Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC Book 17)

by Autumn Jones Lake

“Shelby’s a fighter.” I choke on the last word. “You know that.”

  “I…I need to be there…I—”

  “I know.” Finally, I can be useful. “You got a pen nearby? I have you booked on a flight this afternoon. It was the first one I could get you on. You’re going to need to give them your I.D. and check in as early as possible. I’ll have someone at the airport here to pick you up when you land and drive you to the hospital.”

  She’s silent for a few seconds. It’s hard to tell if she’s writing something down or absorbing the information. “You have me booked…what?”

  “Can you get ready and leave soon?”

  “Y-yes,” she stammers.

  “All right. When we hang up, I’m going to arrange a car service to take you to the airport. I’ll text you the information.” I read her the flight info. “Call me if they give you any trouble.”

  Another long pause. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you soon.”

  I hang up and make the arrangements for the car service. As I finish texting Lynn the details, a shadow passes the doorway then returns.

  I glance up and Jigsaw smirks at me. “Want me to pick up Mom?”

  “If you promise not to be a creep to her.”

  He shakes his head, all humor melting out of his expression. “I don’t have it in me today, brother.”

  “Thanks. Any word from the doctors yet?”

  “Nothing. Greg was gettin’ on my nerves and that FBI jackoff keeps eyeballin’ me in a way I don’t particularly care for.”

  I drop my gaze to his bloodstained knuckles. “Might want to wash your hands.” No doubt that’s the blood of Martin Suggs, and the last thing we need is Jackson getting ideas to examine Jiggy or something.

  He huffs a laugh. “Good point.”

  I copy Lynn’s flight information and hand it to him. Next on my list is a phone call to Z.

  “You all right, brother?” he answers right away.

  “Yeah. At the hospital, waiting for news about Shelby now.” I share a brief outline of what happened, leaving out the extra-incriminating details.

  “Give me the address of the hospital. I’ll send it to Dex. Last time they checked in with me, they weren’t far from you guys.”

  I have to find the nurse’s station to locate something with an address and recite it to Z.

  “Got it,” he says.

  We talk for a few more minutes, but there’s not a lot I can say with so many people around. I think Z understands that.

  Finally, we hang up and I return to where Greg and Trent are waiting. “Any news?”

  “They’re running tests. Trying to eliminate different things,” Greg answers. He cocks his head and stares up at me. “How did you find her?”

  I take the chair next to him, leaning back and stretching my legs out, resting one ankle over the other. “You really don’t want to know.”

  I close my eyes and immediately drift into an uncomfortable sleep state. Aware of the sounds and activity around me but since none of it has to do with Shelby, I’m unable to open my eyes or give a shit.

  At some point, I pick up Agent Jackson’s voice, speaking in low tones to Greg.

  I crack open one eye and listen to Greg whine about the bad publicity for a few seconds before Jackson realizes I’m awake.

  “We need to speak.” He jerks his head toward the hallway.

  “Do we?” I ask in a lazy tone, adding in a yawn.

  He scowls and glares at me. I follow him into the hallway, and together we trudge over to a window overlooking the parking lot.

  “Did Shelby say anything when you found her?” he asks.

  “No.” My fists clench and my throat tightens. “She was unconscious. We almost didn’t find her.” I haven’t stopped thinking about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t looked under the bed. If I’d believed Martin’s story about her not being at the cabin.

  “I got a look at the cage under the bed. Fucking sick.”

  Unable to form any words, I nod.

  “How did you know where to look for her? And don’t fucking get cute with me this time.”

  “What’s wrong? You mad your guys didn’t figure it out faster?”

  He swoops in, getting way too up close and personal for my taste. “You realize it could look like you orchestrated the whole thing, right? Maybe Shelby needed some extra publicity—”

  “Fuck you.” I shove him out of my face. “That’s bullshit. She’s in the hospital. No one can figure out—” My voice breaks. “I’d never do anything to hurt her,” I finish in a quieter tone.

  “Maybe you hired someone and he got carried away.”

