but significantly better than newspaper.

"Long day, girl?" Mr. Frankfire, the old man who'd become my unwanted companion, asked.

No. Flew by like a dream.

"What gave it away?"

"Did you find a job?"

I bit back a growl. "Sure did. It's called being homeless. It's real easy, actually. I just walk around all day and ask people if they want to hire me. They tell me no, or some bullshit like, we're all staffed, or we'll give you a call. Doesn't pay much, though." I shot him a false smile.

"Are you getting snippy with me?" His eyes crinkled despite his stern tone.

"Absolutely not. Now, if you don't mind, part of this new job requires me to sleep under a bridge. You wouldn't want me to get fired now, would you?"

"Something's gonna turn up for you, I can feel it in these old bones of mine."

I busied myself with pulling the blanket from my pack, then stretched out onto the board in my best version of a cocoon. "Goodnight, old man."

"Everything will be alright, you'll see. It's the government implanting chips in people's brains we need to worry about. If we could fix that nonsense, everything would be back to how it used to be."

I groaned. Not again.

He always did this, totally sane for long streams at a time, then boom. Bat shit crazy. Alien abductions, fields full of coffins, concentration camps, illuminati, illuminati, illuminati, blah, blah, blah.

Now, apparently, chips in people's brains. I cracked an eye open and peered over at him. With scraggly blonde hair, matching unkempt beard, and a smell that could wilt a flower, Mr. Frankfire had undoubtedly caused more than a few people to move to the other side of the street.

"What kind of chips? Doritos? Doritos sound amazing right now." I couldn't help myself. He was pestering me. It was too damn cold, and I was too damn wet and tired to give a shit.

"No, girl! Micro-chips! They implant them right into your brain and control you with them. Kennedy! That's what happened to Kennedy! Micro-chips!" His arms flailed as he ranted, calling out event after event, apparently all caused by said micro-chips.

I looked around to the many sets of eyes shot in our direction. Mr. Frankfire wasn't the only crazy one that occupied this space. As a matter of fact, he wasn't much compared to some of the others. If he didn't stop, he might garner the unwanted attention of those who leaned towards more violent outbursts.

I did this. I shouldn't have goaded him.

"Hey, Mr. Frankfire." I sat up and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, man."

He settled down and stared at me.

I waited with hope that the next words out of his mouth would be normal.

"Like I said..."

I held my breath. Come on. You can do it. Normal, old man. Normal.

"Something will turn up for you. Good looking girl like you? Someone is bound to give you a job."

I released a sigh and shot him a wry grin. "If you say so, old man." I lowered myself down and turned my back to him.

Thankfully, he took the hint, and his own makeshift bed rustled as he got comfortable. "Goodnight, girl."

"Goodnight, Mr. Frankfire."

The old man was harmless. A kindred spirit. We were both the same. Thrown away, shunned by society.

Well, not anymore. At least not for me. I was going to have a life or die trying. Karma owed me, and she was going to pay up, one way or another.

Tomorrow.

I'd look again, tomorrow. Then, I'd look the next day, and the next. I'd keep looking, until I either found something, or the club found me.

I eased down the neck of my hoodie and eyed the solid black eagle across my shoulder. It felt more like a brand, a blemish alongside the rest of my ink, a scar. The Onyx Eagle. They would find me.

Drake would never stop. I was his, a thing, property.

Drake didn't like it when his things came up missing.

It was hopeless...

I pushed the thoughts away and forced my eyes to close.

That was bullshit, and I wouldn't accept it. Karma owed me. This wasn't it. This couldn't be it. I hadn't done anything to deserve this kind of life.

Tomorrow.