Terms of Employment
1459 Words
The ringing in my ears refused to fade.
Splintered glass glittered across the floor like frozen stars while a cold breeze swept through the shattered balcony doors, carrying the bitter scent of gunpowder and pine.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Damien's body was still draped over mine, shielding me from the broken glass. His left arm braced against the floor while his right hand remained firmly around my waist.
Solid.
Unwavering.
The movement had been instinctive, practiced—as though shielding me had required no thought at all.
"Are you hit?"
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
I blinked.
"What?"
"Look at me."
His hand gently cupped the back of my head, carefully checking for blood.
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
His gray eyes swept over my face, searching for injuries.
"Are you hit?"
"...No."
Only then did he slowly stand.
Not before.
Not until he was certain I wasn't bleeding.
His breathing wasn't as steady as his voice.
It was controlled, measured, but just fast enough for me to notice.
Only then did I realize what had happened.
He hadn't pushed me aside.
He'd covered me.
If another bullet had come through those doors, it would have struck him first.
I had spent years believing people protected themselves before anyone else.
That survival always came first.
Yet Damien hadn't hesitated.
He hadn't even looked.
He'd simply moved.
I couldn't decide which unsettled me more—the attack...
...or the fact that someone I barely knew had treated my life as if it mattered more than his own.
Why?
The question rang louder than the fading gunfire.
Heavy footsteps thundered up the staircase.
Ace burst into the room with his pistol raised.
"Noah's tracking the bike!"
His eyes darted toward me.
"Are you alive?"
"Barely."
"Good."
He looked at Damien.
"I'll take six riders."
Damien shook his head.
"No."
Ace frowned.
"They just attacked our clubhouse."
"We can still catch them."
"No."
The single word carried enough authority to silence the room.
Ace stared.
"...You're letting them go?"
"They're bait."
The sentence hung in the air.
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Damien looked toward the broken balcony.
"It means whoever sent them wanted one thing."
"And what's that?"
"To see whether you'd stay."
My pulse stumbled.
"...Me?"
"They already knew where you were."
"That's impossible."
"They searched your motel."
His eyes met mine.
"They wanted to know where you'd run."
I suddenly remembered the fire.
My room.
My missing notebook.
They hadn't been trying to kill me.
They'd been following me.
Watching every move.
For how long?
Twenty minutes later...
The clubhouse buzzed with controlled chaos.
Not panic.
Preparation.
Men boarded up the broken windows.
Others checked motorcycles, cleaned weapons, and restocked medical kits.
No shouting.
No drunken confusion.
Everyone knew exactly what to do.
This wasn't a gang.
It was an army.
A disciplined one.
Maya emerged from the infirmary carrying a black medical bag.
She looked no older than thirty, with warm brown skin and intelligent eyes that missed nothing.
"So..."
She smiled at me.
"You're the girl everyone's talking about."
"I hope that's a good thing."
"It depends."
She extended her hand.
"I'm Maya."
"Seraphina."
"I know."
Something flickered across her face.
Sympathy.
Gone almost instantly.
"You'll fit in."
She studied the fading bruise on my wrist.
"You're going to collect scars around here."
She zipped her medical bag.
"Just try not to make me earn overtime."
"I won't."
Maya smiled as she closed her bag.
"That's what every permanent resident says on day one."
The accounting office occupied a renovated room overlooking the garage.
Sunlight streamed through wide industrial windows, illuminating shelves packed with ledgers dating back decades.
Noah sat behind three computer monitors, typing so quickly his fingers blurred.
Without looking up, he spoke.
"You hate chamomile."
I blinked.
"...Excuse me?"
"But you drank it anyway."
He finally glanced at me.
"That's interesting."
"How do you know that?"
"The security cameras."
I froze.
"You watched us?"
"No."
He pointed toward one of the screens.
"The clubhouse has over two hundred cameras."
I followed his gaze.
Live feeds covered every corner of the compound.
"This place is a fortress."
"Has to be."
He leaned back in his chair.
"People don't usually shoot at accountants."
"Who do they shoot?"
Noah's smile faded.
"Presidents."
My eyes drifted toward Damien's office across the courtyard.
"Then why were they aiming at me?"
