Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC Book 17)

by Autumn Jones Lake

  “What about Dawson Roads? How does he feel about a hot, new young thing stealing his thunder?”

  If Dawson played any part in this, he’s a dead man walking. “I haven’t gotten that impression from him at all. She’s the opening act. Seats weren’t even filled when she was on stage a few weeks ago. If anything, he’s helped her out by having her perform with him during his set. One of the nights, he came out to do a song with her during her time slot. It helped.” I swallow hard, my gaze flicking in the direction of the stage. “Tonight was the most packed it’s been during her set.”

  I should’ve been waiting for her when she got offstage. Not fucking around with my stupid surveillance experiment.

  His disinterested expression says he doesn’t give a shit about Shelby’s audience size. “Is it possible Mr. Roads has a romantic interest in Shelby?”

  “I wondered that at first,” I answer honestly. “Shelby kind of probed him about why he wanted her to perform with him one night. He admitted it was mostly business but a little personal.”

  His shrewd eyes narrow. “Explain.”

  “Guess there’s a woman he broke up with recently. Another country singer. The song he and Shelby performed a few times was one he recorded with his ex.”

  “So, singing it with another woman was his ‘fuck you’ to this ex-girlfriend?”

  “He didn’t put it that way, but yeah, probably. You’ll have to ask him for details.”

  “Oh, I will. What’s her name?”

  “Shit.” I run my hands through my hair. “Glenna something. Once Dawson admitted that was one of the reasons, Shelby felt bad. She’s new to the business and was worried she was making an enemy of a woman she’s never even met.”

  Under his breath, the agent lets out a distracted “hmmm” noise as he writes all that down.

  “Dawson’s the one who assigned Bane to watch her when the record company wouldn’t hire security,” I point out.

  “You seem to have a positive comment about everyone, Mr. Randall.”

  There’s something I’ve never been accused of before. “That wasn’t really positive or negative.”

  “You realize it’s possible one of these people was involved, right?”

  “No shit,” I growl. “I’m trying to give you whatever information I have so you’re not wasting time chasing your tail.”

  “All right, moving along. This guy—Bane—has been watching her. What did Shelby think of him?”

  “She thought he was nice. He seemed to keep an eye on her.” My expression turns sour. “Until tonight, when it really mattered.”

  “What was his excuse for leaving?”

  “He said something about a fire on Dawson’s bus.”

  “Convenient how that happened,” he mutters.

  Isn’t it, though?

  “Made for a nice distraction,” he adds. “I still need to talk to the fire department and obtain more details.”

  “Yeah, don’t waste too much time on that. Focus on finding Shelby.”

  He glares at me. “What’s her family situation?”

  Lynn may be an overbearing mom trying her hardest to push me out of Shelby’s life, but I doubt that information is relevant, so there’s no point painting her in a bad light. “Her mom’s in Texas. Works as a waitress. Shelby’s dad walked out on ’em years ago. She and her mom are pretty close.”

  “Greg doesn’t want to inform the mother yet, but we’ll have to.”

  “I’ll do it.” I’m not looking forward to that conversation. But the news has to be better coming from me rather than a stranger.

  He scribbles in the notebook again. “She have any contact with her dad?”

  “No.”

  “No? Not even with her getting famous?”

  I snort out a sad laugh. “No. She assumes he’ll pop up eventually, wanting some cash, and is looking forward to telling him to fuck off.”

  “Spirited girl.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “That’s good,” he says quietly.

  I swallow hard, considering what he’s implying.

  Neither of us say it out loud.

  But we both know that if the guy who took her is as unhinged as we think he is, Shelby’s gonna need every ounce of strength she has to survive.

  Chapter Three

  Rooster

  An even larger crowd is clustered around Shelby’s dressing room when Agent Jackson and I return. Yellow crime scene tape has marked off her doorway and a portion of the hallway.

  He stops me halfway down the hall. “Listen, I understand what’s going to happen to this guy if you get your hands on him before we—”

  “My only concern is getting Shelby back safe.”

