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The few blocks ride to Summer’s is the longest and most horrendous ride of my life. I thank God and curse every damn thing with each spin of my tires. I know better than to imagine the worst, I’d been trained not to react, but to act and do what is necessary. It’s sheer torture remaining calm and rational. All I want to do is destroy and tear Steve’s fucking head from his body.
I’m fortunate because I’m not alone. I have the boys. Individually, we’re deadly. Together, we are devastation and annihilation.
One thing we have going for us is that we know who Summer really is, where she came from, and where Steve would probably take her to. Back home to that fucking cult, The Club, the exclusive community whose elite members have their dicks in more Fortune 500 companies than any other metropolis this side of the Mason Dixon Line.
I should have looked harder, probed deeper, searched and followed every possible link that could tie anyone here to the contact her father had planted. Fucking Steve.
STEVE.
I should have known, the comments, the unfounded possessiveness. It was all there, all the clues, and I didn’t see them, I was stupid. And Summer is paying for my carelessness.
Each minute they’ve got her is my destruction. Every fucking mile he gets her closer to her past, and her goddamn future, is another step further into my hell.
She’s engaged. An arranged marriage. But it’s a business deal, one that would give Summer’s father more power, The Club more exclusive real estate, and the father-in-law-to-be a position as a CEO of one the companies owned by The Club, and her husband the CFO. It’s a win/win for everyone. But the price? Summer Hollingsworth, one of the wealthiest prizes in North America.
The things I was told, how did they know those things?
Wesley Danforth III, the man who was supposed to be her father-in-law. Who trained the bride.
Summer had never met Steve, her apparent husband-to-be. When the Danforth’s went into The Club, he was off at some Ivy League school. Her only dealings had been with Wesley Danforth III, his father.
Any time I think of those possible dealings, I want to kill him.
It was so bad that she felt the only way out was to run away.
I’d been told things at The Club had been investigated quietly, people were questioned behind closed doors. But apparently anyone who ever came close to talking disappeared. Word has it that it’s a tradition in The Club for marriages to be arranged and the grooming of the bride-to-be is the responsibility of the father-in-law.
This is their way of life. It is known. Summer’s father had known what was happening to her. And he approved. He is their fucking king.
The whole goddamn place should be bombed and wiped off the face of the earth. That still would be too good for them.
Finally, I squeal into Summer’s driveway right behind her car, I don’t give two shits if I’m blocking anyone else in. I’d ride my bike up the goddamn stairs if it would save time getting into the building. The front door’s locked, I kick that son-of-a-bitch in and bound up the steps two at a time. When I get to the top landing, her door’s open a crack.
Dread seeps through me.
I don’t have to go in, I know she’s not in there.
I’m too fucking late.
My heart’s ripped out of my chest as I step into her cozy apartment. Summer’s everywhere, I can smell her in the air, see her in the shadows, and hear her lyrical voice from the darkened corners.
I’m so fucking gutted, I can hardly think straight.
I’d only been in here once, the night she hurt her leg. Was that only two nights ago? Every image from that night vividly flashes through my mind one right after the other.
Just get her the fuck back.
On the kitchen counter is an empty box and brown paper. When I pick it up, there’s nothing on it but her name on a white label.
An empty fucking box with no information. Just like this apartment
No Summer.
“She received that last night.”
I spin around at the woman’s voice.
“I’m sorry about the door. I’ll fix it.” It’s the best apology I can give her right now for my barbaric behavior.
