“Isn’t that always the way?” The fury in Playboy’s voice isn’t like him at all, but I’m not surprised. He might like to fuck around, but when it comes to protecting the club and those in need, he doesn’t hesitate. It’s what makes him a damn good enforcer.
“Yeah,” I croak and clear my throat. My eyes close and the words slip past my lips, “She has scars on her body. From a whip.”
Some of my brothers jump up from their chairs, the sound of the legs scraping against the floor and their thunderous outrage wraps around me. It fuels me; it’s exactly what I need.
“Fucking hell,” Rector grunts and runs a hand down his face.
We share a look and the pain in his eyes, along with an apology for questioning her, is clear to see. But I don’t need an apology. I know he was just looking out for me, for the club, and, probably, even for her.
Sidewinder’s face is a mask of thunder as he leans across the table toward me. “But she got out,” there’s a note of pride in his voice. “She left and that takes fucking guts and brains.”
When I nod, the movement is jerky. Everything in me wants to leave this room and head back upstairs. I want to see her and make sure she’s still safe.
“She got a card from him,” the words scrape against my throat, but my brothers need to know. “It’s what sent her running to me. She showed us her scars and tried to say she should run again.” There’s a finality in my words, “I’m not going to let it happen. She’s mine and I’ll kill the fucker who dared to put his hands on her.”
The screens around the room light up with two side-by-side photos. One is of the front of the card Graycie got today, and the second shows the two sentences on the inside.
Just two sentences.
The anger in the room spikes again, but it’s not a wild feeling. It’s steady, sure, strong, and fucking focused.
My throat is dry as I stare at the photo on display. I desperately want to go right now and hunt this asshole down.
Whiskey clicks something on the laptop he has open in front of him and the screen displays a man who looks more like a weasel than a human. I know who it is without him needing to say a damn thing.
“Sylvester Ray,” Whiskey fills everyone else in. I don’t tear my eyes away from him and memorize everything I can. Because I’ll be looking for him. “He’s a defense attorney in Phoenix, which is where Graycie lived before coming here.”
“Does he have any connections?” Ryker is the one who asks the question, but we all turn our attention fully toward Whiskey.
I knew it wouldn’t take him much time to get the information we would need. I should be relaxed now that my brothers are atmy back. Still, my gut is screaming at me that someone is going to have to hold me back from going on a murderous rampage before this meeting is over.
“Not any significant ones,” Whiskey answers. He lets out a small huff, one corner of his mouth twitching. “He thinks he has big fucking connections though. He has no problem trying to use the low-level people he’s helped beat a charge to try and intimidate people. The thing is, he has no real power and neither do the people he’s represented.” Almost begrudgingly, he adds, “He does have a solid court record though.”
“I don’t give a fuck about his court record,” I snap.
Ryker gives me a look, one that tells me to calm down. I have to take some deep breaths and think about my Graycie-girl upstairs in my bed right now.
My voice is strained as I ask, “What about her parents?”
Whiskey shoots me a look filled with sympathy. “That’s a non-starter. They haven’t looked for her. They aren’t worried about her. From what I can tell, they think she’s in Phoenix living her life with that piece of shit.”
I’m not the only one who curses under my breath with that revelation. I’m damn glad I told my woman that she’s never going to have contact with them again. Hell fucking no, she doesn’t need the stress or disappointment in her life.
“We’ll be her family,” Rector is staring right at me as he speaks, probably seeing the turmoil on my face.
I nod once because it’s all I have in me.
“There’s a problem,” Whiskey speaks up and puts something on the screen. I don’t bother looking at it, I keep my eyes on the man in question while contemplating killing the messenger.
It wouldn’t help, but it might make me feel better.
“Sylvester took a leave of absence. He’s in the state,” Whiskey growls the words. “I was able to track him to the Nashville airport, where he rented a car. I haven’t found any evidence that he’s been in Dogwood Ridge, but I’m sure he’s headed this way.”
“When did he get in?” I can barely get the question out as a red haze threatens to take over my vision and my fists clench even tighter.
“He sent the card a week ago and then arrived in Nashville three days ago,” Whiskey’s voice is steel, his anger just under the surface.
“He probably assumed Graycie would think he was still in Phoenix and not go on high alert,” Ryker muses.
