"No, that concludes our business." Alonso stands. "Scarlett will see you out. We hope to see you at future events, Mr. Torrino."
"Only if you have something equally exceptional." I tug gently on the leash, guiding Kayla toward the door.
We follow Scarlett back upstairs and through a private exit that leads directly to the valet station. My borrowed Maserati appears within moments.
I help Kayla into the passenger seat. Only when we're both inside with the doors locked do I allow myself a full breath.
"Are you okay?" I ask, starting the engine.
She nods, clutching my jacket tightly around her shoulders. "I can't believe you found me. I thought?—"
"I'll always find you," I promise, pulling away from the curb. "Always."
Chapter 8
Cami
The wind slams against my ancient Corolla in torrents. I grip the steering wheel tighter as thunder cracks overhead, my headlights barely cutting through the sheets of rain. When the engine sputters, then coughs out a pathetic dying wheeze, I don't even have the energy to curse.
"No, no, no..." I plead under my breath, pumping the gas pedal as the car rolls to a stop on the shoulder of the desolate highway. The dashboard lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I let my forehead rest against the steering wheel for a moment, fighting back tears. This car is—was—everything. My home, my transportation to both jobs, and the only thing I've managed to keep since everything fell apart. I've been living paycheck to paycheck, working double shifts at the diner and overnight stocking the grocery store, surviving on gas station coffee and whatever day-old food the diner lets me take home. The forty-three dollars in my wallet won't even cover a tow truck, let alone repairs.
Lightning flashes, illuminating a weather-beaten sign about fifty yards ahead. I squint through the rain-lashed windshield. There's a building set back from the road—a cluster of several buildings, maybe. Warm yellow lights bleed through windows. My phone died hours ago, I'm miles from town, and the storm is only getting worse.
I really don’t have many options.
I grab my backpack containing all my valuables, and brace myself before stepping out into the deluge. The rain instantly saturates my thin waitress uniform and an icy chill leaks into my bones. By the time I reach the long gravel driveway, my sneakers squelch and my dark hair is soaked.
As I get closer, my steps falter. The building is larger than I expected—a sprawling structure that looks like a restaurant or a bar with some type of garage attached to the side. But what makes my stomach clench are the rows of gleaming motorcycles lined up despite the weather, mostly sheltered by an overhang. Even in the storm, I can see they’re top of the line machines. The custom paint jobs alone probably cost more than I make in six months.
Oh God. I've seen enough in Blackrock to know what this means. This isn't some random roadhouse or truck stop. It’s either a biker bar or—I swallow hard—a biker clubhouse.
I hesitate. Rain streams down my face. What now? Turn back to my dead car and wait out the storm? Try to flag down a passing vehicle in this weather? The violent shivering that's taken hold of my body makes the decision for me. I just need to use a phone. Then I'll disappear.
The heavy door requires all my strength to pull open against the wind. When it finally gives, I clumsily trip over my own feet and in stead of entering quietly, I stumble, slide, attempt to break my fall, and take a nosedive onto my hands and kneesletting out a graceful “oomph” in the process. The storm's howl is replaced by the steady beat of classic rock.
And then I register the scene before me.
The large, open room is filled with guys who look like they were forged in the fires of hell itself. Tattoos cover visible skin like roadmaps. Leather vests bearing patches and insignia are worn over broad shoulders. Hard eyes dominate weathered faces.
A long bar stretches along one wall. Round tables are scattered throughout the space, and a pool table occupies the far corner where several mountain-sized men pause with cues in hand. Conversations die. Every head turns in my direction like predators scenting prey.
Oh, shit.
I shakily push myself to my feet, hyperaware that my thin white uniform shirt is now transparent over my white cotton bra. My black uniform pants are soaked as well and clinging to my legs. My mascara is probably streaming down my cheeks in dark rivulets.
I’m a hot mess, I get it, but the way their eyes move over me makes my skin crawl.
"Well, well. What do we have here?" A bald man with a salt-and-pepper beard sets down his pool cue and takes a deliberate step toward me. The skull tattoos crawling up his thick neck seem to leer at me in the dim lighting. "You lost, sweetheart?"
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry despite being drenched to the bone. "My car broke down. I just need to use a phone, please."
A different man, this one with a wild mane of red hair and arms like tree trunks, barks out a laugh. "Hear that, brothers? She needs some help." The way he draws out the word help makes my skin prickle with warning.
"I'll help her," calls another voice from the bar, raising a beer bottle in my direction. "Got everything you need right here, darlin'."
