Chapter 7: Grizz
1157 Words
It started with the flowers.
Pink carnations. Tied in a ribbon the exact shade of her favorite lipstick. Left outside the boutique where Aubrey worked a part-time gig for extra cash. There was no card.
The next day, it was a photograph.
Not of her — but of Murphy. Leaning against his bike, smoking. Taken from a distance. Blurry edges. Folded neatly and slipped into her purse when she wasn’t looking.
The third time, it was a note.
“Tell the bear to bleed, or the doll breaks.”
---
Murphy didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t panic.
Didn’t even breathe wrong.
He read the note, his hand curling tight around the paper, jaw flexing like a fault line about to crack. Then he turned and calmly told Aubrey to pack a bag.
“Just the essentials, baby,” he said softly, brushing her cheek. “And wear shoes you can run in.”
“Murphy—”
“No arguments, Aubrey. Don’t ask. Don’t fight me on this.”
She saw it then.
The stillness.
The deadly stillness that came over him when the world tilted too hard. He wasn’t just a biker with bruised knuckles and a loyal crew. He was the kind of man who could walk through fire and not flinch.
And he was scared.
That scared her more than any note ever could.
---
It went bad fast.
They were supposed to be moving to a safer place—his words. But the second they stepped out into the alley behind the boutique, it all went sideways.
The guy came out of nowhere.
Leather jacket. Mask. Gun in hand.
Murphy shoved Aubrey behind him so fast she hit the wall. The gun went off.
Once. Twice.
She screamed.
And then Murphy was on him, fists flying, rage like a wildfire in his eyes.
But even he couldn’t dodge every bullet.
The third one hit.
Right side. Just under the ribs.
He staggered.
Still punched the guy in the throat hard enough to drop him, disarmed him, and kicked the weapon down the alley.
Then he turned to Aubrey and said, “Get in the fuckin’ car, baby.”
And dropped to one knee.
---
She screamed the entire drive to the clubhouse.
Blood soaked his shirt.
Her hands were slick with it, trying to press her sweater into the wound, begging him to stay awake. He cursed the whole time — not at her, not at the pain, just at the universe, like it had betrayed him by letting her get caught in this.
They hit the gates hard.
They opened fast.
Murphy’s brothers pulled him from the car, and she ran after them, refused to be left behind. Someone tried to stop her at the door — a tall guy with a scar across his brow — and she shoved him so hard he stumbled back in shock.
“I stay with him,” she hissed.
Nobody argued.
---
He didn’t die.
Barely.
The bullet missed anything major, but he’d lost a lot of blood. They had a club doctor — an ex-Army medic named Flint, who smelled like whiskey and motor oil and worked with a kind of brutal grace.
Aubrey sat beside Murphy’s bed for hours.
She didn’t cry.
She just sat there with blood under her fingernails, clutching his hand, watching the rise and fall of his chest like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
And when his eyes finally opened, hazy and sluggish, she let out a sound like a sob and a laugh had a baby.
“Hey,” he rasped. “You alright, baby?”
She slapped his shoulder — gently, but with enough heat to make her point.
“You’re asking me if I’m alright?”
He smiled, slow and crooked. “Had to make sure.”
She leaned in, brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’d take a bullet for you again in a heartbeat.”
“You’re such an idiot.”
He chuckled, wincing. “Still gonna marry me someday?”
She froze.
But then something shifted in her face, soft and certain. She kissed the corner of his mouth — light, reverent.
“Not if you die first, Grizz.”
His eyes flickered open wider.
“…You call me Grizz?”
She smirked. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
That’s when he knew she was his.
For real. No running. No bratty games to push him away. No testing how far he’d go. She’d seen the blood, the violence, the danger—and she stayed.
That was more than loyalty.
That was love.
---
Later that night, she met the rest of the club.
She hadn’t left Murphy’s side since he went down.
But when he was stable enough to sleep, she stepped out to grab water and stretch her legs, only to walk straight into the main room of the clubhouse—filled with bikers. Most looked like they were carved from gravel and old war stories. Inked skin, cold stares, drinks in hand.
They all turned to look at her.
Aubrey, with her short black skirt, soft lavender tank top, mascara smudged under her eyes and a thin line of dried blood at her temple.
A girl leaned against the pool table. Combat boots, cropped black tee, and a scar above her lip that looked like a knife had kissed her there once.
She raised a brow and walked over.
“You the reason he got shot?”
Aubrey lifted her chin. “You wanna try again with that tone, or should I throw your face through that jukebox?”
Silence.
And then the girl grinned.
“I like her,” she said, turning to the others. “Murphy’s brat’s got teeth.”
Aubrey blinked. “Brat?”
“I’m Andie,” the girl said. “Best friend. Second-in-command. Real b***h when I wanna be.”
“…He mentioned you.”
“Good. You need anything, you come to me. The guys are grumpy bastards but they’ll die for Grizz. That means they’ll die for you, too.”
Aubrey didn’t know what to say to that.
So she nodded.
Andie clapped her on the shoulder hard enough to jolt her. “You’ll do fine, princess.”
---
She went back to Murphy’s room that night.
Sat on the edge of his bed. Watched him sleep. Thought about how it all changed — how the silly flirtation and bratty walls had turned into this… fierce, bloodstained devotion neither of them asked for but both needed more than air.
Aubrey curled up beside him, careful not to touch the wound, and whispered, “You’re never doing that again.”
His eyes didn’t open.
But his fingers twitched and found hers.
And she let herself believe, just for the night, that maybe love didn’t need to be safe.
It just needed to be real.
- Writer
