Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC Book 17)

by Autumn Jones Lake

  “Come.” Irritation colors his command. He marches out of the bedroom, expecting me to obey.

  Relief flows through me. I want to get as far away from this room as possible.

  Of course, who knows what horrors await me on the other side.

  Chapter Five

  Rooster

  The night drags on. The cops question Dawson for so long, he ends up taking the stage an hour late. Can’t muster up an ounce of give-a-fuck for his predicament.

  Wanting to keep tabs on law enforcement, I stick around the arena. My brothers stay with me. Pants talks to the ATF agent a few times.

  The forensics crew seems to be finished with Shelby’s room. After they leave, I slide up to Agent Jackson. “I need to get my computer. That gonna be a problem?”

  I jerk my chin toward the table where I’d been set up earlier. Pants and Jigsaw had located the photo booth and cameras and packed them in the truck earlier.

  Agent Jackson scans the hallway and shrugs. “Yeah, go ahead.”

  I pack quickly, trying not to let my mind linger on the stillness. Piles of Shelby’s colorful clothing lay scattered around, taunting me for failing her. She’s too bright and vibrant to be caught up in the dark fantasy of a madman.

  Is she awake by now? Scared? Wondering how I let this happen to her?

  Fingerprint powder covers almost every surface. “You pull any prints yet?” I call out to Agent Jackson.

  From the doorway, he eyes me wearily. “Nothing yet. He might not be in the system.”

  No, I bet he’s not. Probably flies under the radar of life, fooling everyone into believing he’s a nice, normal, if not somewhat weird, guy.

  When I’ve collected the computer equipment I borrowed from Ice, I sling the backpack over my shoulder and step into the hallway. “What’s your plan?” I ask Agent Jackson.

  “We’ve got an APB for a white van. Just says we’re looking for a white female, early twenties, possibly inside a box or trunk in the cargo area.”

  “Yeah? Any hits yet?”

  He cocks his head, projecting a would-I-still-be-standing-here-if-I-had face at me. “No.”

  My phone buzzes and I pull it out. Jackson watches my every move like a hawk.

  Z.

  “Hey,” I answer, stepping away, putting a few feet between me and the nosy FBI agent.

  “Where you at, brother?” Z asks.

  The excited rush of his voice sets me on edge. “Still at the arena. With the Fed working Shelby’s case.”

  “Good. I pulled a name. Guy matches our profile. White van with the same last couple numbers we were able to get off the plate. Residence is not too far from the arena.”

  I’m already moving toward the exit.

  Behind me, there’s a quick whistle—Jigsaw, signaling to the others it’s time to move.

  “I’m sending you the info, but bro, I don’t want you going there.”

  I stop in my tracks. “What? Are you—”

  “Rooster. Chill. Give the agent the info I’m sending. Play nice. Be cooperative. Trust me.”

  Brotherhood. Loyalty. The club works because we trust each other with our lives. Do I trust Z with Shelby’s life?

  Yeah, I do. He’s put his faith in me to protect his wife, Lilly, before. There’s no way in hell Z would do anything to jeopardize Shelby.

  Still, I can’t help the urge to hunt down the piece of shit who grabbed my girl. Pushing against my nature, I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the picture and address Z sent.

  Martin Suggs. Fifty-three. Virginia address. Looks awfully similar to one of Shelby’s over-enthusiastic Instagram followers.

  “Jackson!” I call, because I can’t force my feet to move away from the door leading outside. He scowls and walks over.

  “I promised to be straight with you, right?” I wait until he confirms with a quick nod before continuing. “My guy has a name.”

  He scowls at me. “Do I even want to know—”

  “Probably not.” I cut him off and send him the info. He rushes to confer with some of the other cops and I return to Z.

  “Tell me why I just did that?” I growl into my phone.

  “Stop and think. If this is our guy and he used his own vehicle, he’s not bringing her back to his place. After the way you chased down the van, he knows you probably got the plate number. It’s too easy. Besides that, I’m looking at an aerial shot of his house right now. He’s in the city.” He pauses and adds, “No privacy.”

