by Jennifer Ann
Don’t remember ever missing someone to this extreme, even though it feels good to catch up with Rook now that he no longer despises my ass.
Early afternoon, I taught the guys a few of the new songs I wrote, and Morrison insisted on recording them once the details were pounded out. We actually sounded exceptionally good—even better than we had at Purple Reign. Can’t help wondering if my new burst of confidence had something to do with Zoe gushing about our gig.
Seeing Morrison and Rook get along takes a tremendous amount of stress off the situation. Rook had already warmed up to our new drummer before the gig. He couldn’t deny Morrison is innocent in the grand scheme of things, or that the guy has considerable talent. It made me wish Rook would convince his wife to move back so he could return to the band permanently. He’s a smart enough fucker—could easily learn a different guitar part after Bender returns.
Once we’re back at my place, brainstorming on other ways to track my brother, we eat takeout on my patio. With a mouthful of noodles, Morrison slaps Rook’s arm. “Hold on. What about Bender’s cell phone? Just ‘cause he isn’t answering doesn’t mean he still doesn’t have it on him.”
“Already thought of that,” Rook answers while shoving a forkful of shrimp into his mouth. “I had a tech guy trace his number. GPS was disabled before he left the shop.”
Morrison’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “That could be a good sign. Means he probably was planning to do something you guys wouldn’t like. If someone had attacked him there, it would’ve shown up on the security cameras, and Stone said you already looked. Sounds to me like he was purposely trying to disappear.”
Although we’ve been over this line of thought when Morrison wasn’t around, more times than I can count I’ve considered the idea that Bender may have just taken off. But why? Is he in trouble? Why would he leave all his shit with his girlfriend if it was planned? Why wouldn’t he leave a note? Nothing I can come up with makes reasonable sense.
Zoe might be onto something with the Martyrs of Mayhem. Rook discovered they didn’t get along well with my uncle after they tried pushing drugs on his turf, so it seems plausible they’re somehow involved with the guns. But there’s no way I’m bringing Zoe into this. I’m already annoyed as fuck that she’s on Terrance’s radar.
Sitting back in my chair, I eye Rook while cleaning my fingers on a napkin. “What else did you find out about the MC?”
“They’re crooked as shit, and they run a tight operation.” Rook pauses, swigging his beer. “Me and Stone managed to get into one of their warehouses this morning, posing as delivery guys.”
Stone dips his chin. “Saw a fuck-ton of crates…could’ve easily been military. We didn’t get close enough to read the markings.”
“Sounds like a reasonable place to start,” I decide.
Rook nods. “We could meet with the club president, ask him straight up if he knows what happened to Bender. Most people have telltale signs if they’re lying. If they did something to him, they might own up to it. They’re prideful bastards…not afraid of the law.”
Stone holds his beer up in a salute. “While you’re on this suicide mission, make sure to mention we may’ve stolen their SUV.” As he’s bringing the bottle up to his lips, he mutters, “Dumb fuckers.”
“I suppose he’s got a point.” Rook eyes me, his expression thoughtful. “You could reach out to your uncle again…see what you can get outta him. Between him and Terrance, I’m betting one of them knows something about your brother that we don’t.”
“I have no way to get ahold of him. He called me from a blocked number, and just showed up outside the club where Zoe worked. For all I know, he crawled back into whatever hole he was hiding in.”
“This shit’s messed up.” Dropping his head into his hands, Rook rubs his temples like he’s on the verge of a massive headache. He didn’t drink much during the gig, so I doubt he’s hungover unless the three of them hit it hard after. “I don’t know how much longer I can stick around. Brooke’s been on my ass, wanting to know when I’m coming home. She hates being alone and pregnant almost as much as she hates that I’m here.”
“No one’s gonna judge you if you decide to head out,” I tell him. “Your wife and kid are counting on you to return in one piece.” Pushing my dish into the middle of the patio table, I stare off at the pool. “Ben could’ve had a reason to leave, and doesn’t want us to find him. Maybe we have to come to terms with that, and move on.”
