“Keep it up, baby,” I murmur, gripping my hand tighter around her thigh. “I love a good struggle.”
I carry her down the steps and across the yard to where Journey’s waiting by the truck.
His eyes go wide when he sees the wiggling woman over my shoulder. “What the fuck, Bane?”
“Get in,” I snap, yanking open the back door and tossing Frankie onto the seat.
She lands hard, her muffled cries filling the cab as I climb in after her, shoving her down when she tries to sit up.
Journey slides into the driver’s seat, twisting around to stare at me. “Brother, Tacoma ain’t gonna like this.”
I know.
The club has a code. We don’t fuck with women and kids.
But Frankie Hayes ain’t no ordinary bitch.
She stole from me.
From the Kings.
And she’s gonna pay.
“Drive,” I order, my hand still pinning down my prisoner.
Journey hesitates for a second, then starts the engine and pulls out onto the road.
I stare down at the woman beneath me, her body shaking, her eyes squeezed shut.
She’s terrified.
Good.
She should be.
Because I’m not letting her go until I get every fucking penny she stole back.
Nobody fucks with the Kings.
Chapter Three
Frankie
“Mmmph!” I groan around the disgusting bandana shoved in my mouth as Bane presses harder on my back, pinning me against the leather seat.
The asshole hasn’t let up since he threw me back here. If by some miracle I make it out of this alive, I’m going to make it my mission to bury him and his whole club. If he thinks I’ve wrecked his life already, he has no idea what’s in store for him.
The truck hits a pothole, and my forehead smacks against the door.
Sharp pain shoots through my skull, but I can’t even cuss at the asshole holding me down like he deserves because of the gag cutting into the corners of my mouth.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten, trying to regulate my thoughts. I need to clear my head and figure out a way out of this mess.
I really screwed the pooch this time. This is seriously not how I pictured dying.
I always thought it’d be quick. Painless. Maybe a heart attack at my computer at eighty while hacking into some billionaire oil tycoon’s offshore accounts for fun.
Not kidnapped by a psychotic biker who smells like leather and smoke that my traitorous brain finds way too appealing.
