When she was positive the truck couldn’t be seen from any angle, Breezy crawled through the driver’s window, reached into the back and pulled a blanket around her. She couldn’t stop shivering. Even her teeth chattered. She let herself cry, but she did so silently, and she told herself she wasn’t crying for lost dreams or heartache. She had so little chance of being successful and yet, she had to be. There was no room for failure. None.
She closed her burning eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, trying not to think about Steele. She didn’t know any other name for him. She’d only known him as Steele. She should have realized that if you’d been with a man for a year and he hadn’t told you his given name, he wasn’t into you. But she’d been young and desperate, and he’d been the white knight. She’d been so stupid. She hit her head on the back of the seat multiple times wishing she’d been smarter. Wishing she’d been born into another family. Another life. Wishing time hadn’t run out on her.
It took only a few minutes and she heard the roar of pipes as motorcycles moved in force down the highway. It sounded like an army was coming after her. Out of stark fear, she slid down farther on the seat. It was going to be a long wait until night. She’d had no choice. She knew clubs. She knew on a Sunday morning, after partying all night, they would be sleepy, and she’d have her best chance at getting away if she was recognized. She also knew she didn’t dare go out on the highway until nightfall. She hadn’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours, and this would be her only chance for a long while. She closed her eyes and willed herself to stop thinking about anything she couldn’t control and go to sleep. It didn’t work, but she tried.
Lyov Russak—Steele, the vice president of Torpedo Ink—whistled loud and long, raising his hand high, pushing his way through the soft flesh of women to spin his finger in a circle, indicating to Absinthe, who manned the monitors, to close the gates fast. He shoved his way to the surface, cursing in his native language as he got to his feet.
Her voice. He’d never forget that voice. Breezy Simmons. His Breezy Simmons. The girl that had forever made him a sick fuck who still, to this day, thought of her, dreamt of her, and pretended every woman he tried to be with was with was her. That was how truly fucked up he was.
He had never confessed to his brothers that he had somehow, inadvertently or not, become the very thing they despised. The thing they hunted. He was ashamed of that. Ashamed, not because of the terrible mistake, but because he couldn’t get the way she felt wrapped around him—and his cock—out of his mind. It was nearly all he thought about and that made him the sickest fuck out there.
She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She’d matured. Her figure had matured. He’d just caught a glimpse of her, one small glimpse, but his body had recognized her almost before his brain had. All that thick, tawny hair, those large green eyes. So green it was like looking into an emerald sea. His entire body clenched, and he pushed aside the women lying sprawled over top of him.
The Demons had come for the weekend, bringing their women with them, and the two clubs had partied hard. He’d drunk too much, the way he usually did at these events. He’d indulged far too much in his attempt to be with women, the way he also did at the events. The endless cycle that got him nowhere because he fucking lived in hell. The woman who could have changed all that was leaving. Walking away from him—again. No, make that running away from him. It wasn’t happening, and he didn’t much care how much of a monster that made him. She wasn’t getting away from him twice.
Across the room, Ice and Storm were pushing women off their cocks and rising to their feet. Keys and Player untangled from the women they’d been with and rushed the door with the twins. Steele was right behind them, practically shoving them out of the way just in time to see the gates slam shut, effectively stopping pursuit as her truck backed out onto the street in a furious rush.
“No. Fuck no.” He swung his head toward the prospects. “Get after her. Don’t fuckin’ lose her. I mean it. You stay on her.”
It was definitely Breezy. She was older. Three years older now, but it was her. She’d stared at him in absolute horror, and he couldn’t blame her. What the fuck? He’d looked for her covertly, after Torpedo Ink had completed their mission and taken down the Swords president and weakened their club, but she’d dropped off the face of the earth. That had been the plan—for her to disappear—but he always thought he’d be able to find her. And he’d tried—God, but he’d tried.
When he’d driven her away, he’d told himself he wouldn’t look for her, that he’d let her go. He’d lost that battle with himself, not that it did him any good. He had searched, over and over, but he hadn’t found her. Now she’d walked right into his lair and he wasn’t about to let her get away.
“She left something for you, Steele,” Ice said, shoving his hand through his hair. He shook his head absently at the woman who tried to drape herself over him. “Sorry, babe. Time to leave.”
“I could stay with you,” she whispered, her hand sliding down his belly toward his cock.
He gave her a friendly slap on the ass as he expertly avoided her hand. “Sorry, babe. Need you to get on home, wherever the fuck that is.”
Ice turned away from her, striding across the room to the bar where he’d seen Breezy put something. He picked up the envelope and turned it over. It was plain white. No writing on the outside.
Steele took it out of his hand and went striding out of the common room to the hall where their private rooms were. He needed to get dressed fast and get on his bike. Find her. He had to find her. He hesitated as he grabbed a pair of jeans. He couldn’t go to her stinking of other women. She’d know. She’d smell them on his skin. Urgency made him yank up his jeans and drag a shirt over his head. She already knew. She’d seen the women piled on top of him. He could explain later. Right now, the most important thing was to make certain she didn’t get away. He grabbed his colors and slid into them, feeling whole the moment he put them on.
Ice, Storm, Maestro, Keys and most of his other brothers joined him as he half ran out of the clubhouse to his bike. The Demons had rallied, news sweeping through the compound that something was up, and they were supportive of their new allies, immediately offering help. Player was already directing the search, sending bikes in various directions. The prospects had said they’d seen her truck turning south, toward the Bay Area, so that was the direction he was going. Absinthe had gotten her license plate number off the camera continually sweeping their parking lot.
Steele threw his leg over his bike and had it roaring within seconds. Then the wind was in his face and his brothers were at his back as he tore down the highway looking for his woman. He’d been the one to end things, and it had been ugly. Really ugly. Deliberately ugly. He’d said things to drive her away—and she’d gone. She’d managed to take pieces of him with her. She’d stolen those pieces from him, and he’d known when she’d left, he wasn’t going to get them back.
He’d been angry. He’d been afraid for her. He’d been so shocked that just by being with her, he’d become everything he most despised in the world—a predator. It hadn’t mattered how it had happened, he’d only known it couldn’t continue and he’d sent her away. No, he’d driven her away.
He increased his speed, straightening out curves and hurtling down the highway as fast as he could travel without putting himself in the ocean. He was risking doing just that, but to find her, to see her again, was worth anything. Then Keys and Maestro slid up next to him, moving in perfect unison with him, and he realized he wasn’t risking just his life—he wasn’t alone. His brothers were with him every step of the way. Lately, he’d come to realize, Keys and Maestro guarded him the way Reaper and Savage protected Czar. He didn’t need or want it, but they stuck to him like glue. He slowed a fraction, just enough to be safe as they searched for the one woman he knew had cut out his heart and kept it.
Breezy slept fitfully, waking at the least little sound, such as a branch scraping across her rust bucket of a pickup. It sounded like a saw rasping over the paint and yanked her out of her dozing over and over. She climbed out of the truck only when it was absolutely necessary, and she had to use the bushes. Each time, she forced herself to drink more water. She’d given up eating, but that only made her feel slightly faint. She wasn’t hungry anymore, but thirst persisted in spite of her desire to ignore it. She drank water and that meant more trips outside the truck, which meant she was at risk.