Stone grunts, reaching back to smack the back of Rook’s head. “Why’s your ugly mug still here when that hot piece of ass is waiting for you? Wouldn’t catch me thinking twice.”
Rook throws him a murderous glare. Stone simply shrugs and goes back to eating.
Can’t imagine what it’s like to be with the same woman for five whole years. If I stayed with Zoe for that long, would our feelings stay this intense, or would they fade with time? I sure as fuck know I couldn’t handle it if they continued to grow. I already feel royally whipped, and I don’t hate it. But I do hate that she isn’t here. Every second without her feels like a wasted breath.
After Rook booked a flight back to Connecticut first thing in the morning, the guys stayed way later than planned. We reminisced over craft beer into the early hours of the following day, making my decision to still visit Zoe questionable. I didn’t bother letting her know I was coming since she’s probably already sleeping. But fuck, I couldn’t lay in my bed any longer. Her dizzying scent clung to my sheets, and even with music blaring I could still hear her bubbling laughter floating to the ceiling.
I have it bad for this woman. The only way I’ll sleep tonight is with her in my arms. If I have to, I’ll sneak out before her sister wakes.
When I park the Chevelle in her driveway, a faint glow illuminates a room on the main floor of the little two-story house. Starting for her front door, I study the neighborhood with a critical eye. Based on the piece of shit car next door, pimped out with spinning rims and sporting what looks like a large bullet hole near the bumper, I’d bet my entire net worth that she’s living next to a gangbanger. Random junk and kids’ toys fill the neighbor’s chain-linked yard in serious need of mowing. The putrid stench of garbage clings to the warm summer air, and a handful of deep dog barks echo from nearby—the sound that can only come from large, dangerous breeds. Can’t say I’d mind if Zoe had the kind of dog that would rip an intruder’s throat out.
The Jacksons’ white clapboard house, small porch out front, is typical for the South Side. It’s in need of everything from a fresh coat of paint and new shingles, to windows that shut and a blowtorch to burn it to the ground.
I knock on the lime green door with a giant split down the middle, ready to roar when it slowly squeaks open on rusty hinges. The damn thing wasn’t latched. Does it even fucking close?
Goddamn it. I’ll do anything to get Zoe and her sister out of this dump.
Irritation climbs up my spine when I can’t get the door to fully shut behind me. The sharpness of a man’s voice penetrates the darkness as I’m passing through the entryway. I freeze, listening intently until I’m convinced it’s coming from a TV.
I find Charlize passed out in a narrow living room on an ancient couch, hoodie pulled over her purple hair, game controller resting in her limp hand. A cartoon-like character on the TV screen plays on a loop, goading her to make a selection.
I didn’t think the sisters looked that much alike before I saw Zoe without makeup, but now their similarities are glaringly obvious. Five years from now, they could be mistaken for twins. Seeing her peaceful innocence sends bolts of rage crashing into my gut. Without the damn door locking, anyone could come in here to abduct her. She’s tiny enough that she wouldn’t be able to put up a decent fight.
How the hell does Zoe live like this? Even if she doesn’t have the option to move somewhere else, at the very least she needs to get the fucking door fixed. First thing Monday morning I’m sending someone to install a new door wit
h a deadbolt. While they’re at it, I’ll have them add a state-of-the-art security system that’ll cost more than this dump.
Guilt for leaving Charlize behind weighs heavily on my shoulders when I go in search of Zoe. Anyone could walk in and throw her over their shoulder. No way in hell I’m leaving them here for the night. Four spare bedrooms at my place haven’t been used more than a handful of times since my uncle left. It’s ridiculous to allow the sisters to stay here when a safer option exists.
Using my phone’s flashlight, it’s hard to get a good sense of the rest of the house. The kitchen’s small and outdated, floor and countertop a hideous guava green, but it seems impeccably clean. The crisp scents of ammonia and cinnamon battle through the air. An old washer and mismatched dryer take up one corner where two baskets of wrinkled clothes wait to be sorted. There’s a small half bath off the kitchen, and a winding set of stairs by the back door. I take them up to a musty hallway covered in peeling wallpaper.
