He never saw that girl again.
As for A, it went so long, he thought he’d lost her forever.
And thinking that, he felt it.
Deep.
It was four years before Jag saw her again.
She was in a car.
He was on his bike.
They were stopped at a stoplight.
He looked over to her, she looked at him, and when sherecognized him past his shades and his longer hair and his Chaos MotorcycleClub cut, she grinned.
He frowned.
Because there she was, driving down Broadway like yearshadn’t passed.
Where the fuck had she been?
No notes?
No sightings?
Nothing?
She made hand motions and he jerked up his chin because,fuck yes, he was gonna follow her.
And he did.
To the parking lot at the Albertson’s by the Blue Bonnet.
They parked.
He swung off his bike.
She got out of her car.
Her hair was longer too, she was thinner, but somehow withthat, her ass was rounder, her tits bigger.
And she had more tats.
He gave himself seconds to take her in, and in all that, itwasn’t lost on him that she was even fucking prettier.
And then, no other way to describe it, he bore down on her.
“What the fuck, A?”he growled when he was deep in herspace.
She pressed back to her car, but he just moved into theopening she created when she did.
Through all this, she stared up at him, demanding, “What thefuck, what, J?”
“You’ve been gone for fucking years,” he pointed out.
Her head ticked.“Yeah, I went to college out east.”
