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Rosie interrupted by holding up a black credit card with my name on it. She passed it to Gwen. Gwen frowned at her, but didn’t take it. “I’m here as a supplier of bad-ass outfits, I take no currency. This is the most fun I’ve had in a while.”
“Take the fucking card, Gwen,” Rosie snapped.
I didn’t even ask Rosie how she got it, because it didn’t surprise me that she’d have the ability to either find and steal my credit cards or get a whole new one.
“Isn’t using that like some kind of flashing sign to Kitsch that I’m here?” I asked.
Rosie smiled. “Yes, it is exactly that—which is why my sister needs to run the fucking card.”
Gwen looked between the two of us, shook her head but took the card. “Luke is going to be pissed at you,” she said.
Rosie smiled. “Who?”
Rosie had not said anything about what was about to go down, or even where we were going. She was too busy trying to decide which outfit she’d wear.
She’d taken the keys to Gwen’s house from her and drove us out to a beautiful home right in front of the ocean, letting herself in, and showing me to where I’d be staying.
The house itself was decorated in boho glam, whites everywhere, signs of children too—which Gwen mentioned were hanging out with someone called Mia’s children, who were possibly teaching them how to make homemade bombs. She’d sounded disturbingly serious too, though not at all worried.
She hadn’t seemed concerned that I was staying at her home, even though she didn’t know me and I had a powerful murderer after me.
I should’ve fought it more, especially with the many signs that children were here. But I didn’t. I let Rosie show me to the guest room, order me to shower and change into one of the new outfits, and be “ready for battle in an hour.”
Then she disappeared, presumably to do the same.
I looked around the beautiful room. The welcoming bed with the plush bedspread called to me. The urge to sink into it and close my eyes until this was all over was strong. The urge to sink to my knees and sob was even stronger.
But I did neither of those things.
Instead, I showered. I reapplied my makeup.
I put on a pair of leather pants, a soft pink camisole, and spiked heels. And I readied myself for battle.
Rosie was knocking on the door exactly an hour later. She was impressed with my outfit and I was with hers.
Although, impressed was too light a word.
She was wearing lace-front short shorts, thigh-high metallic boots, and a plain white cropped top.
Her hair was plaited into intricate braids and she looked like a fucking Viking queen.
“Good, you’re ready. No rest for the wicked.” She winked. “Now get in the car, bitch. We’re going crime lord hunting.”
After starting the events that would eventually lead Kitsch to Amber, we drove to the outskirts of the town to a more industrial and decidedly less picturesque area.
There was a sizable fenced-off area at the end of the street, barbed wire topped the tall fences, and cameras were perched on each side of the gate. The gate opened the second Rosie pulled up.
She drove forward into a garage area that was owned by the Sons of Templar MC.
I’d heard of them. Everyone had heard of them, not just because of their connection to Lexie Descare. They were infamous as one of the largest motorcycle gangs in the country.
I didn’t know how Rosie connected with bad-ass bikers, but it seemed to make sense. “You know the Sons of Templar?” I asked.
She turned to me as she stopped the car. “Know them? Honey, I’m the heart, soul, and everything else of this place. If they let women wear the cut, it would be me wearing the president patch, not my brother. Good thing for him, I prefer variety in my wardrobe.”
I followed her lead as she walked across the concrete toward the bays with cars propped up and various men in coveralls working on them. Well, they had been working on them. Everything stopped with Rosie’s entrance.
No sooner than our heels had started clicking on the concrete did a man appear, a man that scared the ever-loving Christ out of me.
He was tall.
Dark.
Deadly.
Handsome, as he got closer. Yes. One of the most handsome men I’d ever seen—in a totally intimidating and terrifying way. His gray eyes were furious and narrowed on Rosie. If they were focused on me, I would’ve liked to think I was brave enough not to run away or at the very least cower, but I couldn’t be sure.
He was wearing a Sons of Templar Cut with “President” scrawled on the front.
“What the fuck, Rosie?” he growled the second he stopped in front of her. His voice was low, manly, and full of that same fury his eyes held.