Noah stopped smiling.
"I've been asking myself the same question."
An hour later...
Damien entered the accounting office carrying a cardboard box.
He set it on my desk.
Inside were neatly organized folders.
A laptop.
An access card.
A set of keys.
"What is this?"
"Your workstation."
"I haven't accepted the job."
"Your first day has been eventful."
"I was almost shot."
"You were."
"And that's your recruitment strategy?"
"It worked."
I stared at him.
"I don't understand you."
"I know."
He slid another folder toward me.
"I need you to audit these."
I opened it.
My breath caught.
Bank statements.
Donations.
Invoices.
Charity receipts.
Millions of dollars flowed through the accounts, yet none of it resembled the criminal empire I'd expected.
Half the transactions funded homeless shelters.
Veteran rehabilitation programs.
Women's crisis centers.
Anonymous scholarship foundations.
I flipped through another folder.
Medical grants, disaster relief, and food banks in towns I'd never heard of.
Whoever built these files had expected scrutiny.
I searched for shell companies.
Hidden accounts.
Money laundering.
Offshore transfers.
Anything.
Instead I found receipts for wheelchairs.
School supplies.
Hospital equipment.
My training told me there had to be another layer.
Criminal organizations didn't become legends by funding children's hospitals.
They bought judges.
They bribed politicians.
They trafficked weapons.
They certainly didn't sponsor scholarships.
Unless...
The lie I'd believed wasn't inside these books.
Unless it had been somewhere else all along.
I looked up sharply.
"This has to be fake."
"These donations would survive a federal audit."
"They already have."
His expression remained unreadable.
"Who told you that?"
"The FBI."
He nodded once.
"And have you asked the orphanage?"
Silence.
"You expect me to believe you're running charities?"
"I expect nothing."
"There has to be another explanation."
"There usually is."
Again.
Another answer.
Not a lie.
Not the whole truth.
Just enough to make me question everything.
That evening...
I wandered into the clubhouse kitchen.
The smell of garlic, onions, and freshly baked bread filled the air.
Three bikers stood around the stove arguing over spaghetti sauce.
One of them noticed me.
"Are you hungry?"
He handed me a wooden spoon.
"Taste this."
I stared at him.
"You want me to judge your cooking?"
"Damn right."
I tasted it.
"It needs salt."
One biker pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I said that twenty minutes ago."
Another pointed his spoon like a weapon.
"Your taste buds died years ago."
"My taste buds aren't the ones burning garlic."
The argument started all over again.
Someone shoved a loaf of bread into my hands as if I'd been part of dinner for years.
No one asked who I was.
No one questioned why I was there.
They simply made room.
It felt absurd.
I'd walked into what the world called an outlaw motorcycle club...
...and somehow stumbled into the loudest family dinner I'd seen since I was a child.
The room fell silent.
Then all three men burst into laughter.
"I told you!"
One biker slapped another on the shoulder.
"Pay up."
The loser groaned and handed over twenty dollars.
I couldn't help it.
A small laugh escaped me.
The first genuine one in years.
Across the room...
Damien had just walked in.
He stopped.
Not because of the food.
Not because of the conversation.
Because he heard me laugh.
For the briefest moment...
Something softened in his eyes.
Relief flickered across his face before the familiar mask returned.
I almost convinced myself I'd imagined it.
Midnight.
Unable to sleep, I returned to the accounting office.
Something about the financial records refused to let me sleep.
Too clean.
Too perfect.
I opened the main ledger again.
Page after page of transactions.
Then...
One number caught my attention.
A payment made every month for the last fifteen years.
Same amount.
Same date.
Same recipient.
No name.
Only initials.
L.F.
Little Flame.
Cold spread through my veins.
Footsteps echoed behind me.
Slow.
Deliberate.
I didn't have to turn around.
I already knew who it was.
"Who is L.F.?"
Silence.
Then Damien answered.
"So..."
His voice was quiet.
"You finally found it."
I spun around.
"What is this?"
Instead of answering...
He looked at the ledger.
Then back at me.
"The question isn't who L.F. is."
My heart pounded.
"The question is why someone has spent fifteen years paying to keep her alive."
- Writer