  “No wonder the Feds are so fucking useless. This the caliber of your investigation skills? Or are you just bottom of the barrel?” I lean down in his face. “That why Ice has you dancing on his hook?”

  He ignores the taunt. “Then tell me.”

  I glare at him for a few seconds. “Club has…lawyer friends. I don’t know the details but one suggested we look for other assets that he might have access to. Found a trust that led us to the property.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “There wasn’t time. You were checking out the other address.” I pin him with a stare. “Not like you bothered to keep me updated on how that was going.”

  “I don’t answer to you.”

  “And I don’t answer to you.”

  We continue glaring at each other for a few seconds before he finally backs down. “Has anyone contacted her family yet?”

  “I just talked to her mom. Booked her on a flight. She should be here this evening.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “She’s okay with you dating her daughter?”

  I snort. “No, but not for the reasons you’re thinking.”

  He doesn’t ask for details.

  “Where you at, Jackson?” I ask since he seems to have calmed down. “You think Suggs was acting alone or you think he had help?”

  He rocks back on his heels for a second while his face smooths into place. “I can’t discuss that with you.”

  “Like hell.”

  “You don’t want me to jeopardize the investigation, do you?”

  Threatening to call Ice and tell him Jackson isn’t playing nice feels too drastic. Besides, one way or another, I’ll find out whatever Jackson thinks he’s hiding. If Suggs was working with someone else, it’ll come out eventually.

  When I don’t bother with threats or plead for more information, Jackson bobs his head in an approving manner.

  “I don’t think Suggs acted completely alone,” he finally says in a low voice. “But obsessed isn’t a strong enough word for how he felt about Shelby.”

  “Meaning what?”

  He sighs and quickly glances around. “He’s been tracking her since she was on some television show.” He coughs and looks away. “Not sure if your buddies came across it or not, but Suggs has a history of being inappropriate with young women. For years now. But these days, his house is dedicated to all things Shelby Morgan.”

  Sounds like that house and his shrine to Shelby need to be burned to the ground. “That’s just great. So glad he’s been running around loose, unchecked.”

  “Nothing we could nail him on until now.”

  I cock my head. “Why are you sharing this with me?”

  “I shouldn’t, since you withheld information from me and made me look like an asshole, but I thought you should know. Since he’s on the run. Technically, Shelby’s still in danger.” He glares at me. “I figure you’ll want to add some extra protection here at the hospital. In case he comes looking for her.”

  While I’m puzzling out what seems to be an invitation to add more Lost Kings to the hospital waiting area, he checks his phone.

  “You think someone on the tour was working with Suggs?” I ask.

  “I didn’t say that,” he answers quickly.

  “Logan!” Dawson’s voice echoes down the hallway, his heavy boots th
undering over the tile. “Any word about her yet?”

  He stops when he recognizes Agent Jackson. “Jesus Fuck. Not you again.”

  I duck my head and laugh. “Popular guy.”

  “Fuck off,” Jackson mutters, which only makes me laugh harder. He turns and flashes a wide shit-eating grin at Dawson. “How are you, Mr. Roads?”

  “Fine.” Dawson’s gaze slides to me. “Everything okay here?”

  A prickle of unease slides down my spine. Did Dawson have something to do with Shelby’s kidnapping? To my knowledge, he cooperated with the police. His concern seems genuine, but it could be an act. Or maybe he knows Bane was involved and he’s covering for him to avoid the bad press.

  My jaw clenches as I work through the possibilities.

  Jackson’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Easy. It’s not him.”

  Dawson’s troubled gaze pings between Jackson and me. “What’s going on, Logan?”

  I’m not sure if I trust Jackson’s judgment, but I try to calm myself before answering Dawson. “We’re still waiting for news about Shelby. Doctors are working on her.”

  “Thank God. Thank God you found her before…” Anguish tears through his voice. “Never had somethin’ like this happen before…crazy fans, yeah. But this…this is a whole new level. Poor Shelby.”

