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I needed to get in touch with them and warn them.
“No. Fuck. Lee... let me g...”
Silence.
But I had a name.
Lee.
Not a minute later, Lee got into the truck, slamming it into reverse, and we were off again.
Lee reached for a cell, shooting off a quick text with one hand and keeping a one hand feel on the steering wheel.
But the car only drove for maybe another five minutes before we paused. I heard beeps, like a code being pushed into a gate, then the sound of said gate opening. A short stint up a driveway. Then we parked. Lee got out. Then the door by my feet opened and I was being pulled backward.
I slammed down on my feet. Lee got behind me, holding the chain between my cuffs and slamming my head forward so all I could see was my own two feet as he pushed me forward. Into a garage. Through the garage into some other room, tile floor. Through to a hardwood floor.
And it was familiar.
But it wasn't V's house.
Holy fucking shit.
“Baby girl,” a voice said and the hand on the back of my head released.
My head snapped up, my eyes going wide.
And there was my father.
Richard Lyon.
Smiling at me like I just got off a plane after a long vacation.
What the hell was going on?
“Lee,” he said, shaking his head. “I think the duct tape can be taken off now, don't you?”
Lee made a grunting noise then reached for the tape and pulled it off roughly.
I sucked in air, turning to look at my captor.
I was right, he was built like Wolf. But he was older. Buzzcut. Hard black eyes. Everything about him, the way his shoulders were pulled back, the way his feet were spread, his hair... it screamed of ex-military.
“I'm going to fucking kill you,” I spat at him and was rewarded by a slow, amused smirk.
“Summer,” my father's voice reached me, sounding shocked. “You should be thanking Lee.”
My gaze went to my father. “Thank him? Thank him? For what? For knocking me onto the ground? Twice? For beating an innocent kid half to death? What, exactly, should I be thanking him for?”
His head tilted to the side, watching me. “Baby... he saved you.”
Saved me.
He... saved me?
The truth hit me like a kick to the gut.
He thought the Henchmen were holding me against my will. He sent someone in to get me out.
Shit.
That changed... everything.
“Baby, are you feeling alright? You look positively ghostly.”
I felt positively ghostly.
“I'm...” I started, shaking my head. “Daddy... I need to sit down.”
“Of course. Of course,” he said, jerking his head at Lee. “I think you can take those cuffs off now,” he told him. Lee reached into his pocket for a key and released my hands which I pulled toward my front and rubbed at my wrists. While I was doing so, my father slowly approached me. His gaze went to my wrists and he paled. “Oh, Summer...”
“It's fine. I'm fine. I survived. I got out.”
“Trading one prison for another,” he went on, his tone sad. “Come on, let's get you up to your room so you can clean up. Looks like you got a little gash on your cheek,” he said, giving Lee a hard look over his shoulder.
I took a deep breath, not entirely sure how to handle the situation. I couldn't exactly tell my father that I was willingly staying with an outlaw biker gang. He had been worried sick about me. He sent some big, macho ex-military guy in to get me out and home safely.
“Daddy...” I started as we made our way up the staircase.
“It's okay, baby. You don't have to say anything. I'm just glad to have you home,” he said gently, putting an arm around my waist and giving me a small squeeze. “Here we go,” he said, leading me to my childhood bedroom door and opening it. His hand moved to my lower back. “I'll leave you to freshen up. Then maybe you can come down and have some coffee with me? Tell me your story?”
I gave him a small smile, feeling very much like a little girl again suddenly. “Yeah, Daddy,” I agreed.
“Okay, baby,” he said, kissing my temple and closing the door behind me.
He had kept it exactly as I had left it when I was eighteen. Pale lilac walls, canopy bed with white, billowing fabric draped over the top and a plush white comforter laid over the bed. Two shabby chic white nightstands with lamps. There was a small golden jewelry box on top of one of them. On the other, the remote for the television, hidden away on the wall across from my bed in a huge white cabinet. To the left behind the door to the hallway, was a door to my walk-in closet. To the far on the right was the door to the en-suite bathroom which boasted a huge soaking tub and a shower bay with four shower heads along with a huge round tufted ottoman and a vanity across from the sink and mirror.
The whole thing was bigger than most New York city apartments.
It wasn't unfamiliar over time. I had stayed in my old bedroom on many occasions when I visited my father. The brushes on the vanity in the bathroom I had used over the last Christmas season. The drawers under the sink cabinet were stocked with the products I used as an adult woman, not the ones I had used as a teenage girl. Complete with my perfume and cosmetics.
I had actually forgotten about makeup. It had been so long since I had put any on.
I turned into my closet, looking for something even remotely suitable to wear. I settled on a pair of light wash skinny blue jeans and a white long sleeved t-shirt. And, oh yeah, a bra. I forgot about bras too. I grabbed fresh panties and socks and made my way to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
I gave myself an hour to relax. To shower, dress, fix the cut on my face, apply a little mascara and lip gloss. I dried my hair.