  “And I’ll help you do that.” His gaze shifts to two new plainclothesmen who reek of FBI, and another wearing a jacket identifying him as ATF. “Try not to make my job harder, and keep me in the loop.”

  I don’t know Jackson. Sure as fuck don’t trust him. He doesn’t trust me either. Which is fine. He shouldn’t. But right now, I need his help, so I’ll pretty much say anything to reassure him. “I want her back as soon as possible. That’s all.” I swallow hard. “We both know the longer he has her, the more…” I can’t say the words. We both know the longer he has Shelby, the more likely it is he’ll hurt her, or worse.

  Jackson’s lips twist, and he rocks back on his heels for a second. “I have worked a few cases similar to this one. It’s not a guarantee but from the letters, he seems infatuated with her. She hasn’t officially ever ‘rejected’ him, which is usually the trigger for something...violent. So, hold onto that.”

  Hold onto what? Hope? Do I look like a kid he can placate with a bedtime story about friendly monsters?

  “Where are you staying?” he asks when I don’t respond to his “hang in there” pep talk.

  I won’t be able to sleep until I have Shelby back, so where I park my ass tonight is irrelevant. “At the clubhouse. But I might grab a hotel room closer to downtown.”

  We exchange information, and I promise to call him if I hear anything.

  Apparently, I’m free to go.

  “I might have more questions after I speak to a few other people. Don’t disappear on me,” he says before turning away.

  Or not.

  The other agents scowl as I’m dismissed. Maybe they expected Jackson to handcuff me to a railing or something. One agent steps toward me, but Jackson shakes his head as he approaches them. He seems to be the one in charge.

  Jigsaw, Pants, and T-Bone slowly form a wall around me. “Any word from Z?” I ask quietly.

  “They’re working on it,” Jigsaw says.

  I send Z a quick text to let him know I’m done talking to law enforcement for now.

  As I finish sending the text, my phone buzzes.

  Z.

  I answer and turn the corner away from the cops. Jigsaw follows.

  “What’s up?” I answer.

  “You clear?”

  “For now. You got something for me?”

  “I’m close, brother.”

  Damn, I want better news. I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck.”

  “I know. Listen, Wrath, Murphy, and Dex are on their way down. Steer and Hustler are joining them. Griff and Remy are riding along too. They’re all meeting here and heading to Virginia.”

  “What? Rock can’t spare anyone right now. You can’t either.”

  “Fuck that. I’d be there too, brother, but I want to keep digging up whatever info I can on my end. I don’t want to leave the searching to Ice. I trust him, but…”

  But Z’s a hands-on control freak, and I couldn’t be more grateful for it. “No, I appreciate what you’re doing. Thank you.” I consider who he said was on the way. “Griff and Remy?”

  “From what I was told, Murphy was at Remy’s bar when he heard what happened. They volunteered to come. Flex those support club muscles, I guess.” The laughter fades from his voice. “Ice’s crew has
your back too from everything I’m hearing…?” The question in his voice is clear.

  “Pants and T-Bone are at the arena with us now.”

  “Good. We’ll send more brothers—”

  “There’s no point. Nothing for them to do. No clue where to start searching until I have a name and address.”

  “You staying at their clubhouse?” he asks.

  “Thinking I’m better off at a hotel. I don’t know yet.”

  “Do what you need to do. I’ll call as soon as I have something.”

  I hang up, frustrated but also comforted that Z’s working on the search and brothers are on their way down.

  Jigsaw cracks his knuckles. “Please tell me he’s got a name or a lead. Anything to go on?”

  “Not yet. Wrath, Murphy, Steer, Hustler, Remy, and Griff will be here in a few hours, though.”

  He lets out a somber laugh. “Good. I hope Pants gets a chance to show off his hog farm while they’re around.”

  I hadn’t even thought that far ahead.