  Something about his poor Shelby comment rubs me wrong. Shelby’s tough as nails. Once she makes it through this, she’ll be kicking ass in no time. I’m sure of it. She doesn’t need Dawson’s pity. Or anyone else’s.

  Dawson’s phone buzzes, and he digs it out of his pocket. “Shoot.” He holds it up. “Made the mistake of talking to my ex a couple of days ago, and now she won’t leave me alone. Give me a minute.” He holds up one finger and shoves the door to the stairwell open. It clangs behind him, and his muffled voice comes through loud enough for me to tell he’s irritated, but I can’t make out the words.

  Jackson stares at the door, watching Dawson through the sliver of glass.

  “What’s on your mind?” I frown at Jackson. “You think Dawson’s involved?” Five seconds ago, he seemed certain Dawson had nothing to do with it.

  “No,” he answers slowly.

  “Logan!” Greg shouts. “Get down here.”

  My feet start moving immediately, jogging down the hall faster than the hospital folks probably care for. “What?”

  A doctor’s in the waiting room with Greg. I skid to a stop inside and she backs up a step. “I, uh, privacy reasons, I can’t share a lot of details, but Miss Morgan has woken up.”

  “Thank God.” I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “She’s asking for Rooster…?”

  “That’s me.” I raise my hand like the most eager kid in class.

  “Oh, well. Follow me.”

  Instead of taking me to see Shelby, she leads me into a smaller room—a doctor’s lounge with a coffee machine and a few scattered chairs. She remains standing.

  “What’s going on?” I glance at the door and back to the doctor. “Can I see her?”

  “In a minute. She’s in and out of it. Not quite lucid yet. Besides being sedated, she had some sort of allergic reaction, as well as several bumps, bruises, cuts, and a mild concussion. Her body’s been through a lot. She needs rest.”

  “But she’s okay?”

  She glances down at her chart. “A kidnapping. I don’t see a lot of those. Anyway, she’s going to need to talk to someone. I’ll have a counselor stop by when Shelby’s more with it.”

  “Whatever she needs.” I jab my fingers through my hair. “Thank God. I’m just so glad she’s awake. She’s going to be okay?” I ask again. The doctor hasn’t exactly given me a definitive answer yet.

  “We’ll continue to monitor her. I want to keep her on oxygen a little longer. I think she’ll recover fine. Like I said, she needs to rest, and she’ll probably need to talk to someone.” She glances at her chart again. “She’s…a singer? In the middle of a tour, someone said?”

  “She is.”

  “Well, I don’t think she’ll be able to go back on the road right away. Don’t let anyone talk her into it before she’s ready.” She pauses and peers up at me, her lips thin, as if she regrets the last comment.

  “Shelby’s not easily talked into stuff but I’ll make sure no one pressures her.”

  Relief softens her professional-doctor expression. Maybe she thought I was an overbearing manager-boyfriend or something. “Good. That’s good. Does she have any other family?”

  “Her mom’s on her way from Texas. She should be here later this evening.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. It will help her to have some familiar faces around that she trusts.”

  “Some of my brothers are coming down from New York as well.” Might as well warn the doctor that in a few hours, her waiting room will be full of even more Lost Kings.

  Instead of the dirty look I expected, her gaze drops to my VP patch and she smiles. “Well, that should certainly help her feel safe. I understand the police haven’t caught the person who abducted her yet.”

  “Not yet.” I adopt a more serious expression. “No one knows where he is.”

  Chapter Nine

  Shelby

  Ow.

  Old socks line the inside of my head. Empty socks. Flapping in the breeze on a clothesline. Like my head’s no longer attached to my body.

  Cool, fresh air floods my nose. The rhythmic inhale and exhale of my breathing centers and grounds me.

  My body aches.

  Where am I?

  I reach into my memory, trying to pull something loose.

  The box.

  That man put me in a damn cage.

  Anger burns somewhere distant in my mind. I’m too exhausted to expend a lot of energy on any emotion.

