“I want to find the men who hurt my sister,” I say. “It’s all I’ve wanted to do since the night I lost her. Why are you standing in my way? Are you one of them?”
“Fuck, no,” he says with so much venom in his voice it actually burns. “I know you think I’m a bad man and you’re right. But not in the way you think.”
What is with him? Does he think he’s actually telling me something? These weird proclamations are just oozing with hidden meaning but make absolutely no sense to me.
I do understand one thing, though. He doesn’t want me to think he’s the man I think he is. That much has been clear to me for days now.
I cross my arms over my chest to stop myself from poking him again, and to keep from shaking worse than I already am. We’re standing so close I can feel heat radiating off him and feel the coiled tension of his muscles. He feels so solid, so substantial somehow, and I kind of wish he was still holding my arm so I could feel some of that too. Because I feel like I’ll just float away as soon as this adrenaline rushing through my veins clears.
“Fine, then prove it. Prove to me you’re not some lowlife scum preying on defenseless women,” I say.
He winces. “How?”
The plan I’m hatching is still very tentative and fragile. And I’m very aware it might be the worst idea I’ve ever had.
“Help me find a prostitute called Lacy,” I say. “She’s working at one of the truck stops on the Interstate.”
He winces again, and this time the scowl doesn’t leave his face. “Why?”
“I’ll go look for her on my own,” I say. “But I’d prefer it if you came with me.”
“I bet,” he says and scoffs. “Those truck stops are no place for you. But why?”
“Because she’s in danger and I want to help her,” I say, pulling my car keys from my purse. “You chased Trixie away and this is how you can fix that and prove to me that you don’t actually mind me trying to help these women.”
He sighs loudly and shakes his head, looking at me like he wants to say no, but can’t bring himself to do it.
“Fine,” he finally says. “But put those away, we’re taking my bike.”
“No way,” I say. “I want to bring her back with us.”
Plus, there’s no way I’m letting him control where we’re going. I’m not that dumb.
“Whatever,” he says and walks out of the room.
I follow a few steps behind him, feeling a little bad for tricking him like this. But surprisingly enough, I don’t feel even a little bit apprehensive about getting in the car with him in the dead of night. I don’t actually think he’d hurt me. But he did prevent me from getting what I’ve been looking for these past five years.
Lacy’s is the only name I remember off Trixie’s list, but it’s the most important one. She knows my sister and she knows who took her. And I will get that information tonight. One way or another, I will find those assholes and make them pay.
* * *
Chance
The last thing I expected to be doing tonight is sitting in a car with Veronica, trawling nasty truck stops to prove I’m not the guy she thinks I am. But with Veronica, nothing is impossible and I don’t mean that in an entirely good way. And not in an entirely bad way either. It’s weird. I should be drinking with my brothers, celebrating the fact that Hunter is going to make it. But maybe it’s too early for that.
She completely lost it on me when I came back into her office earlier, and my chest still aches from the hundred or so times she poked me while making her point. A very sad point. I had no idea her sister was trafficked at some point in the past, if I understood her story correctly. She was sobbing and heaving so hard I didn’t get everything she was saying. But I understood enough to know that she is very, very upset.
I almost regretted chasing Trixie away before she could give Veronica the info on the Riders. But that wouldn’t have done anyone any good. And it was no lie when I told her they’d pay for all that and then some.
We’ll leave none alive. Devil’s Nightmare MC started as a band of mercenaries and we’re still the best. Of course she didn’t believe me and I couldn’t say any more than that, but the end result will be the same. She’ll get her revenge just as sure as we’ll get ours.
We’re not talking much as we drive, and the violent surge of wanting—no, needing—to help her has subsided to a dull pulsing somewhere in the back of mind. It’s been replaced by a heightened awareness of her.
She put on so much perfume this morning that I can still smell the fruity undertones of it, but her natural scent is coming through again now too—a sort of mixture of sweet peach and the ocean breeze. She purses her full lips in the most inviting way when she’s focusing hard on something and that fierceness of hers is always there, just beneath the surface of her pretty face. It’s like there’s a tigress inside of her, poised and lying dormant, still and composed until it’s time to pounce. Then she pounces hard. I bet she’d be dynamite in bed if she let go of that iron self-control she has.
“This is the place, right?” she asks as we pass a sign for a rest area a couple about five miles out of town.
“Yeah,” I say and stop talking before I tell her yet again that this is no place for her, especially not at night and that it’s highly unlikely any of the prostitutes working at these places will talk to us. She didn’t like hearing it the first three times I’ve told her that.