  The painful understanding of what Z’s implying penetrates deep into my soul. No privacy…too many people around who might overhear Shelby’s screams. “It’s the only lead we have.” My stomach clenches. “I can’t not check it out, Z.”

  “Ice is running down another angle right this second,” he promises. “Guy was left some property a few years back by an uncle. It’s in a trust, under another name, so the court records have been hard to access. We’re trying to pull the address now. Let the cops check out his house.” He lowers his voice. “You want to get to him first, brother. It’ll buy you some time if they’re wasting their efforts somewhere else.”

  “I don’t even care about that.”

  “You will,” he assures me. “And if she is at his house, they’ll find her.”

  A strangled noise pulls from my throat. My logical brain agrees with Z’s reasoning. My heart’s ripped in half, desperate to get to Shelby.

  “It’ll probably take the cops a while to even track down the name of the trust. Hope’s the one who had me search for it,” Z says. “I’m also tracking down any family members in the area you can pay a visit to if we can’t get the address. So far, it looks like the uncle was his only relative.”

  Fucking great. And this stalker thinks he’s going to populate a new family with Shelby.

  A second later, the decision is made for me. Agent Jackson and his buddies race past us. Guess my info panned out. Jigsaw and Pants follow, flinging questions at Jackson.

  “Cops are on the move,” I say to Z.

  “Head up to the clubhouse. Ice is getting everyone ready to roll out as soon as we have the address. You’re gonna need the van…” His voice falters. “Just in case.”

  No need to question Z. The implication is clear. I’ll need the van in case I have to rush Shelby to the hospital.

  Or in case I need to drag the body of Martin Suggs to the hog farm.

  Chapter Six

  Shelby

  I hate soup.

  It’s hotter than Hades most of the year in Texas. When you walk outside in summer, it gets so humid, it feels like you’re swimming in soup. No need to eat it.

  My captor seems to be a big fan. One look in his cupboards as he’s preparing supper reveals a whole lot of canned soup.

  A stockpile of soup.

  Like he plans to be holed up here for a long, long time.

  Time for us to…be together.

  A bunch of wasps buzz in my belly, stinging me with fear from the inside out.

  I study the kitchen. Dated marigold-yellow appliances. A door that I assume leads to outside with rusty-red and tan gingham curtains covering the window at the top. The window over the sink has the same interior latched shutters I’ve noticed covering the rest of the windows, blocking any outside view. This one has matching gingham window treatments.

  It doesn’t give the place a homey feel. At all.

  Either this guy just moved in or he hostage-proofed the place before bringing me here. I haven’t spotted a phone, a knife, or anything I could use as a weapon. Even the chair I’m currently perched on is shackled to the table with only enough room to pull it out and sit. No way to pick it up and smash it over his head.

  Better the chair be chained down than me, I guess.

  The pan he’s warming the soup in is a decent size. I fantasize about picking it up by the short handles and flinging the hot liquid in his face.

  Of course, if I miss, I risk burning myself as well as pissing him off.


  While he’s been cordial so far, the threat of violence looms in the air.

  Weakness permeates my limbs. I haven’t fully shaken off the drugging, and my extended nap in the trunk, yet. Every part of my body aches. My mind won’t stop screaming about my grotesque predicament. In an instant, I’ve gone from Shelby, a woman who gave the best performance of her tour and couldn’t wait to hug her boyfriend, to the prisoner of a crazy person.

  It’s a huge adjustment.

  “What’s your name?” My voice barely comes out above a whisper. I can’t force it any louder.

  “It is about time we get to know each other better, isn’t it, darling?” He smiles at me over his shoulder.

  I can’t decide which endearment I hate more—little rabbit or darling.

  When I don’t answer, he scowls, and returns to stirring the pot on the stove. Round and round. I’m dizzy from watching him.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asks.

  “Sprite?”