Through the first doorway at the top of the stairs, there’s a feminine figure curled up on a twin bed. The room can’t be bigger than eight square feet. Despite an old school metal fan vibrating in the only window, it’s stifling hot. Dozens of black and white pictures of New York cover the walls, and there’s an antique dresser beside the bed with little pink roses. Curtains in the same shade of pink flutter around the fan, sheets one shade darker tangle around her long legs. When I inhale deeply, I’m filled with the scent of baby powder and vanilla.
The private glimpse into Zoe’s life takes me by surprise. Didn’t figure her to be the girly type with all the pink shit, but it suits her well. I still want to learn every last detail of her life. Does she dream of going to New York one day? What makes her laugh the hardest? What does she like to do with friends?
Even with her back to me, I’m certain it’s Zoe by the glossy blond hair spilling over her shoulder, and the unmistakable curves of her body. My balls draw tight seeing her sleep in nothing more than a cropped tank top and thong. Moving in closer, I can make out red hand imprints on each of her perfect ass cheeks.
With the memory of fucking her in the library this morning, my cock throbs painfully hard. I wonder how she’d react if I crawled in behind her, and stuck it in between her silky thighs.
“My fingers are curled around the trigger of a twenty-two semi-automatic,” she announces, unmoving. “Unless you want your brains splattered all over the walls, kindly get the fuck out of my house.”
“Be thankful it’s me and not some creep here to hurt you girls,” I growl back. “You need a new fucking door.”
She reaches down to the floor, turning on a lamp covered with a thin scarf, and the room fills with a muted glow. Spinning around on the little mattress, she flashes a bright smile that stirs something behind my ribcage. In the soft lighting she’s naturally gorgeous—hair messed in the same freshly-fucked look it had this morning, and she’s not wearing enough to distract me from imagining all the things I’d like to do to her tight body.
“You’re here! I thought you’d changed your mind.”
“Did you hear what I just said, Zo?”
She rises onto her knees, waving a hand through the air. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to fix it, but I keep forgetting to call someone.” She laughs in a carefree sound while offering me her hand. “Come here, Mr. Sexy Rockstar. I missed you all day.”
I swallow hard and shake my head, refusing to budge even though every last molecule in my body beckons to kiss the shit out of her sultry lips. “This is not something you can just brush off. I was downstairs for several minutes before I came up here. Someone could kidnap Charlize in far less time.”
Smile falling from her lips, her eyebrows draw down. “Wait. What were you doing downstairs for that long?”
“Trying to decide whether or not I should drag your asses out of here tonight!”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m dead fuckin’ serious! It’s not safe! There are bullet holes the size of my fist in your neighbor’s car!”
The corners of her mouth lift with a half-assed smile. “Ryker, that door has been broken for months.”
“Jesus Christ, Zoe! That’s too goddamn long! Do you really sleep with a gun?”
“Stop yelling at me.”
“Do you. Sleep. With. A gun.”
“No, alright? The only weapon we have is a baseball bat—we keep it under the couch downstairs!” Her voice catches a little, as if she’s on the verge of crying. “I don’t appreciate you waking me in the middle of the night just so you can tell me how to live my crappy life! If you’re gonna stand there and continue to be a jerk, you can let yourself back out!” She points to the door, lips set in a tight line. “Go ahead, leave!”
While crossing my arms, I shake my head. “I’m not going anywhere as long as you have a broken door.”
She springs from her bed, crossed arms pushing her tits through the thin material. “Ugh! I didn’t realize you’d be as frustrating as you are hot!”
There’s a loud crash downstairs, followed by a high scream.
Heart lurching into my throat, I exchange a wide-eyed look with Zoe before darting for the door. “Wait here!” I order.
