Once, I waved at his office window. I couldn't see through the tinted glass, but I imagined his expression. Imagined him smiling.
I'm pretty sure he doesn't smile. But a girl can dream.
The night everything changes starts like any other.
I'm behind the bar, learning how to pour drinks from Mama Rosa. She's been teaching me the basics over the past few days, and I've discovered I'm not terrible at it. The work keeps my hands busy and my mind occupied, which is exactly what I need.
The door opens, and every biker in the room goes tense.
Two men walk in. Suits. Clean-cut. Wrong in every possible way. They look like they stepped out of a corporate office and took a wrong turn, and the way they're scanning the room makes my blood run cold.
One of them approaches the bar. I freeze, my hand still wrapped around the beer tap, suddenly unable to move or breathe.
"We're looking for someone," the suit says. His voice is pleasant, professional, the kind of voice that makes you want to trust him. I know better. "A woman. Blonde, early twenties. Had some car trouble, maybe? Would have come through about a week ago."
My hands are trembling so violently I can barely maintain my grip. The glass I'm holding slips from my fingers, but Mama Rosa's weathered hands dart out and catch it before it can crash against the floor and shatter into a thousand pieces.
"Lot of blondes in the world, friend." Whiskey has materialized beside me without a sound, settling against the bar with his arms crossed and a deceptively casual air that doesn't match the cold calculation in his dark eyes. "Lot of car trouble too, especially on these back roads."
The suit's smile widens, revealing perfect white teeth. It doesn't reach his eyes, which remain flat and reptilian. "This one's special. Her family is very worried about her wellbeing."
Family. The word slams into me like a physical blow, stealing what little air remains in my lungs. Garrett's twisted version of family. His property, his rules, his controlling hands and punishing fists.
They found me. Despite everything, despite the distance and the precautions, they always find me. No matter how far I run, no matter how careful I am about covering my tracks, he always catches up eventually.
I'm calculating escape routes in my head, the back door, the window in the storage room, whether I can make it to the lot before they grab me, when a hand lands on my lower back.
Warm. Huge. Possessive.
Jett.
He's materialized from nowhere, his heavy boots making no sound as he moves past me to face the suits directly. His hand stays where it is, pressed firmly against my spine throughthe thin cotton of my shirt, anchoring me to his side with unmistakable intent.
"Gentlemen." His voice is pleasant, carefully controlled. Polite, even. But his eyes have turned to winter ice, hard and unforgiving. "Can I help you with something?"
"We're looking for?—"
"No one here matches that description." Jett doesn't let him finish the sentence, his tone brooking no argument. "And if there was someone like that, she'd be none of your goddamn business."
The suit's practiced smile tightens at the corners, developing sharp edges. "Her fiancé is very concerned about her welfare."
"Is he." Not a question. A challenge wrapped in two flat words.
"He just wants to know she's safe and sound."
"She is." Jett's hand tightens on my waist, pulling me closer. I can feel the heat of his body through my thin shirt, the coiled tension in his muscles. "Now, you can finish your drinks and leave. Or you can make this a problem. Your choice."
The air crackles with danger. Every biker in the room is on their feet now, casual but ready. I can see Preacher near the door, blocking the exit. Gears has moved to flank us. Even Whiskey has dropped the easy grin, his hand resting on something under the bar.
The suits exchange loaded glances, a silent conversation passing between them in the span of a heartbeat. They're calculating odds, weighing options. They're not stupid—anyone can see that. They're outnumbered twenty to two and outgunned in every way that matters in a place like this.
"We'll be in touch," the first one says, already taking a careful step backward.
"No." Jett's voice drops to something cold and absolutely certain, each word chipped from ice. "You won't."
They leave without another word, their retreat measured but swift. The door swings shut behind them with a hollow thud, and the tension holds for another thirty seconds—thirty long, breathless seconds—before it finally breaks. Conversations resume in cautious murmurs that gradually build to normal volume. Music plays again from the jukebox in the corner. The world keeps turning like nothing happened.
But my world has stopped completely.