  No, my thoughts revolve around the letters Shelby received. The ominous rabbit-in-a-cage threat. Where the fuck are they? He can’t have taken her far. Traveling is too risky. What if she suffocates in her trunk? Did he tie her up on top of drugging her? She’s going to be so scared when she wakes up alone with this monster.

  The more fear consumes me, the quieter and stiller I become. Jiggy’s the exact opposite. He’s vibrating menace—eager to punish someone in the most brutal way.

  Right now, I need to rescue my girl.

  I’ll shift into punishment mode later.

  Chapter Four

  Shelby

  A man, singing or humming.

  Mouth so dry. Mine.

  Head hurts.

  Limbs ache.

  Drifting for a while...

  Again, the singing. Bad singing. Off-key. Unpleasant.

  Sleeping sounds better.

  I slip under again.

  Bright lights flare and I moan in pain.

  The quality of the singing doesn’t improve, but the words become clearer.

  Little rabbit. Little rabbit. I finally caught my little rabbit.

  It all comes back in a painful burst of images firing through my sloggy brain.

  Mr. Creepy Letters.

  He stuffed me in my own trunk!

  Not wanting to alert him that I’m awake, I shift my body a millimeter at a time, trying to figure out if I’m still in my trunk or not. Pain sizzles through my skull, and I vaguely remember banging my head at some point. My arms drag, like I’m swimming through mud.

  He drugged me.

  Ice-cold fear slides through my stomach. A tear slips down my cheek, lands in my hair.

  Rooster will find me. I know he will. He’ll tear apart the whole state of Virginia if he has to.

  Oh, shit! What if we’re not in Virginia anymore?

  How long have I been out?

  Panic overwhelms me as I consider all the awful options. I could be in another state or even another country. There’s no way to know. How will anyone be able to look for me?

  Quiet.

  I focus on inhaling a long, deep breath and try to use my senses to figure out my surroundings.

  We’re not moving. There are no tires bumping over the highway, and no gentle rocking of a boat or thrum of an airplane. That’s a good sign.

  A crackling sound.

  I sniff the air but can’t smell anything. Nothing at all.

  Again, I attempt to move my fingers, brushing them along the surface I’m curled up on. It’s smooth. Fabric lining—my trunk. I think. It should smell like lavender. But I’ve been in here so long, maybe I’ve gone nose-blind.

  The singing moves closer and I still my body. Better to delay any interaction with my kidnapper for as long as I can stand it. Maybe Rooster will find me before anything bad happens.

  Well, before anything worse happens.

  There’s a creaking above me. Cool air floats around my body—both a relief and a new source of terror.

  “Little rabbit,” someone whispers in a singsong voice.

  I work hard not to cringe or signal that I’m awake. I’m in deeper waters than I can swim here, which isn’t saying much, since I can’t swim at all. What’s the right course of action? Play possum? Try to reason with him to let me go? Befriend him until I can make a run for it?

  Something whispers over my cheek. My nose twitches. That would be a normal reaction, even if I was asleep, right?

  “Time to wake, my little sleeping beauty, before you end up with more aches and pains.”

  Now he’s worried about my aches and pains.

  Clearly, he’s not fooled by my sleepy act. I groan and press my cheek to the bottom of the trunk—like a little kid resistant to getting out of bed for school. Dryness forces my mouth to remain glued shut. My cracked lips sting as I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

  Another pathetic groan bubbles out of me. Not even a fake one this time.

  There’s a sweep of light, and I cringe. After the deep blackness, even the dimly lit room hurts. I blink and turn my head. A man starts to take shape above me.

  With the light at his back, he’s not much more than a vaguely human-shaped shadow looming into my space. That’s fine. My brain can’t handle detailing the features of my captor yet.

  I curl my toes, feeling the familiar confines of my cowgirl boots.

  I am so kicking this asshole the first chance I get.

  “Momma?” I whisper, trying to sound as pathetic and confused as possible.

  “Sweet little rabbit.” Something brushes my cheek again. His fingers. Eww. “When I’m sure you’ll behave, you can call your mother. I know how close you two are.”

