Pixie, First Daughter of Anarchy: Book 2

Lines Drawn

WARNING: Chapter contains mention of death, murder, vomit, blood, sexual language, and IRA.

Lowell had been trailing Piney for quite some time now and he was growing more and more nervous with each mile that passed them by. They'd left Charming in their taillights a while ago now and seemed to be heading out towards Nevada, though Lowell was unsure if Piney would even stop there, let alone slow down, they'd been riding well over the speed limit for most of the journey out on the open and thankfully quiet back roads, avoiding the highways. Piney had tried to lose Lowell a few times too, though had been surprised by Lowell's ability to manoeuvre his bike around to keep the older Son in his sights. Lowell was by no means a regular rider and looked a little like a child trying to keep control of their bike without stabilisers for the first time, especially when compared to a seasoned veteran biker like Piney and most of the others, but all the riding around in the recent days had given him more than enough experience to start picking up tips and tricks from the Sons around him. Right now, Lowell really wished he possessed the ability to take his phone out of his pocket and call the others to let them know where they were, but he knew that was going to have to wait until Piney either ran out of gas or reached whatever destination he was gunning for. The thought that the others had trusted him enough to let him chase after Piney made Lowell all the more determined to stick this out, though he couldn't help the nagging nervousness in the pit of his stomach. So far in the past two days, he'd been in two standoffs at gunpoint, an impromptu gang beatdown, several tense meetings, and a reunion, and whilst all that had been a mixture of scary and exhilarating, it also meant that he had absolutely zero clues about what he could be riding into currently, as the life of a Son seemed to be like living a game of Russian Roulette.

🖤🖤🖤

Clay crested the dry dirt-encrusted hill alongside Elliott Oswald as they walked along a forest path on the outskirts of his illustrious estate. The intense morning rays of the Californian sun beamed down through the sparse covering of leaves and branches overhead and cast down an intricate map of shadows on the forest floor. Clay idly studied it as he kicked aside a small rock with the toe of his worn steel-toed black boot, eyes watching how the dust swirled momentarily in the air, turning golden in the sunlight before spiralling to the ground. There was the distant sound of birds cawing and if Clay strained his ears, he could just make out the odd rumbling of a car engine as it passed by on the main road out into the distance, but that was all. Out here, the men were secluded, their secrets laid bare only to themselves and the Redwood trees. Just how Clay liked it. He'd been relieved when Elliott had agreed to meet with him alone, though the middle-aged businessman had sounded wary, exhausted, and a tad cautious, granted Elliott usually sounded hesitant whenever he conversed with the Sons President, but there was an edge to his voice that was new, and had immediately sent Clay's hackles up. He already knew what had caused Elliott's change in demeanour and tone, or rather whom, all Clay needed to know now was whether the damage was repairable, or if Pixie had well and truly lost him a valuable asset to the club. A now-familiar flicker of rage ignited in the back of Clay's head at the mere thought of the girl who dared try to topple his throne, but he quelled it with a deep breath in and out. He would have to save that issue for now, bide his time and hold fire. Most took Clay for being a reflexive hot head, and whilst he'd earned that reputation, like all good predators, he also knew how to settle and wait for the right time to pounce, to go in for the kill and to strike down anything in his path.

"Appreciate you helping us out." Clay finally broke the quiet that had surrounded the two men for some time. He kept his voice calm and friendly, making it clear that the tone of this meeting was just that, hoping to settle Elliott as he strode along next to him, his expensive brown leather cowboy boots making soft crunches as he navigated some fallen twigs and pinecones. Despite being the owner of his rolling ranch, Elliott didn't have the look of a countryman, still wearing a grey button-up business shirt, pressed blue jeans, brown leather belt complete with a shining silver buckle, and his luxurious boots. He had no hat to shade his balding head and wore no shades to protect his eyes, still not quite accustomed to the outdoor lifestyle. "You got my word." Clay told him with an air of finality. "We ain't gonna burn you on the bail." He confirmed, starting the conversational ball rolling.