She sneaks past and starts for the other stairway. I race to catch up, gently pushing my way in front of her. I didn’t think to grab my pistol before leaving the house. If someone’s breaking in, I’ll use myself as a human shield if it’s the only way I can protect these two.
Zoe and I stop short at the bottom of the stairway to take in the scene playing out. Charlize stands at the foot of the couch, poised to swing a metal bat at a middle-aged homeless man swaying in the middle of the room. Thick pants and long-sleeved wool button-down both torn, wrinkled, and stained, he’s nowhere near appropriately dressed for the warm summer weather. It’s impossible to distinguish the color of filthy hair touching his shoulders, practically in dreads, but there’s no mistaking the murky brown eyes fixed on me.
With the stench of sour booze and filth rolling off him all the way from across the room, I touch the back of my hand to my mouth and cough. Based on his appearance and funky smell, it’s safe to assume he hasn’t bathed in over a month.
“The helllll’s goin’on in here?” The man slurs so heavily that it sounds as if he’s attempting to speak a foreign language. His eyes languidly blink in my direction. “Who’rrrre yewww?”
“Get the fuck out!” Charlize yells. Then she takes a powerful swing at the man—one that would make Joe Mauer proud.
“Char!” Zoe slaps a hand over her mouth, starting for them. I hold her back. Charlize has it under control.
The man averts the strike by stumbling backwards. He trips over his own feet, tumbling to the floor. A second later, he breaks into a delirious fit of laughter. Too hammered to be a real threat, he’s probably only looking for a safe shelter to spend the night.
I rush over to where Charlize holds the bat poised in the air, tears in her eyes as she waits for another chance to swing. “Charlize, sweetheart, give me the bat. It’s okay. I’ll take care of him.”
“No!” she cries, pivoting away from me. “I earned the right to hurt him!”
“Ryker,” Zoe calls out in her soft, musical voice, “you don’t—”
I turn to cut her a dark look. “This is exactly why you have to fix the fucking door!”
“He would’ve found another way in,” Charlize says, stopping to let out an unhumored laugh. “The bastard always finds a way to come crawling back.”
When I glance back at the man, now laying on his back with laughter dying on his lips, the pieces of this fucked up puzzle click into place.
“I earned the right to hurt him!”
“The bastard always finds a way to come crawling back.”
Then I remember Zoe’s words from the other night in my car. “My dad’s an insolent drunk who wanders around the city…”
The atrocious man is Freddie Jackson.
Their father.
10
Zoe
Watching Ryker’s expression loosen, filling with understanding as he solves the identify of the mysterious drunkard, I want to crawl back into bed and hide under the covers until everyone disappears. Or until the earth stops rotating. Either one would take a lifetime.
“Come to bed, Char,” I mutter. “If we leave him there, he’ll choke on his own vomit.”
“I’ll take care of him,” Ryker offers, meeting my gaze while running his fingers back and forth along his beard. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
He’s sexy AF when he’s all domineering and playing with those soft bristles, but now’s not the time for that. Not when I’m actively gagging from the foul odor of my old man.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head. “Seriously, just leave him alone. It’s what he deserves.”
“He deserves to have his shitty brains bashed in!” Charlize snarls.
I lower to the step beneath me, dropping my chin in my hands while releasing a heartfelt sigh. She’s not at all wrong. I still won’t let her go to jail over that asshole. No one could blame her for wanting to do it with the never-ending list of shit he’s pulled since she was born, the most recent involving the unforgivable incident last summer that nearly broke her. If I were a nicer sister, I’d encourage her to swing away.
Freddie begins to wail a Queen song sorely out of key. Why did he have to come back while my new boyfriend was visiting? Any second Ryker will finally realize I come with a crap-load of baggage, and he’ll run.
“Look, Char.” My heart breaks a little as I address my angry sister. “You have every right to hate Freddie, but offing him would only make things worse. They’d find a way to make us cover his burial fees, and we’d have to sell the house. Unless you want to finish high school while living on the streets, I don’t think that’s the best choice to make.”
