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He was a good man wearing a bad boy's clothes.
And I had known so many bad men dressed as good guys.
It was new and refreshing and when all that was wrapped up in Huck's outward package? Yeah, it made someone very easy to catch feelings for.
I had them.
Feelings.
And as my headache slowly started to ease, all I felt was a bone-deep sort of fury that because of whoever had taken me, I might not be able to explore those feelings, get more of them, maybe, possibly, in some fantasy world, know what it might be like to have them reciprocated.
I pulled myself up, sliding halfway behind the door, making myself small, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders.
I figured that someone would come in that door at some point.
And maybe, if I was alert, if I was fast enough, I could grab the door, slam it back into whoever was entering, disorient them.
Then, I guess I had two choices depending on if I heard other voices or not.
I could run.
Or I could attempt to keep my freedom quiet by pulling the person in, and attempting to suffocate them with the blanket, giving me a chance to find a way out of the house without running across others.
Once I was on the street, I could run and scream and hope someone would take pity on me.
I wasn't someone who was certain in their ability to take another human life.
But, I figured, in this sort of situation, if it was me or them, I could do it.
The only problem was, no one came.
Hours passed, long enough for me to reach for the bottle of pills again, taking another two to get rid of the lingering headache.
It was the pills that consumed my mind then.
Why were they there?
How did someone know I would need them?
Even if they did know, why would they care if I had a migraine, if I was sore from being bumped around?
But before I could come to any logical conclusions about it, I finally heard them.
Footsteps.
Coming my way.
Chapter Thirteen
Huck
"Where is she?" I roared, slamming the guy up against the wall, watching the pain slice across his face, feeling a sick sort of satisfaction seeing it there.
I'd felt anger in my life before. I'd even felt twinges of rage. When someone threatened what was mine, hurt my people.
This, though? This was something else entirely. This was an inferno that swallowed me up whole, burning away anything even resembling rational thought.
I'd always been a careful leader. That was why there had never been any question about my role as president, why my men trusted me with their lives. Because I thought shit out. I made sure every move we made bettered us as a club or, at the very least, didn't put us in more danger.
But then Harmon was taken.
And I was flying across town at thirty over the speed limit without a helmet, just daring the cops to pull me down, putting my men at risk of new marks on their rap sheets because they had to keep up with me.
I didn't even try to hide my gun as I hopped off my bike in front of the little ranch house on a corner lot in a rough area of town, charging up the front path before my men could even get off their bikes to follow, and offer backup.
I didn't know what I had been expecting inside. A crowd, maybe, the crew who had shot up our place what felt like a lifetime ago now.
All I found, though, was a guy sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of Fruit Loops while he scrolled through his phone.
"Where the fuck is who, man?" he asked, chin lifting, chest puffing, even though he was at a clear disadvantage with four of us standing there, armed, when his gun was across the room next to the fridge beside the half-empty carton of milk.
"The woman you came into my clubhouse and stole, you fuck," I growled, yanking him back, then slamming him up against the wall again.
"You're going to kill him before you get any answers," McCoy warned as the guy's focus went in and out.
"Why are you standing here, and not tearing this place apart?" I snapped, sparing him the barest of glances, seeing his tight jaw, but too far gone to give a shit whose feelings I was hurting.
We had to find her.
Who the fuck knew what could be happening to her? What she might be going through.
If absolutely nothing else, I knew that after a seizure, she was in pain and miserable.
But I knew a thing or two about the scumbags in the world, the kind of lowlives who would involve innocent women in shit that didn't have anything to do with them. They didn't stick the woman in a spare bedroom and bring them three square meals a day.