  “Coming right up.”

  Well, ain’t that sweet. A glimpse inside the fridge reveals he’s also stocked up on my favorite soda. He pulls a can from one of several six-packs in the fridge, grabs a plastic cup off the counter, and sets both on the table in front of me. After a quick pat on my head that makes my vision blur, he returns to the stove.

  I pop the tab on the soda and suck half of it down, not bothering with the cup. The cool, crisp bubbles soothe my raw throat but the sugary drink leaves me thirstier. “Could I have some water too?”

  This time he frowns. Gee, so sorry if I’m asking for too much.

  He sets a glass of tap water in front of me and I whisper a “thank you” before taking a few long swallows.

  His stare lingers and my gaze roams the kitchen. Anywhere to avoid him. No knife block, rolling pin, glassware—not even a heavy cutting board. Nothing useful.

  While I’ve been happily on tour singing my heart out every night on stage, this person’s been planning my abduction and imprisonment. How could I not know this cosmic shift in my life was coming for me?

  “I’m so happy you’re here.” He clasps his hands under his chin and flashes an angelic smile.

  The dead-eyed look I give him in return wipes it clean off his face.

  I’m too mad and scared to play along like I’d planned. Time to work on keeping my attitude in check.

  “This will make you feel better.” He sets a heavy bowl of what looks like pink mush in front of me.

  I pick up the plastic soup spoon and poke at the steaming goo. “I’m allergic to tomatoes,” I say quietly.

  “What? No, you’re not.”

  I push the bowl away. “Yes. I am. My tongue swells up and I break out in hives. My doctor has warned me that I could go into anaphylactic shock if I consume them one too many times.” I slowly glance around the kitchen. “And since I’m guessing you don’t have an EpiPen around here, I’d rather not take the risk.” I sit back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.

  Anger blazes in his droopy brown eyes. Carefully, he removes the bowl and sets it on the counter. “You need to watch your attitude,” he says without turning around.

  I say nothing.

  He returns to the stove and pulls out a fresh pot, and another can of soup from the cabinet. “Are you allergic to chicken noodle?” His tone can’t be called anything other than snide.

  “Read me the ingredients.”

  He grits his teeth and lists them one by one.

  “It should be okay.”

  I use the extra time to examine the hallway. A few closed doors. Bedrooms, probably. A long stretch into darkness. I’m guessing the front door lies somewhere that way.

  Finally, he sets the bowl of soup in front of me and hands me another plastic spoon.

  “All this plastic is bad for the environment, you know.” I dip the spoon in my bowl.

  “I can’t risk you trying to fashion a weapon out of metal utensils.”

  “Ahhh.” I blow on the soup and take a tentative taste. “So you’re not a complete nutter. You know what you’re doing is wrong.”

  He sets his bowl of tomato soup across from me and plops into his chair. “We belong together.” His matter-of-fact statement seems to be the only response I’ll get to calling him a nutter.

  “That right?” I sip my chicken broth slowly, grateful for the warm liquid. “I’ve finally come face-to-face with Mr. Creepy Letters, I take it?”

  If I gave a damn about his feelings, I’d worry I’d hurt them. His pinched expression doesn’t pull on my pity strings one lick.

  “My letters were not creepy,” he insists.

  “Sure, okay.” I flick my gaze up at him. “You’re the guy who gave me the fan at one of the shows, right?”

  He lifts his chin, almost preening that I remembered his kind gesture. Hate to break it to him, but I only remember because he gave me the willies.

  “I almost had you that day.” His mouth screws into a frustrated wrinkle. “If Trent hadn’t interrupted us.”

  “Really?” I adopt the same tone I’d use with a toddler who’d just told me he’d learned to pee in the potty. But inside, I’m shaking.

  I take another sip of my soup to hide my shock. If I survive this ordeal, I need to re-evaluate my desire to talk to any and every one of my fans. There’s a fine line between being polite and being downright stupid, apparently.

