Page 94 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

I spit blood out onto the floor as I run toward the stairs.

Tyler lets out an animalistic howl, like a wounded boar. “You fucking bitch!”

I stumble as I clamber up the stairs, fumbling with the key. My hands shake so violently that the keys jangle against one another, refusing to stay still long enough for me to see which one I need. Every second feels impossibly long, my pulse roaring in my ears as I fight rising panic, knowing I only have one chance before Tyler reaches me. I’m not fast enough.

Tyler rushes up behind me, hands gripping my hair and yanking me away. His fingers find my throat, turning me around so I can see into his wild eyes, misted with rage. Blood trickles down his neck and onto his white Lycra top, and he looks gruesomely terrifying. He squeezes so hard that my vision blurs, stars forming at the edges, and I thrash and struggle as I claw at his hands, desperately trying to draw breath.

“Why do you stupid bitches always choose the bad boys? You never want a nice guy like me! Can’t you see? I’m doing this for us!”

My legs kick uselessly, my nails claw at him, but nothing breaks his grasp. Darkness presses in at the edges of my vision, swallowing the room inch by inch until all I can see clearly are Tyler’s wild, blood-spattered eyes. I fight it with everything I have, clinging desperately to the thought of Owen’s smile, of how the guys would want me to fight, of how they would fight, refusing to give up.

My last thought is of Owen, how I broke my promise to come for him, never to leave him. I think of all of the moments I’m going to miss. I think of my brave, beautiful little boy and the man he is going to grow up to be—a man who will have to grow up without a mother.

Mommy tried, baby, I tried.

Chapter 31

Trigger

I’ve been searching for Sadie for hours. Every empty parking lot, every abandoned building feels like another reminder that time is running out. The city suddenly feels enormous, filled with far too many places for one woman to disappear. I rack my brain trying to think of something, anything, that could tell me who took Sadie. Every conversation we’d had over the past few weeks flashes through my head in no particular order. Every joke. Every text. Every complaint about Ethan. Every story about Owen or Dani. Somewhere in all of it has to be the answer, but the harder I search for it, the more it slips through my fingers. Either that or I’m too fucking blind to see it.

My grip tightens on the handlebars. Ethan. I don’t care what Dash says, it has to be him. The thought barges its way back into my head, no matter how many times I shove it aside.

I’ve half a mind to ride over to Ethan’s place and make sure that he’s really there like his woman says. She could easily be covering for him. Dash could have looked away at the wrong moment. Ethan could have slipped out without Dash noticing through some secret passage and…

And I’m totally losing my shit.

I know it. I can hear how irrational I sound, but knowing I’m spiraling doesn’t stop it happening. Every possibility feels equally likely now because none of them makes any sense. I know I’m grasping at anything that lets me believe we still have a chance of finding Sadie quickly, because the alternative is unbearable. If Ethan isn’t responsible, then somebody else has taken her, and we’ve spent the entire day watching the wrong man. That thought is enough to make my stomach churn.

Still, now the seed has been planted, the idea has already taken root in my mind, refusing to let go. It rapidly spreads through my head like a weed, choking every sensible thought that tries to grow beneath it. Chief will probably rip me a new one for going over there again to intimidate Ethan, but I couldn’t care less, not if it gets me results. Not if there’s even the smallest chance I’m right. Not if it gets me one step closer to Sadie. I need to see with my own eyes that he’s right where he should be.

“Fuck it.”

I wrench the handlebars into a sharp U-turn, the rear tire squealing across the asphalt before biting into the road again. The engine roars beneath me as I twist the throttle, and the familiar surge of acceleration does nothing to quiet the panic hammering through my chest. My phone starts to ring. I glance down at the holder mounted to my handlebars. I’m not surprised to see that the display reads ‘Chief’. It’s almost as if the bastard has developed a sixth sense for when I’m about to do something monumentally stupid. I decline the call without a second thought and open the throttle wider. The engine growls beneath me as the houses become a blur. Every red light feels like a personal insult. Every slow-moving driver becomes another obstacle between me and the answer.

The driveway never even enters my mind. The front tire of my bike chews through Ethan’s perfectly manicured lawn as I gun the throttle, ripping up turf before I slam on the brakes hard enough to make the rear wheel skid sideways, stopping inches from his porch steps.

A woman, who I assume is Ethan’s girlfriend, and Dash are sitting looking cozy on the front porch. They spring to their feet. “Trigger—”

I don’t even look at them as I stomp up the porch steps, the wood shrieking under my heavy footfall. By some miracle, the front door is unlocked, so I don’t have to break it down. I’m through it before either of them has time to reach me.

“Wait, you can’t—” Brielle’s sharp protest follows me inside.

The door groans its displeasure at my intrusion. I storm inside, desperate to get my hands on the bastard. I go from room to room searching, and every empty room pushes the panic another notch higher. I don’t know whether I want to find Ethan or pray that I don’t.

“Dash, stop him!”

“Trigger, what the fuck?”

Doors slam behind me as I continue to scour the ground floor. “Where is he?” I shout over my shoulder, frustration building with each empty room.

At the end of the hallway, I reach a basement door. My pulse spikes. Basements hide things. People hide things. What is Ethan hiding? I ask myself as I grab the handle and violently rattle the locked door. Just as I’m bracing myself, drawing back my leg, fully intending to kick it off its fucking hinges, Dash’s hand firmly grips my arm.

“Trig, stop. He’s not down there.”

“Let go,” I growl. I don’t bother voicing the thought, but Sadie might be.

“Ethan’s in his office upstairs,” Brielle adds, voice trembling. “Please, he’s upstairs.”