Page 8

The building is low-slung, constructed of cinderblock and weathered wood siding. A chain-link fence surrounds the property, and out front, there are a whole lot of bikes. Some other trucks and SUVs are parked on the gravel lot as well.

The motorcycle rumbles to a stop, and I reluctantly unwrap my arms from his waist.

My captor climbs off first, then turns and holds out his hand.

“Come on,” he grunts, reaching for my wrist as I dismount.

I can tell he’s avoiding the wounds on my palms, and I don’t know how I feel about that. His hold is almost gentle, and when he presses his free hand to the small of my back to guide me inside, heat emanates from his touch.

Men linger outside near the bikes, and one perks up with a smile as we pass. “Evening, Prez.”

Prez? Shit! This isn’t good at all. I pulled a knife on the President of the motorcycle club.

“Tank, come with me,” the President grits out.

“Yes, sir.” Tank hustles toward us, then winks when he catches my eye.

My gaze widens, and I swear I hear a growl from the man who still has me. Not only that, but his grip on my wrist tenses.

Tank chuckles. Does he have a death wish?

I hear the music a second before the doors actually open. But the second we step over the threshold, I stop short.

There’s a large bar area where most of the members of the club are mingling. Seated on couches, stools, in booths, and at tables, they all glance in our direction.

For a moment, I almost expect the music to stop with a record scratch, but it keeps playing. What feels like minutes lasts only a few seconds.

Neon beer signs hang on the walls above the pool tables and jukebox.

“Ghost, Ruin,” the President calls out before leading me toward what looks like a kitchen.

I stumble forward until he pulls me to a stop in the corner. Of course he doesn’t release me. Not when two large men approach. Not when a busty blonde rubs up against the President and drags a perfectly manicured nail along his arm.

“I didn’t realize you were coming tonight, Judge.” She looks me up and down, her eyes flashing with disdain. Definitely not jealousy. I know I look a mess.

And frankly, she can have him.

He shakes off her touch and jerks his chin toward the bar area. “Not now, Misty.”

She pouts, slipping away immediately but not before she tosses me a glare that promises she’s not someone to mess with. I hold her stare, showing her the same.

The man who goes by Ghost is about as tall as Judge. His hair is more of a chestnut brown compared to his President’s black locks. And I bet his grey eyes don’t miss a single thing. Ruin, on the other hand, could be Judge’s brother. Same height. Same hair. But his eyes are brown. He’s covered in tats, and something tells me he’s the one people call to get rid of problems.

I shiver as I wonder where that puts me.

Then Judge’s low voice catches my attention, dragging me to the present. “She doesn’t leave. No one touches her. She’s under my protection.”

The men around us cast him surprised looks but dip their chins in acknowledgment.

“Tank, you’re watching her. Anything happens to Kaylie, and I’m holding you responsible.”

My mind goes blank. I don’t get a chance to argue before I’m tugged toward the stairs. I barely hear someone calling out to the members in the bar area as Ghost or Ruin relay the information. Then I’m pulled to a stop in front of a room.

Judge pushes the door open and finally releases me. “Home sweet home.”

He gives me a little shove, then pulls the door shut.

I spin, my hands grasping the knob, but no amount of twisting it or pounding on the door grants me freedom. Exhausted, I turn to survey my surroundings. The room is small, only big enough for a bed, a kitchenette, and a bathroom with a small shower.