"Then what do you want?"
Good question. What do I want? To keep her from stumbling into the Saint’s Outlaws' business. To make sure she doesn't connect the Reapers to us. To keep Vulture happy and the club safe.
But looking at her now, defiant and fierce despite the fear I can smell on her, I realize this isn't going to be as simple as intimidation.
"I want you to be smart," I say finally, releasing her wrist. "You're in over your head."
"I can handle myself."
"Those three guys would've put you in the hospital. Or worse." I lean in close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo, something floral that doesn't fit the hard edge she's trying to project. "You want to play investigative reporter? Fine, but do it with your eyes open. The Reapers aren't some small-time MC you can expose and walk away from. They're connected. And the people pulling their strings? They're the kind who make problems vanish without a trace."
"I know." Her voice is quieter now, but no less determined. "That's why I can't stop."
For a long moment, we stand there, locked in some kind of standoff neither of us wants to lose. She's not going to back down. I can see it in every line of her body. And that's going to be a problem.
"Get in your car," I say, stepping back. "Go home. Lock your doors."
"Are you going to follow me?"
"Probably."
A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "At least you're honest."
“Give me your phone.”
“Why? What do you want it for?”
“Just give it to me, Ava.” I hold my hand out, and she hands me her phone. I add my number to her phone, dial my number, and then hand it back. “If you need me, get into any trouble, or you’re worried about something, just call. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
She slides into her car and starts the engine. Before she can pull away, I lean down to her open window.
"Ava."
She looks at me, waiting.
"Next time someone corners you in a parking garage, aim for the throat with that pepper spray. Face is good, but throat drops them faster."
Her eyes widen slightly, and then she laughs. It's sharp and surprised, like she can't quite believe I just gave her tactical advice.
"Thanks for the tip," she says, and there's something in her voice that sounds almost like respect.
I watch her drive away, committing her license plate to memory even though I've already got it memorized. She's going to be trouble. The kind of trouble that gets people killed.
And somehow, I've just made her my responsibility.
I pull out my phone and dial Vulture.
"Well?" he answers on the first ring.
"We've got a problem. She's not backing down, and someone else is already trying to shut her up. Hired muscle, not Reapers."
Silence on the other end. Then, "Who?"
"Don't know yet, but they mentioned the missing women. She's digging into something bigger than just the Reapers."
"Can you handle her?"
I think about the fire in her eyes, the way she didn't flinch even when she was outnumbered. The way she poked me in the chest like I wasn't six-four and two-twenty of muscle and violence.