  Well, aren’t you a magnanimous asshole.

  “Where are we, Momma?” I whisper.

  “You’re home, little rabbit.” Something strokes over my hair. “Far away from all the badness you were getting tangled up with. Your new life will be quite safe.”

  Safe my round, rosy butt.

  And we’re far away? As in, a rustic cabin in the woods—like the clubhouse Rooster took me to? Or far away, like a remote island surrounded by shark-infested waters?

  Better not kick him until I get a better understanding of my surroundings. I’d hate to flee just to end up as shark food.

  The completely absurd image pulls a chuckle out of me.

  “Shelby?”

  Huh. A little unhinged laughter spooks him. Go figure. I file that tidbit away for later and try to push my body into an upright position.

  “That’s it, little rabbit. You had me worried.”

  Oh, were you worried drugging someone and stuffing them in a trunk might have side effects, moron?

  I barely hang onto the sarcastic retort. Sass won’t save me here. He isn’t a bar patron I can whirl away from. Or Rooster, who enjoys my little zingers. No, this is a sicko with a poor grasp of reality who drugged and kidnapped me.

  Zipped lips might save this ship.

  Groaning, I sit up and peer into the dim room, carefully avoiding direct eye contact with my captor.

  My gaze lands on a large four-poster bed.

  Of course it’s a bedroom. Why else would I be here?

  Ignoring that stabbing jab of reality, my gaze skips to the heavy wood furniture, slick hardwood floors, and homey braided throw rugs. A window straight across from me appears to have shutters closed and locked over it. No daylight seeps in around the edges.

  Painfully, I turn and peer out of the bedroom doorway into a portion of the hallway and living space beyond. Not a hotel room. Details, arbitrary and disjointed, register in my foggy brain. A home or cabin maybe? Dim lighting bounces off glossy hardwood floors. More locked and shuttered windows. Another couple throw rugs. No other decoration that I can see.

  “Let me help you.” He wraps his doughy fingers around my upper arms and jerks me upright. Pain explodes through my skull and I bite my lip to stop myself from s
creaming.

  “Give me a second,” I whisper.

  My legs wobble but I refuse to lean on him. Bracing my hand on the open trunk lid, I slowly lift one leg over the side, then the other. My boots softly clunk against the wood floor.

  “Come into the kitchen so I can feed you,” he says.

  He’s gotta be joking. As if I’d accept food or drink from him.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” I rasp.

  He studies me for a second before walking me to a door and pushing it open. “Behave, little rabbit. I’ll be waiting right here. Don’t take too long.”

  I stumble into the room and try to shut the door behind me. He stops it with one booted foot. “Hurry.”

  I glare at him before remembering to appear weak and pathetic.

  A second later, he removes his foot and turns his back. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be interested in watching me pee. I hurry over to the toilet and shove my jeans down. My scared bladder doesn’t want to empty. I have to close my eyes and take a few deep breaths to coax myself into relaxing.

  Only when I’m finished and my jeans are all zipped into place do I take inventory of the bathroom.

  Not one damn thing to use as a weapon. Not even a crummy plunger. This isn’t the movies. There’s no time to smash the mirror and fashion a knife out of the shards of glass without him stopping me.

  The window has a shutter that’s latched shut and I study it, searching for signs of an alarm system or hidden locks. With him lingering right outside the door, I don’t dare test the latch.

  I wash my hands and try not to cry at my reflection in the mirror. Wild, tangled hair. Remnants of smeared stage-makeup. Redness on my cheek that will probably turn into a bruise. My vision blurs and I rock on my feet. Gingerly, I touch the back of my head. My fingers come away smeared with blood. Dammit.

  “Come on. You need food.” He pushes the door wider and holds out his hand.

  Ignoring him, I finish washing up before stepping away from the sink.

  Pathetic and meek routine or not, I can’t willingly force myself to touch him. I slide out of the bathroom, careful not to touch him.