“He’s been in your room, Bronte. I know this is going to scare you when I say it, and I’m sorry, sweetheart, but he had the chance to hurt you, and he didn’t. He did exactly what he wanted to do… scare you.”
Bronte looks at me, her face pale. “Is that what you think, Jack?”
That she is looking to me for reassurance makes my stomach ache with a longing to hold her in my arms and kiss the look of fear off her face. “I do, darlin’. I don’t think he’s out to hurt you. I think the sick fuck enjoys the torment too much.”
Her throat bobs with a thick swallow. “So, what do we do now?”
“We’ll tighten security around you. Keep one of the prospects outside whenever you’re home alone. Have some kind of escort when you go out.”
“That sounds like a giant pain in the ass for you guys.” Again, she looks at me for some kind of reassurance.
“Are you kidding me? We live for this shit.” I give her a wink, trying to downplay the seriousness.
Wyatt leans forward. “It won’t be for long, and it’s just a precaution. Remember, he hasn’t shown any desire to physically harm you, so whenever this starts getting up in your head, I want you to remember that, okay? He’s a sick fucker who doesn’t have the balls to show his face. He likes to torment from afar.”
“And he can do that without coming to Flintlock,” Paw adds.
The door to my office opens, and Sheriff Pinkwater appears. Pinkwater was in my sister’s year at high school. He was the quarterback. The popular kid. The good-looking guy who was going to leave Flintlock and go on to do great things in the big city. Instead, he surprised the hell out of everyone and joined the sheriff’s department right out of college.
He’s been our sheriff since his predecessor got shot about ten years back, and he’s been in our pocket ever since. For a motorcycle club to run its illegal marijuana trade smoothly, it helps to have the law on your payroll.
Bull has a similar thing going back in Mississippi, same with our Louisiana, North Dakota, Georgia, and Wyoming brothers.
It makes life a hell of a lot easier.
We fill Pinkwater in, and as he leans against my desk, he takes notes.
“I agree with your plan. Keep a prospect on her at all times. I’ve got a friend in the department in Nashville. I’ll give her a call and see what I can find out. I’ll also give campus security a call, see if they’ve had any other complaints.” He looks at Bronte. “This asshole is probably in it for kicks and doesn’t plan on doing you any real harm. But let’s not take any unnecessary risks, okay?”
“She’s staying with me,” I state.
“Makes sense.” Pinkwater turns back to Bronte. “I’m sure Wyatt and Paw have said it, but I’ll reiterate it. You need a complete social media blackout. Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, they’re all tools these punks use to trace their victims.”
“I stopped using social media when this all started,” Bronte replies.
“Good. Does anyone know you’re here?”
“Just my friends, Riley and Sebastian. Oh, and the officer who took a couple of the complaints. He knows I’m here.”
“What’s his name?”
“Officer Johnson. He’s with the police department.”
Pinkwater takes down the name and then closes his book, tucking it away in his shirt pocket. He picks up his hat from my desk.
“Like I said, this is probably some jerk getting his kicks over frightening you. Try not to worry.” He looks at us, then back to her. “Looks like you’re in safe hands.”
After talking with Wyatt, Paw, and Pinkwater, Bronte seems calmer. But to take her mind off it further, I suggest a ride out to one of the mountain trails. It’s where I always go when I need to take my mind off my problems.
So leaving the clubhouse behind us, we ride along the ribbon of highway cutting through the mountains and head into the late afternoon light. Bronte wraps her arms around me, and I can feel her body relax against mine as the magic of a motorcycle ride takes over.
Almost an hour in, we stop at one of my favorite lookouts at the top of a peak. From here, the view is a panoramic vista of soaring mountain ridges and sweeping gullies. At the right time of day, the colors change to a magnificent gold as a dying sun bleeds across the green. Like now, everything shimmers in hazy golden light.
After Bronte picks a bunch of wildflowers, we sit on a large boulder and take in the view.
“You’ve been amazing with all of this,” she says, crossing her legs and laying the wildflowers between them. “Thank you.”
She starts to pin the stalks together to make a crown for her hair.