  Painfully slowly, my fingers curl against something scratchy but yielding. Not the hard, unforgiving bottom of my trunk or the cage. I wiggle my toes and something loose flaps against my feet.

  Where’d my boots go?

  Rooster. Rooster. Rooster.

  I remember a dream of him holding me. Speaking to me. Freeing me from the box.

  Was it a dream? Hallucination? Wishful thinking?

  Shoot, I hope I’m not dead.

  “Miss Morgan,” a gentle female voice says. “I’m Doctor Landry. You’re safe now. You’re in the hospital.”

  Something gentle brushes against my hand. I hook my fingers around it and squeeze. At least, I think I’m squeezing. I feel weaker than a kitten abandoned by her momma cat.

  “That’s good. Can you squeeze my hand again?”

  It takes some effort, but I grasp her cool fingers even tighter.

  “Excellent.”

  Hot itchiness inches over my chest and down my arms. I’m too weak to scratch at it and end up moaning instead.

  “Thank God.” That’s Greg. Is he here too?

  My mouth is so dry, my lips so cracked, I barely whisper, “Logan?”

  Something brushes against my arm. “Right here, chickadee. Don’t worry about anything. Just rest.”

  How long have I been out of it? How many shows have I missed? Is the tour over? Did I miss the whole thing? Did they go on without me? Replace me?

  Each question drifts through my mind but I can’t latch onto any one long enough to voice it out loud.

  “I’ll let Trent know she’s coming around,” Greg says.

  Peeling my eyes open is a slow, painful process.

  White.

  White walls. Green privacy curtains. White tile.

  A hospital.

  I close my eyes again.

  Did I imagine the cabin? Running for the trees? The cage?

  No. It happened. All of it.

  I struggle to open my eyes again and focus. “How did you find me?”

  The oxygen mask muffles my words. Rooster squeezes my fingers gently. “We can talk later. The doctor wants you to rest. You’re safe now.”

  Safe.

  That’s nice.

 
I drift for a while.

  Someone pokes and prods at me. Rudely lifts my eyelids.

  “Cut that out.” I try to swat the hand away but I’m too tired.

  Feminine laughter. “She’s doing better than I expected.”

  Gee, thanks.

  More poking.

  I cough and try to sit up so I can show this person I’m fine and they should leave me alone. But I’m too tired.

  “Your body needs rest, Ms. Morgan.” This voice doesn’t sound as nice as the earlier one. Where’d the nice lady doctor go?

  “Stop poking me then,” I mutter.

  Another soft chuckle. “I’ll be back to check on her later.”

  “Thank you,” Rooster says.

  Time passes. I can’t tell how much. Some noises filter into the room. Other times I’m drifting on a soft wave for long stretches of time.

  My arms itch, but when I try to scratch them I get tangled in tubes and wires. Someone stills my hands. Firm fingers rub something soothing on my itchy skin. The uncomfortable prickling fades.

  Sometime later, I peel my eyes open and realize Rooster’s still in the chair next to my bed. He’s quietly watching over me and when our eyes meet, a faint smile ghosts over his lips.

  “How do you feel?” he asks.

  Groggy, dirty, fuzzy…“Bleh,” I mumble.

  “You’re safe here,” he reassures me. “Your mom’s on her way. She should be here in a few hours.”

  “Really?” Who told her what happened to me? How’d she make it here? My mother hates to fly, and we sure don’t have the extra money for plane tickets.

  Sudden despair hollows me out and my vision blurs. “Please?” I whisper. I attempt to extend my hand toward Rooster. Sweat rolls down my forehead from the effort.

  He shoots up and reaches for the buzzer. “What do you need?”

  “You.”

  His expression softens as he sweeps his gaze over me. Gently, he slides his arms under my body, shifting me just enough to give him room to stretch out by my side. My aching joints protest the movement but the satisfaction of Rooster’s warm, solid protection is worth the pain. He holds me to him as tightly as possible with all the wires and tubes in his way. He nuzzles my neck, the familiar tickle of his beard further grounding me. In his arms, I feel cherished, safe, and—most importantly—alive.