  “Then you had that…brutish beast in our way,” he continues.

  I assume he’s talking about Rooster.

  “My source said my next best chance to rescue you would be at the Virginia shows. Which worked out well for me since I know the area.”

  Coldness cracks through my chest. “What source? Who told you that?”

  “Never mind. If the stars had not aligned on this venture, I was going to try again in North Carolina or Georgia. Although those wouldn’t have been ideal since I’d have to travel longer.”

  Does that mean we’re still in Virginia? It must. Not that it matters.

  His cold features screw into something more terrifying. “And if that filthy, unkempt dog who’d been trotting after you had gotten in my way, I would’ve taken care of him.”

  A firestorm of anger lights up my chest. How dare he talk about Rooster that way.

  A cold smile spreads over his face. “But the security at that arena was comically easy to distract, and they kept your guard dogs busy.”

  So that’s why Rooster didn’t make it back to my dressing room in time.

  “Although. . .” He laughs, the sound more creepy than humorous. “He came this close to catching up to us outside.” He holds his hands a few millimeters apart. “He held on to the back of my van for quite a while. Too bad I didn’t back up over him when I finally shook him loose.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Tears prick my eyes. Rooster came close to saving me. I can’t even imagine how furious he must be right now. But if he got that close, he must have seen the license plate? Or gained some other helpful details?

  Maybe he’ll be able to track me down before this psycho sticks me back in my trunk. Or worse.

  Would Rooster give the information to the police? Is he out there trying to find me on his own? Or did he ask the club to help him?

  For the first time since waking in this nightmare, I have a sliver of hope to cling to.

  Mr. Creepy glances at my soup. “Eat up.”

  Too stunned to say anything, I dutifully take another spoonful, forcing my brain to come up with some neutral conversational topic. Anything to keep him talking and avoid the inevitable return to the bedroom. Maybe even figure out where the hell I am. Who he’s working with.

  “So, we’re still in Virginia?” I ask as casually as possible.

  “You’ll be happy here,” he says, sidestepping my question.

  “Ya think so, huh?”

  He screws his face into a disapproving scowl.

  Ignoring him, I go back to the soup, every now and then darting a quick look
around the room, searching for anything to use to my advantage.

  “Once you’re more…settled,” he says, “we’ll have a nice ceremony.”

  Ignoring that, I keep slurping my soup.

  A scraping noise draws my attention. He’s sliding his phone across the table. When I reach for it, he clucks his tongue, and taps the screen. A photo of me tucked in between Rooster and Jigsaw backstage appears.

  Where did he take that photo? I frantically scramble through the tour dates in my head. How long has he been following me?

  “That’s my boyfriend and his friend. What’s your point?”

  He flips to a picture of me on stage with Dawson. My skin crawls. I mean, obviously I knew he’d been stalking me, but it’s a whole different feeling to be confronted with the evidence of said stalking.

  “You’re too intimate with too many men,” he says. “No more.”

  My blood simmers but I bite my tongue. I want to get out of this alive. Not trigger him into…doing Lord only knows what. My mouth stretches into my sweet, southern, charming smile. “Who I may or may not be intimate with ain’t really yer business.”

  He scoffs. “Of course it is.”

  “For your information, I’m not intimate with Dawson. I barely know him outside of the tour. Those performances were for the show.”

  “It’s not appropriate. And you’re on that van with all those men from your band. You should have your own private vehicle.”

  Unhinged laughter bursts out of me. “That’s not how the music business works, pal. It’s a tour bus. A way to get from point A to point B. A business decision. Not orgy time.”

  His nose wrinkles. “Well, what are people supposed to think?”

  “I dunno, maybe if someone has a problem with it, they can foot the bill for a private bus. ’Cause my label sure ain’t gonna do it until I bring in more money.”

  His face screws into a confused expression. Maybe there’s some other aspect of a business he knows nothing about that he’d like to mansplain to me. Asshole. “And, by the way, I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of my travel arrangements.”