“Axe,” I grit, squeezing the phone hard enough I’m surprised it doesn’t break. “I’m not fucking around. Call whoever you got on your payroll in there and get my fucking brother into solitary. Right the fuck now.”
The air between us goes silent again. Then Axe says, “Fine. But know this shit with Kat isn’t fucking over.”
When the line goes dead, I release a long breath and rest a hip against the countertop. It’s then I notice the note. A quickscrawl across a torn envelope from the stack of mail sitting by the door.
I’m so sorry. I wish I could explain. Don’t look for me.
XO G
PS I’m sorry if your bike doesn’t make it back to you.
I read it again. And then again. Ten more times. Heart in my throat, blood rushing in my ears. I hoist myself back onto the counter and pat around inside the open vent. I grit my teeth. Coke and money are gone. Gun gone.
I’m sorry if your bike doesn’t make it back to you.
Clenching my fists, I jump down and then storm out of the house and into the garage. There’s an open space where my pretty black bike should be.
That little?—
Deep fucking breaths.
My bike is gone. And Grace is too. She took what she’d been looking for—drugs, cash, and a fucking gun—stole my wheels, and then left.
Leftme.
I know she doesn’t really owe me anything. It’s been a fucking month. I barely know her. And we didn’t exactly start whatever the hell this is between us on the best of terms.
Grace isn’t mine. Not really. So it shouldn’t feel this gut-wrenching.
I run my hand over my face. An odd sort of tightness presses down on my chest as I take another one of those big breaths, but it’s useless in calming me, at kicking the feeling that I’ve lost something.
No. This isn’t good enough.
Grace wants to run, to walk away and leave a shitstorm of a mess behind, leavemeto deal with the men who will eventually come looking for her, then she’s gonna need to say that to my face.
And she’ssorry if my bike doesn’t make it back to me? Is she fucking for real?
I unlock my phone and pull up my tracking app. I LoJacked my bike years ago for moments exactly like this one. Well, maybe notexactlylike this. Because I never could have predicted Gracie Donovan. Impulsive, fiery, full of attitude, stubborn as all hell. As wild as the flowers marking her skin. But maybe she’s more like that snake slithering across her thigh than those pretty flowers. Venomous. Always ready to strike. A true Sinner. Like her brothers.
A snake is still a snake. Even when it’s got a pretty face.
I should have anticipated this.
Feeling this way… feeling… I don’t know. Whatever this is. It was unexpected. This ending shouldn’t be, though, considering how we started.
When the map loads, I expect to find her a few towns over, maybe farther. But she’s still in South Bay. Not ten minutes from my house in farm country. At—I zoom in—the McKinley farm?
The green pin on the map at the abandoned property is stationary. She’s parked. Something gnaws at me. Fuck knows why. I cling to the irritation flaring there too. It makes a hell of a lot more sense.
I arm myself, shoving a handgun in the back of my pants, securing another to my ankle, then shoving a knife in my boot. Then I dial Grace.
No answer. I try again as I jump into my truck and haul ass towards the edge of town.
Fucking woman. Answer your damn phone.
More ringing. And then?—
“Stop calling me,” Grace breathes, voice a near whisper.
